Our Year of Maybe

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  It feels kind of like I already belong, and I didn’t even have to try.

  “Me too!” Kat says, and holds out her fist, as though I’ve now been inducted into a club with some kind of bisexual fist bump.

  So I bump it. And I grin.

  “And I am still figuring things out,” Dylan says.

  Chase and these near-strangers know a secret about me. Sophie, who sacrificed so much for me, doesn’t.

  I try to push the guilt away.

  “We should take these to the van,” Kat says, gesturing to the instruments.

  Chase glances at me. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “I’m so glad we have a fan,” I hear Aziza say as the three of them head out into the parking lot before Laserdog takes the stage.

  “So. What did you really think?” Chase asks. He’s sitting on a couch across from me, and he leans closer, balancing his elbows on his knees. Before the lights cut out for Laserdog, I see the nerves painted on his face, the worry line between his brows, the set of his jaw. Then he’s thrown into a soft blue darkness.

  “You’re putting me in a terrible situation. You realize that, right?” I shout to be heard over the music, some kind of electro-funk that’s not really my thing.

  “Yes. But you know music. You know Laserdog is garbage.”

  “The audience loves them.”

  “I value your opinion.”

  I scoot to the edge of my couch so I don’t have to yell nearly as loudly. Chase values my opinion. I’m touched by that.

  “You’re all good at your instruments. It seemed like . . . you weren’t as cohesive as you could be. Like . . . you were all battling for attention.”

  He’s quiet for a few moments, staring at his sneakers. I wish I could take it all back. That clearly wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wanted me to tell him they were brilliant.

  “That’s actually really helpful,” he says finally. “It was hard to hear up there, with the monitors and everything. So thanks. I mean it.”

  I still feel like I should have bent the truth.

  He taps my shoe with his, which sends a bolt of lightning from my ankle to my hip. “You think you might want to try it out? Playing with us? If we’re not too shitty, that is.”

  “Only marginally shitty. I can handle that.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket—fifteen minutes before my curfew, and my dad’s on his way.

  “I’m getting picked up soon,” I say, standing. “My parents . . . I told you they’re overprotective.”

  He nods, getting up from the couch. “Got it.”

  “I had a good time. I mean it.” I dust off my dad’s pants. I’m sure they were outdated even when he wore them.

  “I’m glad.”

  We’re facing each other now, a foot and a half of space between our bodies. The tug in my chest is magnetic, nearly impossible to ignore.

  We’re not close enough friends yet to hug, are we? Or should we fist-bump, the way Kat and I did? Give a two-fingered salute like a too-cool love interest in a YA novel?

  In my panic, what I do is stick out my hand.

  For a handshake.

  The socially awkward police better come arrest me now, lock me up before I vomit on someone’s shoes or make a dad joke.

  I must look horrified by what my hand has done, but Chase just stares down at it and laughs.

  “You crack me up. Pleasure doing business with you, John Lennon,” he says as he shakes my hand, his olive skin warm against mine.

  CHAPTER 15

  SOPHIE

  WHEN SOMEONE TELLS YOU THEY “need some time,” they should give you an exact date they’ll be ready to talk about whatever difficult thing they can’t talk about right now. I need some time, but let’s reconvene next Thursday at four p.m., they should say.

  I’ve been trying to give Peter space to think about the kiss. Yes, it’s been only a couple days, but it’s all I can think about.

  “Sophie, you’re not spotting,” my teacher says in my weekly jazz technique class. I’ve been falling out of my double and triple pirouettes all afternoon.

  “I know. I know,” I mumble.

  I make it home in time to go trick-or-treating with Tabby, who got the night off from her waitressing job. Still, my mind’s somewhere else.

  “Sophie, you’re dawdling,” Tabby calls from a few paces ahead, and I rush to catch up with them.

  Tabby and Josh are really into graphic novels and dressed a little more elaborately than I did, as characters from Saga. Tabby’s Alana, an army deserter on the run with her baby (Luna) during an intergalactic war. Josh, with horns on his head, is Marko, Alana’s husband. They lose their minds when someone actually recognizes who they are.

