Our Year of Maybe

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “They’re kind of, like, easy listening, aren’t they?”

  Shaking my head, I extract their self-titled album from its sleeve. “Their music is just . . . beautiful. That’s the best word for it. Heartbreaking, too. Incredible lyrics.”

  I watch him, waiting for his reaction to “Rainy Days and Mondays.”

  “It’s good,” he says, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  I wrap my arms around him, liking him in my room while the Carpenters are playing way too much. My room isn’t the prison I thought it was after all.

  This time when we kiss, it feels more like a prelude to something else. It starts slowly, sweetly, but quickly grows more desperate as I guide him over to my bed. I need more of him to get my hands on. I start unbuttoning his shirt, his chest warm beneath my hands.

  “Your room is so organized,” he says. He gestures to his shirt. “Do you want me to hang this up?”

  Laughing, I help him take it off and toss it to the floor. I throw mine off too, and we sit there for a few moments, taking each other in.

  “I love your cheekbones,” he says, skating his thumb up and down the planes of them. “Is that weird? I don’t know. I just find them really sexy.”

  All this time, I’ve been living with clandestinely sexy cheekbones. “No. I’m glad you like them. I—I find all of you really sexy.” I tap his glasses. “Including these.”

  He smiles, removing them and setting them on my nightstand. When he comes back to me, his eyes go to the scar on my abdomen. I’ve been so wrapped up in him that I’ve forgotten to feel self-conscious about my body. He touches the scar gently, gently, first with his fingertips, and then with a brush of his lips.

  “Is this okay?” he asks. “It doesn’t hurt or anything?”

  “All of it is okay. More than okay.”

  We make a fantastic mess: belts, jeans, socks flung onto the floor. His fingers travel south from my hips, and I think I might pass out. Time becomes meaningless. I blink, and my boxers are off. Blink again and his are too. Blink, blink, blink because how—is—this—happening? How can it all feel so good?

  I’ve never been fully naked in front of anyone like this before, my desire for him so obvious. Without moving his eyes from mine, he curls his hand around me and starts tugging up, down, yes. I reach for him too. Everything is too vivid: the way he feels in my hand, his moan into my ear, another new favorite sound.

  “Every time I hear this song,” he says between heavy breaths, “and I’m going to add it to all my playlists, so it’s gonna be a lot—I’m going to think about this.”

  It’s that that undoes me, and he isn’t far behind.

  Eventually the record stops, and I turn it over for “Superstar” before returning to him.

  Chase sighs, content. “The band thought that was pretty great,” he says.

  We hold each other in my bed for a while, because there’s no rush to leave this room. He drums a melody on my back while I play an accompaniment on his rib cage.

  CHAPTER 27

  SOPHIE

  IN THE MIDDLE OF JANUARY, I go with Liz to a Queens of Night signing at a big independent bookstore north of Seattle.

  “I can’t believe we’re about to meet Emi Miyoshi,” Liz says as we push open the doors, her cape swishing behind her. She went all out as Nadiya, the Queens of Night protagonist who may or may not die in book four: lavender wig, false lashes, cape, and a double-bladed knife, Nadiya’s trademark weapon.

  The YA section of the store has been decorated like the Queens court, with black and purple columns and a replica of the gazebo where Nadiya was forced to betray her beloved to save her people.

  “I’m more nervous than I thought I’d be,” I admit.

  Liz hefts her tote bag, filled with the original hardcovers, to her other shoulder. She explained something to me about a midseries cover redesign that I didn’t quite follow but apparently upset a lot of fans.

  “Me too. How can I possibly explain to her that her books changed my life?” She gives me a black-lipsticked smile, which looks only slightly menacing. “I’m so glad you came. These kinds of things aren’t nearly as fun alone, and Montana’s not really into Queens. Which is fine,” she adds quickly.

  Most of the chairs are already filled, but Liz and I managed to snag two in the third-to-last row, next to a trio of girls dressed as Deathhawks, the evil creatures the villain Svetna tamed to do her bidding.

  “You want to work in publishing?” I ask, remembering Montana having mentioned it earlier this year.

