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

I think maybe I’d rather just live in tree holes and eat acorns and berries for the rest of my life than be an actual adult human.”

“Sounds about right for a Green Woods girl.”

“I was joking. We’re not really all backwards, you know.” The words come out sharp. I’m not sorry.

Max sighs, taking a step closer to me. “You’re right. I’m being a huge prick again, aren’t I? Blame my parents—they never took me on a single camping trip growing up. We went to the Jersey Shore when we wanted a little nature.”

“I feel sorry for you then.”

“And come on, who wants to move away right before senior year? Imagine if you had to leave your girl Ginger and this Noah dude behind. Do dances and sports and stuff all on your own and watch your old friends’ lives go on without you. And realize it’s that easy for them to fill the Calliope-sized hole you’d left behind. Trust me. Not fun.”

“I don’t really do dances and sports and stuff. Mostly Environmental Club and peer tutoring. But I take your point.”

“Great. So… we’re friends again?”

“Best.” I roll my eyes and start walking, deeper into the woods as they curve around the back of my house. We cross over the two wide logs that act as a bridge over the narrow creek. What slivers of sky I can see are a sickly looking gray. We should turn around before the rain starts. But there’s one more thing I want to show Max. We start up an incline—not too steep, but still enough for both of us to be panting within a few minutes.

The trees in front of us slowly start to thin, tall pines lined up against the pale light. I push ahead faster. “It’s hard to tell with the woods blocking the view, but we’re actually pretty high up here.”

We step out into the clearing, the edge of a long chain of hills. It’s a delicate patchwork world beneath us, the skinny line of Main Street weaving through the heart of our town. Clusters of homes, a few church spires, farmland sectioned off in orderly rows.

I wave my hand grandly. The Vanna White of Green Woods. “Welcome to your new home, Max. Officially. You can even see the Walmart Supercenter and the movie theater if you squint hard enough. Don’t get too excited, though. It only has one screen, so pickings are slim. But sometimes that’s better than driving thirty minutes for more options.”

“Wow. I think my neighborhood in Philly was bigger than your entire town, but—”

“Really? That’s all you can say? You’re an artist. This view isn’t nothing.”

“Hey,” Max says, reaching for me, his warm fingers brushing against my wrist. “You didn’t let me finish. But… it’s a pretty spectacular view. Definitely more green than I’ve seen in a long time. Who knew there were farms like this so close to the city? Huh.”

“You’re a funny one.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“I’m supposed to be the simple country girl. But it turns out you’re actually the sheltered one.”

“Maybe that’s a little bit true. When you live in the city, it can feel like you don’t need anything more.”

We’re silent for a moment. Staring out. “I know this view right here isn’t what you expected your senior year to look like,” I finally say. “But do you really want to waste the whole year being miserable?”

“Thank you,” Max says. I glance over to gauge whether he’s being sarcastic, but his eyes are lost over the valley. “I needed to hear that. I’m sure I’ll find the good in living this country life.”

I smile.

“So,” he starts. Pauses. “You and this Noah of yours, are you two…?”

“Dating?” I laugh. And then I think about Noah and his feelings and I instantly want to take the laugh back. He deserves better. “No. We’re too close to date. And to save you from asking, I’m not dating Ginger, either. I’m not going to date anyone until after graduation.”

“Oh?” He turns to face me, brows raised. “And why is that?”

I repeat the words I’ve said endlessly to my moms and Ginger and Noah: “Too many other things to focus on first. Friends. Family. School. My entire future. And what’s the point, anyway? Everyone is going their separate ways soon enough.”

“So… your mind skips ahead to the ending before there’s a chance for a beginning?”

I shrug and fiddle with the strap of my dress. “Something like that.”

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right person.”

“Maybe not, but even still it would be the right person at the wrong time. So—not happening.”

“Hm,” he says, nodding. “Got it.”

A thick drop of rain hits my bare shoulder. Another lands on my cheek. I tilt my face up.

“I love the way it sounds.” Max closes his eyes. The splashes are quickly becoming a steady stream. “The rain on the leaves. My mom had a noise machine that made a sound just like this in our old apartment. She won’t need it here, I guess.”

He pulls his glasses off, makes a few pointless swipes with his T-shirt before he pockets them in his shorts.

“Good thing these are mostly just a cool accessory,” he says, grinning.

“We should probably go.” I’m already turning toward the path. “Heads up, the hill can get slippery in the rain. Odds are high you’ll be sliding your way down.”

Noah comes over for dinner that night. It’s just us, which doesn’t happen very often. Mama and Mimmy are hosting a workshop on inversions at the studio, and Ginger has the evening shift at the diner. It’s nice to have the quality time.

I coat the salmon in soy sauce and a generous squeeze of sriracha. Noah chops up kale and tomatoes from our garden, tosses them into a pan already sizzling with diced shallots. I bump him aside so I can put the salmon into the oven, and he sighs, pretending to be put out. I take longer than I need to, arranging it to be just so on the rack before