  On past Halloweens, Peter and I made our own Star Wars or Harry Potter costumes, or something related to whatever obscure book Peter was into that year. Once we went as half of the Beatles. Always what Peter wanted, but I was happy to defer to him, happy to see him happy. I loved seeing him get into it, even if we never trick-or-treated more than a few blocks and he couldn’t eat too much candy.

  This year I painted whiskers on my cheeks and wore all black. I didn’t see Peter at lunch, and I didn’t mention Halloween to him earlier because I was too wrapped up in everything else. I didn’t think it was something I had to mention—I’ve never had to before.

  We go along Forty-Fifth Street first, where a lot of the Wallingford businesses are handing out candy, then back up into our neighborhood. I’m past the age to be excited about candy and too young and not yet jaded enough to trick-or-treat ironically like some of the college kids toting around pillowcases, so most of the time, I hang back while Luna collects her goodies.

  Okay, sometimes I collect a few goodies of my own. I have not yet outgrown sugar rushes. Plus, I’m on my period, and I’m fiercely craving a Reese’s.

  “Your sister is so cute,” a woman says before dropping a Hershey’s Kiss into Luna’s outstretched bag, though her face is a little uncertain. Josh is Korean, so I’m not sure whose sister she assumes Luna is.

  It can’t be the first time someone’s assumed this, though, and it probably won’t be the last. I feel a strange pang of discomfort for the two of them.

  Tabby opens her mouth, but Josh beats her to it. “Yes, she is,” he says quickly. “Happy Halloween.”

  We retreat down the block. My bag is half full, because I am usually an optimist, and when it’s candy, it’s hard not to be.

  Tabby sighs loudly and adjusts her wings. “I don’t know why you have to do that,” she mutters to Josh, “let people think she isn’t actually our kid.”

  “Isn’t it easier this way?”

  “It’s a lie.” Tabby grips Luna’s hand as we cross the street. She started walking quickly, and now, at sixteen months, she rarely needs help.

  “What good does it do if I tell a little old lady the truth? We’re seventeen, and this is our daughter. We don’t need her judgment. She doesn’t know us.”

  I stay quiet, unsure what to say. It’s strange to observe this very adult conversation between my younger sister and her boyfriend.

  I turn to my niece instead. “What do you think, Luna? Did you get a good haul?”

  She grins a toothy toddler grin. “Yes!”

  “Do you have any idea what you’re dressed as?”

  Luna’s face furrows, as though she’s considering this. “Yes?” she ventures.

  “Luna’s happy,” Josh says, scratching at where his horns dig into his scalp. “That’s the most important thing.”

  Tabby sighs again. “Sure. Fine.”

  While the trio approaches another house, I hang back and text Peter. Beetlejuice later? We used to watch it all the time on Halloween—maybe this will remind him how much fun this holiday used to be for us.

  But half an hour passes without a response. I sigh too loudly, dragging my feet.

  “What is it?” Tabby says.

  “Peter. Things have been weird since Saturday.”
>
  Tabby gasps, a theatrical gasp I’ve heard her utter in more than one production. “Did something happen?”

  I’m fully aware that Josh is listening too, but I figure Tabby tells him everything anyway. And maybe he and my sister will have some sage advice that can only be gleaned from years of confidence in knowing another person is deeply attracted to you.

  “I . . . sort of kissed him and then told him I thought we should try dating.” I don’t mention that I was drunk when I kissed him—we still kissed, and I was perfectly sober during our awkward morning conversation.

  “Wow. And?”

  “And nothing. He said he didn’t want to risk ruining the friendship.” I roll my shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “What I can’t understand is if he’s so intent on keeping our friendship perfectly intact, why he isn’t responding to my messages.”

  “Peter’s an introspective kind of guy,” Josh says. “Maybe he needs some time to think about what it would mean to be a couple.”

