Chase and I aren’t friends on any social media platforms, but most of his pages are public. There are photos with his family, a trio of sisters. They’re posed with their arms around each other, grinning, and it’s jarring partially because I can’t imagine Tabby and me posing like that. There are photos of him with friends at football games, concerts, school dances. There are photos of his band, a couple with Peter but most without, including a very dramatic photo of them on a playground. Chase is on a tire swing, one of the girls is on a rocking hippo, and the other girl and guy are perched on a slide. They all look extremely serious.
There’s a news article that comes up too—an obituary from years ago. His dad passed away, and oh God, I can’t imagine.
Then I find his YouTube channel, which is also public. There are a handful of poorly filmed concert videos, but most of the videos are Chase in his room playing guitar. It should be self-indulgent, but it isn’t. He’s charming and funny, a skilled musician, though these acoustic covers aren’t really my thing. None of the videos have more than forty-two views, which somehow makes me like him more.
It’s not that I’m cursing his existence, wondering what Peter sees in him.
It’s that I can tell exactly what Peter sees in him.
CHAPTER 24
PETER
“SOPHIE, CHASE. CHASE, SOPHIE. I guess you guys already sort of know each other?” The three of us stand at the ice rink entrance, hands jammed into our coat pockets as I make this awkward introduction. Chase beat us there; Tabby took the shared Orenstein car today, so Sophie and I bused it.
“In the way you know someone you’ve been in school with for a few years without actually having spoken, yes,” Chase says. “Hey, Sophie. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She blushes. “Hi. I, um . . . same.”
In the week since our bookstore kiss, Chase and I have seen each other a few times outside of school, but we’ve stuck to our own friend groups during lunch. So this really is the first official meeting of my boyfriend and my best friend.
“The dance team is great this year,” Chase says. His mouth bends into an easy smile.
Sophie tugs on a few strands of hair that have escaped her slouchy gray beanie. She’s had that hat for years, and I’ve always thought she looked so cute in it. (No, of course I never said anything.) “Thanks. Peter said you play guitar?”
“Peter is correct. You’ll have to see us play.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Your friend here has some real skills.”
“I know that,” Sophie says, her voice tinged with a sharpness I’m not used to hearing.
I’m not clueless. If Sophie felt anything for me beyond friendship around the time of the party kiss, this can’t be easy for her. While I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, Chase is my boyfriend now. When I told her about him, she smiled and squealed and told me how happy she was. All I want is for the three of us to be able to spend time together. I don’t want to live a life in segments.
“Should we go inside?” Chase says. His cheeks are red with cold. “It’s freezing out here.”
“I’m not sure inside will be any better, but yes,” I say, opening the door for the three of us.
It’s late November, the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when everyone decides ice-skating sounds like fun before realizing no one is actually very good at ice-skating. As a result, the rink is packed.
“Are you any good at this?” I ask Chase as we wait in line for skates. Ahead of us, Sophie tells the person at the counter both our sizes, six for her and ten for me.
“No idea. I haven’t been since I was a kid.”
Sophie hands me the skates. They’re musty and damp and I have no desire to wear them, but I sit down, take off my shoes, and roll up my socks as high as they go to eliminate any accidental contact between the skates and my skin.
When I stand up, I’m immediately off-balance. The skates are too heavy on my feet, the blades awkward. Sophie grabs my arm, saving me from falling.
“You suggested skating so you could make fun of me,” I tell her.
She holds a hand to her heart. “I would never do a thing like that.”
Chase turns out to be so bad he wobbles like a baby giraffe still getting used to its feet, and I try hard not to laugh. Mostly because if I did, I’d want to cover my mouth, and I need my hands to cling to the wall.
A kid in the middle of the rink gracefully lands a double axel.
“He’s mocking us,” Chase says. “What a little asshole.”
Sophie glides around effortlessly. Forward. Backward.
“You’re making us look bad!” Chase calls to her.
