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

I hope I dream about this, right here, because it’s the only place I want to be.

Max’s golden-brown eyes look more gold than usual, flickering in the tall, dancing flames of the fire. He’s focused intently on his darkening marshmallow, bubbling and crisping, too close to the heat for a perfect, even roast. I fight the urge to pull his stick back to a safer distance.

Birthyear activity three started off well enough, a campfire Max set up in his backyard with hot dogs and lemonade and, of course, s’mores. But it’s as if the house’s energy is seeping outside its dark walls, stealing away all his good spirits. Draining him of happiness.

I hope it’s the house, at least—not regrets about this day. The kiss. Us.

His marshmallow ignites in a ball of flames. He makes no effort to snuff it out, watching as it burns, bigger and brighter, melting off the tree branch he’s using as a fork.

“You must like your s’mores charred,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “A hearty dose of ash with each bite. Delicious.”

There’s a pause before he says, “Yep. Sure.”

“Okay.” I pluck the stick from his hands and set it down. “Please tell me what’s wrong. Is it… what happened in the woods? With me?” The two s’mores I’ve already eaten feel sickly sweet at the back of my throat.

“No!” He turns to face me, his eyes instantly clearing. “No. Definitely not. Today was the happiest I’ve been in a long time. Maybe the happiest. Period.”

“Oh.” The happiest he’s ever been. Because of me. I’ll replay those words at least a hundred times before I sleep tonight. But still, I need to know: “Something changed between the afternoon and now. What was it?”

He looks back at the fire. “It’s nothing. I don’t want to ruin this amazing day. My parents were just fighting when I ran inside for the food. Same as always. No big deal.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“I only heard snippets. I tried to get in and out as fast as I could. My mom’s upset he’s not here enough, that he’s not fixing the house up for us like he should be. She also suspects he’s not as monogamous as he’s claiming to be, and that’s why he’s still doing the Philly commute. I don’t know. Maybe this will actually be the end. She’ll kick his pathetic ass out, or he’ll leave on his own. He was swearing up and down that he’s been loyal, that it’s not about anyone else. But it’s pretty hard to trust anything he says anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Max.” I cringe, saying it. It’s my default. Overused. Those two words, I’m sorry, don’t say enough.

“Don’t be. It’s our fault for letting him pull the same shit over and over again. It’s like he can’t help himself. He can’t stop. He messes up, but then he comes crawling back, saying how much he loves us.” He grabs the stick again and shoves another marshmallow on it so forcefully the sharp tip of wood pokes out from the top end. “If he loved us, he’d actually be here every day, following through on all the shit he promised to do. Making this nasty shack a real home.”

I’m desperate to say something, anything, that might be more helpful than I’m sorry. “Even if your parents do decide to separate,” I start, “maybe your relationship with him would be better off? People fall out of love and get divorced sometimes. But that doesn’t mean he’d stop being your dad. I’m sure he loves you, Max. He’s not that terrible, is he?”

“Calliope?” His voice is small and low and almost lost in the night. I wait. Frogs sing out from the creek, crickets chirp, an owl hoots somewhere high above us in the trees. “I care about you. I do. I am so happy today happened. So happy to be here with you right now. And I appreciate your opinions. But… can you just be angry together with me? Not defend my dad? I’m not there yet. I might never be there. You don’t know him like I do.”

My stomach coils and burns. “You’re right,” I say, reaching up to lay my palm against his lightly stubbled cheek. “You feel whatever you need to feel. I’ll shut my mouth.”

He smiles, but it’s a sad one. The roasting stick slips from his hand.

He’s quiet again then, and my mind wanders to the inevitable. I hear dad, and I think: the donor. Frank. Even though he’s not my dad. Will never be my dad. I still can’t stop myself. The thoughts come on their own. I’m powerless against them.

I haven’t asked Max for his opinion on what I should do, and I certainly can’t ask now. Because at least I still have two parents who love each other. Two parents who would probably die before they’d move away from me, shared blood or no.

“It’s okay,” he says after a few minutes. “You don’t have a dad and you turned out pretty great. So maybe I’ll be fine, too. I just know we can’t keep pretending like this.”

I nod and he leans down, lips grazing my forehead. What he said is true: I have everything I need. Everyone.

Maybe it’s selfish to need more. To want more.

What would Frank add to my life?

“I’m sorry to ruin your birthyear with this,” he whispers in my ear. There’s a tickling sensation against my skin that makes it harder to breathe.

“I had the best day. You didn’t ruin anything. Being together is just as much about sharing life’s bullshit drama as it is celebrating birthyears and birthdays.”

“So wise,” he says. “And also, you just said we’re together…?”

I did. Accidentally.

“That slipped out. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be… presumptuous.”

“Oh, I want to be. Together. With you. Only you. I was just clarifying.”

“Yeah?” The butterflies—they’re back. Fluttering so fast I can barely catch my breath.

“Yeah.”

And then his lips