  “Do you feel like . . . ?” Tabby trails off, chews her bottom lip. “I almost don’t want to say it, but if Peter happens to not feel the same way, do you feel like you could stay friends?”

  I stop in my tracks. “Yes! Are you serious? I—we’ll always be friends.” Truthfully, it’s never crossed my mind. We will always be Peter-and-Sophie—that’s not up for debate.

  Except the ideal version of Peter-and-Sophie is handing out candy together tonight. That version planned costumes together and laughed while they painted each other’s faces. That version doesn’t need to text because they’re together right now.

  That ideal version has already talked about being boyfriend and girlfriend.

  And in that ideal world, Peter is always, always texting Sophie back.

  My sister holds up her hands. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry for saying it.”

  “He needs time.” I echo Josh, saying it with a conviction I’m not sure I feel.

  When we get back to our neighborhood, we stop at Peter’s last. I’m half expecting him to open the door—wishful thinking, I’m sure—but his mom does.

  “Aren’t you the cutest?” she squeals when she sees Luna. “What exactly is she?”

  Josh scratches at his horns again. “Too hard to explain.”

  “Hi, Holly,” I say. Her long nails are orange, with tiny spiderwebs. “Is Peter home? I’m having trouble reaching him.”

  “Sorry, Sophie. He’s actually out tonight. His dad dropped him off in Sand Point for some kind of concert.”

  A concert? What kind of concert? While we were trick-or-treating, I convinced myself he fell asleep or turned his phone off—and didn’t let myself think of the scariest possibility: that there’d been some kind of emergency. Peter loves music, of course he does, but he doesn’t go to spur-of-the-moment concerts. We saw Rufus Wainwright years ago, but that was planned months in advance. Plus, his parents came with us. They were worried about what might happen to him at a concert, despite the fact that I cannot imagine Rufus Wainwright fans being anything but tame.

  I never considered he’d be out. Without me. Without telling me.

  I force my voice to sound less wrecked than I feel. “Oh . . . okay. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “His curfew’s in a couple hours. He really didn’t tell you he was going out?”

  I smile tightly. “No. I’m sure I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Thanks.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” she says before closing the door.

  Hi, you’ve reached Peter. Uh, Rosenthal-Porter. I guess you know that if you called me. So, uh, leave a message and I’ll call you back when I can. Or text me. Okay. Bye. BEEP.

  I hang up without leaving a voice mail. Until tonight I didn’t know Peter had a voice-mail greeting, didn’t know it was so awkward and stilted and yet one-hundred-percent Peter. Every other time I’ve called, he’s always picked up.

  “Still not answering?” Josh asks. He’s in the living room chair with Luna and a bottle. Tabby’s already asleep, but Luna is apparently on a little-kid sugar high because she wouldn’t go down right away. Not even the Mean Girls musical soundtrack, her current favorite, would do the trick. Tabby’s on a mission to turn her into a theater kid.

  I drop my phone onto the couch as I sink into a cushion. “Nope.” Josh is still wearing Marko’s long jacket and yellow shirt, but the horns lie abandoned on the coffee table. “What was that weirdness with you and Tabby earlier?” I’m not trying to be forward, but I’m curious.

  “Agh . . . that.” With a sigh, he adjusts Luna in his arms. “It’s so hard, you know? There are so many things we never anticipated.”

  “Like people thinking Luna’s your sister.”

  “Like that.”

  A pain rips through my abdomen. I can’t help it—my face pinches, and Josh regards me strangely.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just cramps. I’m on my period.” It’s only half a lie.

  But he looks at me a little longer than he should.

  Truth is, the pain hasn’t gone away, not completely. The doctors said again that occasional pain is relatively normal for living donors, but chronic pain is rare. Living donor. That’s what they call me. When I think “donor,” I think of some rich person who gave tons of money to a museum. Even now I can’t replace that definition with what I did: giving a physical piece of myself to Peter.

  I can’t understand, after what we’ve done, that he doesn’t feel the same undeniable tug toward me that I feel for him.