She scuffs up some ice as she stops near where we’re holding on to the wall. “Come on,” she says to me, holding out her hands. The freckled tip of her nose is apple-red. “I’ll help you.”
I grip her mittens tight. She skates backward, which makes me feel even worse about my inability to skate a few inches forward.
“We’ll start slow,” she says.
“What about me makes you think I’m graceful at all?”
She bites her lip to avoid smiling. “Bend your knees. You’re too stiff. And lean forward a bit.”
I do, and it feels a little easier. A little less like I’m going to fall and break a leg at any instant. I throw a look over my shoulder at Chase, who’s still against the wall, but the backward glance messes with my balance. My skate wobbles, and I slip, but Sophie holds me upright, a feat, given her size.
“I’m going to make us both fall,” I say.
“No. I have you.” Her gaze is solid, steady on mine, and it makes me believe her. “You won’t fall. One foot, then the other. Good! Nice job.”
She’s definitely lying, but we manage one lap around the rink like this.
“You’re getting better,” Sophie says as we skate over to Chase. I half expect her to swap us out and help him around the rink, but why would she? She barely knows him. Instead, she tries tugging me along for lap two, but I pull my hands from her grasp.
“You go,” I tell her. Her gaze flicks between Chase and me, her expression unreadable. I feel my face get hot, despite how arctic it is in here.
Chase shakes his head as he watches her skate away.
“What?” I ask, positive he’ll say something about her skating skills. “I’m sorry this isn’t as fun as Sophie thought it would be.”
“Nah,” he says. “It’s not that. It’s the two of you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . it’s strange seeing you together. You guys are really different. If you lined up everyone at school and asked me to pick out your best friend, I can’t imagine choosing her and going, ‘Yes, you two are definitely best friends.’ ”
“Oh.” I’m not entirely sure how to respond to this. “Well, we’ve been friends for a long time. We grew up together, right across the street.” Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with the need to defend her.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even say anything, especially after what she did.” He stares down at the ice. “I’m—I don’t want you to think I’m jealous or anything. I swear that’s not it.”
“No, I get it.” I watch her go past again. “Maybe we had more in common when we were younger.”
It’s not something I’ve allowed myself to say out loud, but as soon as I do, I regret it. Gratitude. That’s how I should feel about Sophie. Our connection isn’t obvious to an outsider—which, in a way, is what Chase is—but it’s real to me, and to her.
There’s something else, though, something that takes me a few moments to identify—a pang of missing. Like I miss Sophie even though she’s right here, gliding along the ice in her gray beanie, fiery hair peeking out from beneath it.
We last another half hour before clomping off the ice and heading to a nearby coffee shop, where we snag a few chairs near the fireplace.
“How exactly did you guys become friends?” Sophie asks, holding her hands next to the fire to warm them up.
“English clas
s.” Chase takes a sip of a drink that’s probably more chocolate than coffee. “Peter helped me with medieval literature. And then I heard him play piano, was mesmerized, and somehow talked him into playing with the band.”
“Right, you really had to twist my arm.”
“It was all an elaborate scheme to get you to go out with me.” Chase slings an arm across the back of my chair, fingertips grazing my sweater. “You’ll never know.” All I want is to move closer to him—and it’s not that I’m shy about displays of affection in public, given our first kiss was in a bookstore—but something in the way Sophie glances at Chase’s arm on my chair and then very pointedly away turns my body to stone. I don’t want to act like we’re rubbing it in her face that we’re together, not when she’s looking at me like that. We all need more time to figure out how to navigate this.
“What kind of music is it, exactly?” Sophie asks.
“Hmm. Sort of like the Clash meets Death Cab with the voice of Debbie Harry,” he says. Sophie gives a small shrug as though indicating she doesn’t know them. “With a little Rufus Wainwright thrown in. I take it you’re not as much of a Music Person as Peter?”