  Liz nods and pushes some lavender wig-bangs out of her face. “What I really want is to find the next Queens. The next Emi Miyoshi. Not just a blockbuster series, but a game-changing one, something that’s never been done before.”

  “It’s so cool you have two things you’re so passionate about: dance and books.” Peter’s always had multiple passions too: books and music and Mark. I’ve only had one.

  Well, two: Peter . . . and dance. Dance was always the afterthought, the second choice—until this year, at least. I loved the Sophie I was in that Spokane hotel room. Not even Peter knows that version of me, and I sort of like that there’s a part of me he doesn’t know, that I can be a mystery too. Peter has his band, and I have my team. It’s natural for us to be exploring new things.

  Liz shrugs. “Honestly, I’ve danced for a long time, but I’m not as into it as I used to be. If Montana weren’t on the team, I’d probably have quit by now. But you . . . I’ve got a good feeling about you and the summer workshop.”

  My stomach twists as I imagine checking Instagram every day for photos of Peter and Chase and #bandbffs hashtags. I remind myself I have a world he’s not part of too. Natural. This is natural.

  “Yeah.” I swallow. “Fingers crossed.”

  “I want to hear all about it. You’ll text me, right?”

  Liz . . . wants me to text her this summer? I guess I assumed our friendship or whatever it is expires in June, when we graduate.

  So I blurt it out: “Why are you guys friends with me? You and Montana?” When she raises her eyebrows, I backtrack. “I mean . . . what do you get out of it?” God, I’m sweating now. Why did I ask that? I don’t need my insecurities validated, don’t need Liz to tell me it’s because they feel sorry for me. I’ve never done anything to indicate I’d be a decent friend. I don’t crack jokes; I don’t have insight to add to a conversation. I’m only like that around Peter.

  Full of regret, I shrink back into my chair as Liz gapes at me.

  “What do we get out of it?” Liz repeats. “We like you? We don’t have to get anything out of it. It’s not, like, a transaction.”

  My voice is small. “I thought you felt sorry for me? Or you wanted someone to come with you to this signing because Montana didn’t want to?”

  “Sophie!” Liz almost sounds offended. “No. You’re our friend. You’re interesting, okay? You’re fun. That conversation we had in the car on the way over, about what Nadiya’s life in exile might have been like? I’ve never been able to talk to anyone else about things like that. And what you did on the phone in the hotel? Hilarious. Montana thinks your routine is brilliant, and . . . Have I inflated your ego enough, or should I keep going?”

  I laugh, not entirely used to the warmth spreading through me. I want so badly to believe her. “I—I think that’s good. It feels pretty inflated.”

  She shakes my shoulder. “Seriously. I’m so glad we got to know you better this year. I couldn’t handle being alone in my Queens fandom any longer.”

  And I want to be the best version of Sophie even when I’m not with Peter—someone as bright as the person he sees.

  Emi Miyoshi’s talk is spoiler-free and wonderfully tantalizing; by the end of it, I’m already dying to start the latest book on audio. She’s dressed like Liz—well, like a lot of the girls and some of the guys here—in a floor-length dress, feathered cape, and purple-black lipstick. After reading a few pages from her upcoming book, the first in a new s
eries, she takes questions from the audience. Liz raises her hand but doesn’t get called on, and I can tell she’s not letting on how disappointed she is.

  We make our way into the signing line, Liz lugging her tote bag and a couple new paperbacks, though she already has the hardcovers. When it’s our turn, Liz rolls up her sleeve and shows Emi the tattoo she got that represents the ruling family from the book.

  Emi gasps and drags Liz’s arm closer. “This is excellent. Are you serious? I’ve never seen anyone get ink from one of my books! Can I take a picture and tweet it out?”

  “Um, yes,” Liz squeals, beaming as Emi snaps a photo. They chat about some lingering questions at the end of the series, which I try to tune out since I’m not there yet, and Emi signs every one of Liz’s books with a purple pen.

  When I pass my book to her, I do so with an awkward hello. Emi is the most famous person I’ve ever met, and I’m suddenly much shyer than usual.

  “Who should I make it out to?” she asks.

  I’m about to say Peter—I’d planned to surprise him with an autographed copy. But after my conversation with Liz, I’m not so sure.

