Our Year of Maybe

Over the years, it gradually dawned on me that if he didn’t get off the transplant list, he might die. And I would lose not only my best friend, but someone I was starting to love in a completely different way. That was when I vowed that if there was any chance I could help him, I had to try.

At dinner, I was surprised by his sudden interest in Judaism. I wear my Star of David necklace every day, the one my parents gave me for my bat mitzvah, but to me it’s more a symbol of belonging to something than a statement of religious devotion. Plus, my dyslexia made my Torah portion really freaking hard, so this necklace is sort of a reminder that I did it.

To me, “being Jewish” isn’t the same as “practicing Judaism.” I’m pretty sure there’s a difference, that I can feel part of something, that I can like that it makes me unique even if I don’t like going to temple. I’m Sophie Rose Orenstein and I have red hair and freckles and I dance and I’m Jewish. It feels like a defining quality, though it’s not the only quality that defines me.

Someone knocks on my door. I’m positive it’s one of my parents, so I’m surprised when Tabby enters.

“Luna’s asleep,” she says quietly, “and Josh went home. Can I come in?”

“You mean he doesn’t live here?”

Tabby lifts her eyebrows.

I dial back the bitchiness. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Yeah. It was.” She steps inside, fidgeting with her hair. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you.”

“You’re suddenly so smart?”

“I’ve always been smart.”

It’s true. Tabby was seven months pregnant when she took the SAT. She scored in the ninety-eighth percentile.

My bed creaks as Tabby sits down. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Me too,” I grit out. If she can be mature, I can too. “I . . . didn’t mean to take that out on you. You’re a good mom.”

“Thanks. What you did was amazing. Complicated, but amazing. And . . . I know the way you look at Peter. I see what’s there.”

“You don’t—” I shake my head. “There’s nothing there.”

“Remember when I said I’ve always been smart?” She taps her temple. “Does he know?”

“I don’t think so.” I take a deep breath—and then I let her in. “I’ve been hiding it for the past three years. Gahhh, it feels like I’ve been suffering forever.” I mash a pillow over my head and groan into it.

“Oh my God, that long?”

I nod. We are sisters sharing secrets. The kind of sisters we’ve never really been.

“Why haven’t you said anything? Done anything?”

“It never felt like the right time, I guess. And now, with the transplant . . . I don’t want him to feel like he owes me, or something.” I want him to love me because he wants to, not because he feels like he has to. “I never told you this, but . . . we kissed once.”

Tabby’s eyes widen. “You did? Shit, when?”

I have to laugh because this new Mama Tabby doesn’t swear nearly as much as she used to. As though a one-year-old would pick up on it. “Yeah. A few years ago. We were sort of . . . experimenting.”

It was my perfect first kiss with Peter. Tentative and sweet and searching. It was full of curiosity, each of us wanting to know what it felt like to press your mouth to another person’s. I’ve thought about our perfect second kiss a hundred, a thousand times, and all that matters to me is that it lasts longer than the first.

“He might be waiting for you to say something. To make a move. What would be the worst-case scenario?”

“He doesn’t like me back.”

“And then what? You’re still best friends. The awkwardness would go away after a while, right?”

I want to believe that it wouldn’t be gutting to learn he doesn’t feel the same way. That’s why uncertainty is so safe: I can wrap myself in this potentially unrequited love and never risk getting shut down.

And as much as I hate to admit it, Tabby knows significantly more about romantic relationships than I do. I wonder what it would’ve been like if she’d confided in me about Josh when they started dating. If, when she got pregnant, I’d been a confidante as opposed to a mess of confusion and shock.