“Um, no, I definitely am,” she says with an odd laugh. There’s probably no greater insult than someone saying your taste in music isn’t great or you don’t know enough about it. “I’m not sure if Peter told you, but we used to have a band. Well. Kind of.”
She puts an odd emphasis on the “we.” I wonder if Chase hears it, or if I imagined it. We used to have a band.
Chase furrows his brow. “You did?” He looks almost hurt, like you didn’t tell me? “What do you play?”
“It wasn’t really a band,” I say quickly.
“Peter played the piano while I choreographed dances,” Sophie says. “So . . . not a traditional kind of band.”
“Oh,” Chase says. “Still. That sounds cool.”
“It is,” Sophie says, keeping it in present tense, though we haven’t played together in months.
For a few moments, we sip in silence.
“Do you guys do anything for Christmas?” Chase asks.
“I’m Jewish,” Sophie says.
“Oh—I’m sorry.” Chase flushes. “I guess I meant Peter, since your mom’s not Jewish. . . .”
“We have a tree,” I say. I helped my mom decorate it last weekend. “And we do the present thing.” When is my family not doing a present thing? “But it doesn’t really have any religious significance.”
That’s true of all holidays, essentially: We celebrate everything, but nothing means very much. Though I’m hopeful going to temple will change that.
Sophie’s still frowning, fidgeting with her hair.
“I don’t like it when people assume,” she says quietly. “Look around us.” There are stockings dangling from the ceiling, our cups are printed with green and red patterns, and “All I Want for Christmas Is You” is playing from the speakers. “It’s impossible not to be bombarded with it in December. I can’t help feeling excluded all the freaking time.”
“You didn’t even want to go to temple with me,” I say.
Her eyes cut to mine. “Not going to temple doesn’t make me less Jewish. It doesn’t mean I can’t be offended by the assumption that because I live in America, of course I celebrate Christmas.”
My stomach rolls over, and I stare down into my cup so I don’t have to make eye contact with either of them. Sophie’s never combative like this, and I’m not sure if it’s because Chase struck a nerve or because this whole situation is new for us. I’m certain Chase didn’t mean to offend her, but I also can’t imagine how she feels this time of year. She’s always talked about how even in liberal Seattle, everything is Christmas this time of year. While I’ve never minded it, part of me wonders if the proliferation of it subconsciously worked to make me forget about my Jewish side, to erase it. Until recently, at least.
“I’m so sorry,” Chase says again, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I seriously didn’t mean to assume.”
“It’s fine,” she says with a wave of her hand.
“I guess this is why everyone says you shouldn’t discuss religion,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood. All I get are two tight-lipped smiles and more silent sipping.
“I should probably head home soon.” Sophie checks the time on her phone. “I have dance team practice later.” She swipes over to the bus app and sighs. “The next one isn’t for forty-five minutes.”
“I could give you a ride,” Chase offers, his expression soft, as though he’s trying to smooth things over with her.
“Are you sure? We’re going to the same place, so I guess that would make it easier for you.” Sophie softens, as though accepting Chase’s olive branch. “Thanks. Peter, is that okay with you?”
I pick up my empty coffee cup and nod. Sophie and Chase’s first meeting was bound to be awkward. At least it wasn’t a disaster.
In the parking lot, the three of us stand in front of Chase’s car for a few moments.
“I’ll ride in back with you,” I say to Sophie.
“No, no, that’s ridiculous,” she says. “You both sit in the front. I don’t want Chase to feel like he’s chauffeuring us around.”
“I don’t mind!” he chirps as he unlocks it, sliding into the driver’s seat.
I make a move to open the back door, but Sophie puts her hand over mine. “Peter. Seriously. Go up front.”
“Or you could go up front.”
She groans. “Oh my God, just go.”