  “Sophie,” I say, and it feels right. “S-O-P-H-I-E. Thank you so much.”

  Afterward, Liz and I browse the aisles, cracking up at books in the humor section and talking about how nice Emi was—“She’s so famous, she doesn’t have to be that nice, but she is”—and how amazing she looked.

  “This was so fun,” Liz says as we get into her car. “Even though, you know, I didn’t get anything out of it.”

  I whack her with my copy of Queens. “Oh my God, stop. I get it. You like me, for some inexplicable reason.” Liz raises her eyebrows. I roll my eyes and lay on the sarcasm: “Fine, you like me because I am a source of never-ending joy.”

  She hugs me. “I do,” she says, “and you are.”

  It’s past ten when I get home. The light in Peter’s room across the street was off, but my house hasn’t gone to sleep yet. Tabby and Josh are in the kitchen yelling at each other. Luna’s in her high chair, wailing, and Tabby’s still in her waitress uniform, a syrup-and-ketchup-stained apron tied around her waist.

  I’m frozen in the hallway for a few moments, wondering if I should disappear into my room or attempt to intervene. Old Sophie would have disappeared for sure. But now . . .

  “What have you sacrificed, Josh?” Tabby’s saying, sounding unlike I’ve ever heard her. Her tone of voice—the frantic desperation in it—cuts at something deep inside me.

  “You think I haven’t sacrificed anything?” Josh says. “I haven’t exactly had a normal high school life either. I can always tell when someone’s been talking about me. The room goes quiet as soon as I walk into it. You know how often that happens, Tab? Every single day.”

  Tabby scoffs. “I’m sorry being in school is so hard for you.”

  “You’re the one who decided online classes were the better choice so you could have a more flexible schedule.”

  They don’t fight like this. They never fight like this. Of course I didn’t assume their relationship was perfect, but I never imagined either of them had lungs like this. I glance between the darkened staircase and the scene in the kitchen.

  “And have you ever heard me complain?”

  A squeaky floorboard makes my decision for me. Tabby’s and Josh’s heads whip my way.

  “Sophie,” Tabby says, and as I inch closer, I notice how red her face is. “We didn’t hear you.”

  “Sorry. I just got back. Where are Mom and Dad?”

  “Out with Peter’s parents,” Tabby says.

  “I’m going to take a walk.” Josh breezes right by me into the hallway, where he grabs his coat. “I gotta cool down.”

  “We’re not done here.” Tabby stalks toward him, Luna still crying. “Josh. Josh. Don’t you dare leave right now.”

  It’s only then, with Josh on his way out the door, that reality dawns: They could break up. Though I complain about Josh being here all the time, he’s become as much a fixture in my life as Luna.

  “Sophie,” Tabby says, halfway into her own coat. “Can you put Luna to bed? I have to go talk to him.”

  “Yeah,” I say, though I’m frozen in the kitchen. “Go. Go. Do what you need to do.”

  The front door slams once, twice, and then I’m left with my niece again. I make myself spring to life because this small human needs me.

  “Hey, baby girl,” I say, slightly more at ease with her now. When I told Tabby that Luna had eaten a piece of chalk, she was much calmer than I expected. She said I did exactly what she would have done, that it could have happened to anyone, and to call her next time. I take Luna upstairs to her room, where we read her favorite book over and over. My parents come home, but Tabby and Josh don’t. I rock her for a while and then gently lay her in her crib and turn on the baby monitor, which I take into my room.

  My phone lights up with an event invite as I collapse into bed. Montana’s having a dance team sleepover next weekend—on the same night as Peter’s band’s first show.

  It hits me hard that I’d much rather go to Montana’s.

  If I went to the party, would Peter be upset I missed his first show? He’ll have other shows, right? And . . . it’s not like he’d be able to see me in the audience. I can barely pick people out of a crowd when I’m performing.

  I’ve got to figure out how to stop this. How to fall out of love with him, how to unbind us when what I’ve done has connected us for years to come. Because this is what part of me, an awful part, still hopes: that if I give him enough time, Peter will realize I’m worth a relationship, worth giving a chance. That he barely knows Chase and I am the one who’s always been here for him. That the connection to him I feel, the one that vibrates beneath my skin when he’s near me, isn’t one-sided.

