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

past. So how is he more of a brother than you?” I stare at Noah, willing him to give me a good answer. Because I need it—I need an answer to this question, so badly.

Noah shrugs, looking down at his sneakers. “There are different kinds of family, I guess. Some share DNA. Some don’t. I don’t think one is better or more real than the other. Just because people share DNA doesn’t mean they always get along, right? There’s more to it than genetics. Families come together in all different ways.”

“But why isn’t it like that for you?” I reach out, put my hand on his knee. He looks up, first at my hand, then at my face. “I mean—why am I not like a sister? How are you in love with me? Why are things different for you and me?”

Noah winces, looking like he’d rather slip through the holes in the hammock than have this conversation. But even still, he answers. For me. He must sense my desperation. “I guess all the things that make me feel like a brother to you—everything we’ve done together our whole lives, all the memories, sleepovers by the magic tree, getting our braces on the same day, holding your hand during my grandmother’s funeral—just made me feel even more connected to you. You get me. I get you. When you’re in a relationship, isn’t that person supposed to feel like family? Eventually, anyway. When you settle down and make a life. All that. That’s what I want, anyway. Some day.”

What he says—it makes sense. It does. Mama and Mimmy are family. Of course they are. We’re all Silversmiths. You find someone, you build a life together, you make them your family. Maybe you mix your blood, maybe you don’t.

“What about physically, though?” I ask because I can’t stop myself—because this is what it boils down to, isn’t it? The chemical sensation that comes from deep under your skin. The part we can’t control. “I’m sorry. I know that’s… personal. And weird for me of all people to ask. But I want to understand.”

“Jesus, Calliope. You’re asking why I’m attracted to you?”

I bite my lip. “Yeah. But if it’s too weird, you don’t have to answer.”

He shrugs. “It’s hard to put into words. I just… am.” He’s quiet for a minute, and I’m about to tell him to forget it, that it was an awkward question, when he says: “All the little things, I guess—your laugh sounds like a happy bird chirping in the spring. Your eyes are like the color of the ocean, or at least how the ocean should always look. How messy and wild your hair gets, especially in the summer. Case in point: right now.” He smiles and flicks a finger at one of my stray curls.

I asked for this, but I’m not sure what to do with the information now that I have it. It doesn’t change how he feels, and how I don’t feel. Nothing will.

“Thank you for that,” I say, standing up from the hammock. “I hate to kick you out, but… Max should be over pretty soon. I think it’s probably best if you’re gone when he gets here. No offense.”

Noah gets up, too. “Yeah. Of course.”

“But seriously, thanks for… checking in. I appreciate it.”

He nods. He lifts his arms like he’s going to hug me, but then he jams his hands in his pockets and starts off toward the driveway.

I watch as he disappears around the side of the house, and then fall back in the hammock. Close my eyes. Breathe.

Wait.

A few minutes later, I hear a snapping twig. Rustling brush.

I open my eyes and Max is there, stepping out from the edge of the woods. His face lights up with a happy boyish smile, and I worry that I’m going to be sick.

I make myself stand. My legs feel weak.

Before he can say anything, I announce: “There’s something you need to know.”

His smile fades. He walks faster, closes the gap between us. When he reaches out to me, I put my hands up to stop him.

His brows furrow as he frowns. “What’s going on?”

“I wrote you a letter. That says it so much better.”

“A letter?”

I nod.

“You’re scaring me, Calliope. Your face right now—” He shakes his head, looking as sick as I feel. And he doesn’t even know yet. “Please just tell me.”

I take a deep breath.

“I found my donor.”

“Okay? And that’s… a bad thing?”

“Your dad, Max. My donor is your dad.”

Chapter Fourteen

HE follows me up the hill. Sense and Sensibility is tucked under my arm with the letter.

We don’t acknowledge each other.

After I dropped the bomb, I asked if we could go somewhere more private—just in case my moms got home sooner than I expected. I’m not sure how long this conversation will take.

He nodded. No words. He looked too shocked to articulate whatever might be happening in his mind.

I walk without seeing, grateful my feet know the path so well. When we get to the peak, I sit on a large flat rock, large enough for Max to sit next to me. But he chooses the ground instead, mostly dirt and pebbles with a few blades of sad, scraggly grass, a few feet away from me.

I lean across the rock, letter in my hand. He makes no motion to take it from me. I let it flutter to the ground next to him.

We sit without talking for a long stretch, staring out over the valley. I can’t appreciate the view this time. I’m not sure I ever will again.

“I can read the letter to you if you prefer that,” I say finally, unable to bear the silence any longer. “It was just… easier to put everything into words this way. There’s a lot to say.”

Another beat, and then—Max picks up the letter. He unfolds it slowly, holding it out at arm’s length as if the words are too toxic to touch.

And then he reads it. All the way through.