Fortunately, the car ride proves much less uncomfortable than skating or drinking coffee. As soon as Chase starts the car, an electronica song I’ve never heard starts playing, but Sophie yelps from the back, “I love this song,” and Chase turns it up and they both belt out the lyrics. The entire exchange shocks me—Sophie’s not the kind of person to sing in front of a stranger, much less with a stranger. But when I peer back at her, she’s grinning.
The conversation flows a little easier after that. Chase apologizes once again about the Christmas faux pas, and Sophie wishes him a very happy Hanukkah.
When he pulls to a stop in our neighborhood, Sophie pops off her seat belt.
“Are you coming?” she asks me.
I glance over at Chase. “I, um, I think Chase and I might keep hanging out.”
He nods.
“Oh.” She fiddles with the strap of her bag. “Sure. Okay. That makes sense.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, though? First night of Hanukkah at your house?”
“Right. Yes.” She takes a moment, seems to collect herself. “Have a great time!” she says, much too enthusiastically. “I mean—not too great a time. Like, an average time. But still good?” Her face is red now. “Just . . . have fun.”
“We’ll try,” I tell her. I’m not sure why it feels like the wrong answer.
I watch her in the rearview mirror until she becomes a best-friend-shaped dot, then disappears.
CHAPTER 25
SOPHIE
THE FIRST FEW MONTHS AFTER Luna was born, she terrified me. She was so small, so delicate. I was afraid to even hold her. Tabby and Josh had enough help, anyway, with Luna’s four grandparents. It was easy for me to fade into the background, slip across the street to Peter’s whenever Luna tested the strength of her lungs.
It’s an entire year and a half after she was born that I’m alone with her for the first time. Thursday night after winter break, Luna and I stare each other down for a solid couple minutes after Tabby and Josh leave. She’s only just begun to string words into phrases, so it’s not yet possible to have a real conversation with her, to ask her what she wants to do. I peek outside. No rain, and it’s been a mild winter so far. We only get flurries and slush every other year, and every time, the entire city panics.
“How do you feel about going to the park?” I ask, careful to keep my voice from sliding into baby talk. Tabby and Josh are careful not to talk to her in that high-pitched voice people reserve solely
for infants and puppies. Tabby told me normal speech is easier to understand and helps language development.
“Yes, please!” Luna says. At least she’s a very polite eighteen-month-old.
I button her into a tiny coat and throw on my dance sweatshirt and a chunky scarf. On our way to Meridian Playground, she walks on her own, babbling to herself.
We play together on the slide until exhaustion from dance catches up with me, and I let her run around on her own while I park myself on a bench nearby. When I pull out my phone, I have a message from Montana. It’s a link to a video, the final project she choreographed last year. I hit play and turn the volume down, watching the dancers move in a way that’s both graceful and athletic, like most of the pieces Montana choreographs. You can make this too, she writes.
I mull over a few different responses before sending back I hope so with a dancer emoji. When I look up, Luna’s got her fists buried in some bark—and it looks like she’s chewing on something.
I spring to my feet, dropping my phone on the bench. “Luna? What are you eating?”
She turns to me, showing off a mouth smeared with blue. In her hand is a chunk of sidewalk chalk.
“Luna, no! You can’t eat that!” I lunge toward her, but not before she smashes the rest of the chalk into her mouth, swallows it, and offers me a very blue grin.
I drop to my knees in the bark and place a hand on each of her little shoulders. I only glanced away for a few seconds. A minute, tops. I pick her up—God, she’s heavier than she looks—and plunk her onto the bench next to me. Grabbing my phone, I ask Google, “Can you eat chalk?” A list of potential symptoms freaks me out enough to call Poison Control. I find the number online and, thank God, someone picks up after the first ring.
“Poison Control.”
“Hi, um, my niece ate a piece of chalk?”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Sophie.”
“Sophie, calm down. We’ll get through this, okay? I’m Diane.”
“Okay. Diane. Thanks. Hi.” Breathe. I wrap my free arm around Luna to keep her from squirming off the bench.
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