  And I can’t put that sliver of a chance in jeopardy.

  There’s no real choice to make. Peter comes first. That’s how it’s always been.

  Peter is running toward the things he loves. I’m not sure why it sometimes feels like I’m running away from mine.

  As I hit NO on the RSVP to Montana’s sleepover, I lie back down on my bed. It takes a lot of energy to love someone this much without being loved back the way you want. It drains you.

  I have never felt quite this drained before.

  I’m putting on pajamas when I hear the front door open and shut, followed by footsteps coming up the stairs. Then there are the soft sounds of Tabby crying as she checks on her baby across the hall, then turns to face my door.

  I’ve already opened it for her.

  “Hey,” she says, her voice cracking the word in two. “Can I—”

  I wave her inside. In the light, her face is blotchy, and I can tell she’s trying to hold it together.

  “Tabby,” I say, and wrap my arms around her. Her body relaxes into mine, shoulders heaving. I pull her onto the bed with me.

  “I am such a mess.” She inhales deeply, reaching around me for the box of tissues on my nightstand.

  “Did you—did you guys—” I can’t even get out the question.

  “Did we what?” Her eyes grow large as she realizes what I meant. “Did we break up? No! No, we’re okay. Or . . . we will be.”

  “Do you . . . want to talk about it?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Not right now. Could we just . . . watch something stupid and mindless? Or talk about literally anything else?”

  I bring my laptop onto the bed with us. “There’s a new season of The Bachelor.”

  “Perfect.”

  We watch together for a while—an episode, then two, of contestants accusing each other of being there for the wrong reasons. I wish I could more easily slip into an older-sister role, give Tabby the comfort she needs.

  But maybe this is exactly what she needs right now: someone next to her.

  Me next to her.

  CHAPTER 28

  PETER

  “WHEN WE GET FAMOUS,” KAT says as she d
abs glitter onto her eyelids, “we should have ridiculous preshow requests.”

  Chase glances up from his guitar. “Like Van Halen and the brown M&M’s?”

  We’re in the green room at the Blaze, a teen center converted from an old firehouse. Everyone has their own warm-up rituals: Dylan is tuning his bass, Chase is playing some warm-up exercises, Kat is applying meticulous makeup, and Aziza is in the corner, sharing earbuds with Bette. She gets terrible stage fright, and listening to thrash metal, somehow, is the only thing that calms her down.

  Given that it’s my first show, I’m not sure what my ritual is yet. Before piano recitals, I usually tinkered with my phone or attempted small talk with the other kids. But this is different. There’s a whole audience out there who paid five bucks to see us, not just parents waiting for their kids to bang out “Heart and Soul.”

  “Exactly like Van Halen and the brown M&M’s,” Kat says.

  “Brown M&M’s?” I repeat.

  Kat stows her pot of glitter and reaches for a tube of lipstick. “Van Halen specified in their concert rider that they wanted a bowl of M&M’s with all the brown ones removed.”

  “It was actually a smart business move,” Chase continues, “because they had this elaborate stage setup. So if they got backstage and saw brown M&M’s in the bowl, they knew the venue hadn’t paid attention to the contract and would have to double-check all their lighting and everything.”

  “Does anyone have M&M’s? I want some,” Dylan says, and Kat rolls her eyes.

  “Knock-knock,” comes a quiet voice from the doorway. Sophie, wearing tight black pants, a black sweater, and a swipe of dark red lipstick. All dressed up for my first show. She holds up a water bottle. “Peter, I brought you this. In case you need it onstage?”

  “Thanks,” I say, accepting it.

  There are no free chairs, so she leans against my keyboard amp. We rode over with Chase. When we got here and I explained to the band that Sophie had known me forever, Kat asked immediately if she had any embarrassing stories about me as a kid. Sophie blushed. “So many,” she said, and it made me happy, seeing her gain a bit of confidence with my new friends, “but my allegiance is to Peter. I’m sorry.” My bandmates groaned, and I grinned at her, liking her here with us so, so much and unsure why it took so long for this to happen.