The People We Choose, Katelyn Detweiler [best classic books of all time txt] 📗

I step back. Noah shakes his head, rolling his eyes. I pull myself up to sit on the counter, watching as he goes back to stirring.

“How was the fancy cello lesson yesterday?” I ask.

“Hard, but good, I guess. I feel like I have so much to do if I have any hope of getting into a decent music school.”

I dangle my feet, kick him gently with my bare toes. “Well, you’re the best cellist I’ve ever heard in real life, so I have faith.”

“We live in Green Woods.” He glances over at me, smirking. “I’m the only cellist in the school.”

“I still have faith.” And I do. He’s good. Good enough to make me cry sometimes when he plays. “You just have to find a partner and you could absolutely give 2CELLOS a run for their money. Maybe you’ll fall in love with another cellist at college, and then you can travel the world together playing. The romance would add to the allure.”

He laughs, but more of a ha than a ha ha. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Seriously though, you’ll land somewhere great. Just promise you’ll remember me and Ginger when you move to some glamorous, faraway city.”

“You two can always move to the glamorous, faraway city, too. If that happens. Ginger could be my publicist. She’s a good blend of charming and stubborn. Like a friendly pit bull. People don’t like to say no to her.”

“Yeah, and what about me? You know I’d shrivel up and waste away in a city. Visiting is one thing. But living in one? It’d be like ripping the roots from a tree.”

“We’ll find you a nice quiet suburb nearby, don’t worry.”

“Or maybe you can just fly me in on your private jet to visit sometimes. A direct line from my cave in the woods to your big-city skyscraper.”

“A private jet? Am I suddenly Jay-Z in this scenario? Did I marry someone from the Kardashian family?”

“Um, no, you would never marry a reality star. That’s just how much I believe in you and your ability to become magnificently wealthy with that talent of yours. All on your own.”

“I hope that’s not why you keep me around.”

“Nah. I keep you around for the cooking. Clearly.”

He tosses a handful of kale stems at my face.

The conversation moves along to other things—Noah’s part-time job making hoagies at Wawa and his favorite people-watching anecdotes of the week, a ranked list of the worst horror movies he’s made me and Ginger endure, whether or not we should use Mimmy’s prefrozen dough to make ginger cookies for dessert.

I am taking the salmon out of the oven when the doorbell chimes. It’s a full, resonating sound, and I jump, almost dropping the hot pan. I forget the bell is there usually. Ginger and Noah always come right in.

“I’ll get it,” Noah says, already on his way toward the front hallway. I put the pan down on the stovetop and pull the oven mitts off my hands.

I hear the door open. Then a brief snippet of a pause, the space of two blinks. The rest of the house is silent, waiting with me. “Hey?” Noah says. I can hear the question mark at the end, but probably because I know him so well.

“Oh, hey. You must be Noah.”

Max.

“I’m Calliope’s new neighbor. Max.”

“Oh! Max. Of course. Calliope told us about you. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

Hands slap, presumably some type of complex male handshake.

“Yeah, thanks. I heard all about you, too. The mom club and everything.”

The door closes and footsteps start down the hallway.

I immediately regret the faded Green Woods Middle School T-shirt and cutoff sweatpants I threw on earlier. Not because I’m trying to impress Max—but because no one but my moms and Ginger and Noah need to see me in my ratty old pajamas.

Noah turns the hallway corner and steps into the kitchen, Max right behind him.

Max smiles at me. I smile back.

“So where’s Ginger?” he asks, leaning against the counter. Making himself instantly at home. “I need to meet her, then my introduction to Green Woods will feel complete.”

“She’s waitressing. You’ll have to win her over another day.”

His eyes land on the salmon, the pan of vegetables. “Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting? I can come back later. Or not.”

“Why don’t you eat with us,” I say. Even though there’s not really that much food.

“You sure?” Max looks at Noah. Noah nods. “Cool. We haven’t done any real shopping yet, so the only food at home is canned or boxed. Actual food would be nice.”

Noah asks Max where he lived before, what grade he’s in. Polite small talk.

I pull out plates and start divvying up little thirds of food while Noah fills three glasses with water. I can feel Max watching us move together: the way I step back to let Noah into the sink, the way Noah helps me balance the hot pan as I scrape out every last sliver of shallot.

“I’m impressed,” he says. “I mostly make eggs and grilled cheese. But you two are like an old married couple. You must do this all the time.”

“My moms care about food. Good food. But Noah’s even better than me in the kitchen,” I add. “A valuable life skill around here because we don’t have a lot of takeout options. You’ll have to get used to it, too, city boy.”

He laughs loudly, and it feels so good to hear that sound, like finding a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. “Nah, I just have to come over here. One more point for the new neighborhood. First that scenic view, then the dessert you brought over—I may have forgotten to share it and accidentally ate the whole thing for lunch.” He lifts the empty plate in his hand, which I didn’t notice when he came in. “So yeah, Green Woods is crushing it today. Philly? Bye.”

“What view?” Noah asks. He’s watching Max closely, his thick brows pinched in a V.

“The top of the hill. We were up there today right when the rain hit. I nearly