The People We Choose Katelyn Detweiler (graded readers TXT) 📖

Max walked through the woods to my house in June, and life changed. Simple as that. It was going to happen with or without my permission. How naive, to think it was ever my decision to make.

“Can I keep it?” I ask quietly.

“Of course. If I can keep yours.” He pauses for a beat, and then: “What were you thinking just then? Was it really about keeping my painting?”

I shake my head.

“So…?” he asks, taking a small step closer to me. “What then?”

“I was thinking…” I swallow. “Maybe I was wrong to have a rule about dating. To think I could control whether or not I met the right person at the perfect time.”

“Are you saying…?” His face is blank with surprise. I can’t tell what’s buried underneath—excitement or terror or disappointment or hope.

“You? Yes.” I breathe out as I say these two words, feeling instantly lighter. Somehow this confession feels like both the biggest secret and the most obvious truth.

“It’s funny you say that, because”—he says, breaking out in a smile—“I was reevaluating the idea that high school relationships are silly. Sometimes, sure. But not always.”

I take a step. He takes a step. I step again.

He reaches out and takes my hand, twirls me closer until my face is inches from his. My breath hitches.

I lean in before there’s any risk of letting this moment slip away.

Our lips meet.

My first kiss. I’m glad it’s here, in our woods. I’m glad it’s with Max.

I open my eyes for a second, and I am certain the sun is shining brighter than before, the branches radiant and illuminated above us, a grand glowing archway.

The sun is shining for us.

I’m not sure who pulls away from our kiss first. It’s short and sweet. Enough to start.

We grin at each other. Wild, loopy grins.

My brain feels pleasantly hazy. Like all of life’s edges are rounded and softened. It reminds me of last winter, when Ginger made Noah and me take swigs of her dad’s whiskey with her during a bad snowstorm. A foggy, giggly, snowed-in blur.

Max takes my hand and says, “Time to leave these here to dry so we can move on to birthyear activity two.”

I forgot there was more. That this day has even more surprises.

We walk farther through the woods. Past the log bridge that leads to the hill.

It’s not until I see the vibrant dark green water that I realize where we’re going.

My pond. He remembered.

He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

This is happening. This is really happening.

“I can’t believe you haven’t taken me to your second-favorite place yet,” Max says. “I had to venture out and find it all on my own. Trespassing on your property, sorry about that. I was proud of my navigational skills, though—only took me about three hours of wandering to find it.”

I laugh. “It’s six or seven minutes, tops, from your house.”

“The trees confuse me! There are so many of them. Everything looks the same. I swear these woods are bewitched, because it feels like they might go on forever. Even though I’ve seen a map of the town and I know that can’t be possible. Still. It’s freaky.”

“I used to pretend that was true when I was little. That these were endless magical woods. Borders on the outside, but never on the inside. I would wander around for hours by myself.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Sounds very Calliope- like.”

The water looks intensely green today. Probably for very unromantic and scientific reasons having to do with the extreme heat and algae growth. Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light, the water mirroring the deep green leaves framing the pond. Whatever the cause, it is completely mesmerizing. Almost impossible to look away.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Max says, motioning to a blanket and basket to our right that I’m only seeing now. “Hopefully no pesky woodland creatures ravaged our goods. I left my bow and arrow at home.”

“The idea of you shooting an arrow is terrifying. And I don’t mind sharing my birthyear feast with other creatures. Particularly if it’s some friendly pixies.”

“You’re a better person than me. Or at least a less hungry one.”

We sprawl out on the blanket, just along the pond’s edge. I feel a slow ache building in my neck and shoulders, strain from painting for so long in the same position. But it’s a good ache. A happy, accomplished one. Like the feeling I get after doing an inversions class with Mama or Mimmy.

Max unpacks his spread, mostly “heat-resistant” foods—or “relatively heat-resistant” he amends after seeing the way a pile of chocolate chip cookies has turned into a soggy molten brown clump. But the croissants and blackberry jam taste even better warm, and so do the buttery confetti cupcakes that melt in my mouth. He did think to use ice packs to preserve the cheese and grapes, fortunately, and the sweet tea from his thermos is still so cold it shocks my parched mouth.

We eat until there’s nothing left, just a few crumbs we sprinkle into the pond for the pixies to enjoy after dark. And then we lie on our backs, staring up at the canopy of leaves.

I yawn, sleepy from my heavy stomach, the warm sun, this day. “Did you pencil any birthyear naps in?” I ask, my eyelids suddenly too heavy to hold up for much longer.

“The next and final official activity requires the sun to go down, so you’re free to do as you wish until then.”

“I wish for a nap. Here with you at the pond.”

“Then a nap it is—whatever the birthyear girl wants.”

I kick off my sandals and scoot closer to him, curling up against his side. He tucks his arm under my head as a pillow. It’s strange, how not strange it all feels. Like we’ve been in this position a thousand times before. Sun filters in lazily through the leaves above, bright splashes across my closed eyes. Max tucks loose curls behind my ears, humming