The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📕

in his usual uniform, white T-shirt, denim shorts, slip-on sneakers. The same Noah on the outside. But on the inside? I’m not so sure. I don’t know what to think anymore.

“How are you?” What I want to ask is: Why the hell are you here?

“I’m okay.”

I wait for him to pick up the reins of the conversation, perhaps ask how I’m doing. When a few minutes pass and he’s made no progress, I say: “I’m surprised you’re here. It’s a Saturday, too. Don’t you have your cello lesson?”

He turns to me, his blue eyes meeting mine for the first time. His cheeks are flushed. There’s a strange look on his face. Guilt. Or pity.

I know then, before he says it—why he’s here. What he knows. How.

It’s a betrayal that slices deep at my core, stealing my breath. Ginger told him.

I won’t make this easier for him. He needs to say the words himself.

“Ginger told me your news,” he says finally. There’s a nervous twitch in his right eye, a rapid flutter. I’ve never noticed that twitch. I suppose our lives were always too easy before this summer. Straightforward. No twitch-inducing moments of revelation.

“Obviously.”

His cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red. Maroon almost. “She called this morning. But she didn’t want me to say anything.”

“Of course she didn’t. It was supposed to be a secret.”

“I couldn’t not talk to you, though. I couldn’t stay away. So I called my instructor and said I was sick today. And then I spent the rest of the morning talking myself into actually driving over here and facing you.”

“You’ve been staying away most of the summer. Why stop now? Don’t skip your lesson on my account.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? You’re punishing me for not being in love with you.” Noah flinches at those words, his body curling as far along the opposite end of the hammock as possible without tumbling off the edge.

“Listen, Calliope. I’m sorry. I am. I know I’ve been shitty this summer. Seriously. Mega-asshole. Total wanker. Me.” He points to his chest with both hands, looking down at himself with a disgusted lip curl. “I was hurt, and I ran away. It seemed… easier? But it was dumb. I don’t know what I thought—it’s not like I could stay away from you forever. You’re my best friend.”

“Am I?”

“You know you are.”

“You have Ginger.”

“It’s different.”

“Is it?” I shake my head. Messy curls fall over my eyes and I don’t bother to push them back. Better to be shielded. “Never mind. This doesn’t matter. It’s not why you came over—to apologize. Don’t act like that’s the reason.”

“It’s part of the reason. Hearing about what you’re going through—”

“What? You wanted in on the soap opera, too? Didn’t want to be on the sidelines of my wild drama? I mean—incest. Come on! Doesn’t get juicier than that, does it?”

He frowns, looking genuinely wounded. “You know that’s not what I’m thinking. I’m here because I couldn’t stand knowing you were hurting. I had to come. Even if you did end up tossing me out on my sorry ass. I had to try.”

“Interesting. You couldn’t show up for my eighteenth, though?”

“You’re right. I threw myself a pity party after that night at Max’s house. And I didn’t want to see you and him together. I’m not proud of that particular decision. I was being selfish.”

“Incredibly selfish.”

“That’s true. But don’t act like you’ve been having a miserable summer without me. Not until now.” He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. Preparing. He must find whatever courage he’s searching for, because when he opens his eyes again, there’s no guilt there, just resolution. “I have to say this, Calliope. And then I’ll leave if that’s what you want me to do. I know you can’t choose to love me like that, and I get it. I do. But you do realize it goes the other way, too, right? I can’t choose to not love you, or to stop because that’s the more convenient option. Trust me, if I could not be in love with you, I’d be all about it. Unrequited love? Let me tell you. It’s the fucking worst. So as hard as love has been for you this summer—not loving me, loving Max, discovering you can’t love Max—I get it. Not quite like you do. I’ll give you that. But it’s all hard, isn’t it? I needed time to mourn. Time to get over myself.”

It’s true, what he says. I know it is. There are things in life you can’t control:

Falling in love. Falling out of love.

Who and when and why.

“I’m sorry that you love me,” I say. And I mean it. It doesn’t excuse his icing me out this summer for having another boy in my life. But I am sorry.

“You could be more terrible, you know. Make it easier to not love you.” He’s smiling.

I smile, too, and push my hair back off my face. He edges closer to the middle of the hammock.

“Really, though,” he says softly, “how are you holding up?”

“It’s hard to say. I don’t think it’s fully hit yet. That’ll come after I tell Max. Seeing his reaction will make it feel more real.”

“When’s that happening?”

“Today.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think you’ll be friends still?”

“I hope so. Because we’re more than friends, aren’t we? Just not the more than I had thought this summer.”

“I still can’t wrap my head around it—of all the men who donate, your moms picked the guy who grew up next door. I mean, what the hell? Life has strange plans sometimes.”

“Strange is putting it mildly.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No. Thanks. This is my disaster to untangle. I just…” I pause for a moment, try to focus all the questions spinning through my mind. “I keep thinking about family, and what it means. What makes a family, how much blood matters—and if not blood, what does? You’ve always been the brother to me. We have that history. That bond. Max and I, we have none of that shared