  Why he still needs time.

  “I’m sorry about that lady,” I tell Josh, returning to our original conversation topic.

  “Thanks.” He strokes Luna’s hair. “We love this kid, of course. We’re head over heels for her. And I love your sister more than anything. But she’s exhausted all the time. I feel guilty that she’s exhausted all the time. I wish this were easier.” He laughs, a this-isn’t-actually-funny laugh. “What a shock—being teen parents is hard.”

  “I could babysit for you guys sometime. If you wanted to go out on, like, a date night or something.”

  Josh’s entire face changes. “Are you serious? Your parents watch her so much that we always feel guilty asking for time for ourselves. That would be incredible.”

  I smile, though I’m a bit uneasy about it. I’ve never been alone with Luna, and she’s still so small. “Yeah,” I say. “Definitely. I should get to know my niece, right?”

  He’s grinning now too. “Thank you, thank you. Tab’ll be so thrilled. I know you guys aren’t best friends or anything. But . . . it’s not too late. You two probably have more in common than you realize.”

  I shake my head. “Parenting has made both of you way too deep.”

  We sit in silence for a couple minutes, until he asks, “You want to watch Beetlejuice? You and Peter always do that on Halloween, right?”

  I’m both touched that he remembered and shattered, once again, that Peter isn’t here to watch it with me. It’s amazing how many times a single thing can break your heart. “Sure,” I say. “That would be fun.”

  We watch the movie and trade candy until Luna falls asleep and my parents gently urge us to do the same since it’s a school night.

  But what he said sticks with me as I take off my sad cat makeup and steal a few of my favorite candies from Luna’s stash. I guess I’ve always thought my life had room for closeness with only one person.

  Peter texts me at eleven thirty, when I’m on the brink of sleep.

  Can you talk?

  Yes, I type back right away.

  Woods behind my house?

  I’ll be there in 6 minutes.

  I spring out of bed, brush my teeth again though I already did an hour ago, and throw a coat over my pajamas. Slowly I creep downstairs and across the dark street. Someone smashed a pumpkin, and the ground is littered with candy wrappers.

  Peter’s waiting for me, bundled in a plaid scarf his mom gave him for his birthday a few years ago and his REI coat. N
ormally I’d hug him, bug him to share his scarf with me. Tonight I don’t.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” he says. Peter. Apologizing to me. “I didn’t know we had plans.”

  “I shouldn’t have assumed,” I say quickly. A pause. “What, um, concert did you go to?”

  “Oh. A local band. Some friends from school.”

  “Oh.” I jam my hands into my pockets, gritting my teeth against the cold.

  “Are . . . we okay?” he asks, and it’s such a strange question. Our relationship isn’t something we discuss—not until lately, at least. I guess because we’ve always been okay, never needed to confirm it.

  “Why wouldn’t we be?”

  “I’ve . . . been thinking. About what happened on Saturday.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, daring to feel hopeful.

  “I love you so much,” he says, but in those words, I can tell: It’s not the kind of love I’ve been craving. “And with the transplant, I can’t imagine that becoming more than friends wouldn’t complicate things more than they already are.”

  I try to untangle his words, all the negatives in his sentence, hoping they cancel each other out, giving me a solution I could be happy with.

  They don’t.

  “What if . . . ? What if it made our friendship better?” My voice is tiny, my heart already sunk.

  “It’s just . . . we know each other so well already. I mean, I have a part of you inside me.”

  I wish those words—“inside me”—didn’t sound sexual.

  “I don’t want to risk ruining this,” he continues. “It would kill me if you ever regretted what you did.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I say quickly, touching his shoulder in reassurance. I draw my hand back quickly, though, worried he’ll misinterpret the gesture. He doesn’t even blink at it, like me touching him is the same as petting a cat or accidentally brushing up against a wall. “I could never.”

  And that’s the horrible truth of it all, isn’t it? Peter could slash me open and steal my other kidney, and I would let him. If it would keep him alive, I’d dig it out for him myself.