Our Year of Maybe

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.