Our Year of Maybe

Aziza thumps the table. “The name stays!”

This entire afternoon is so strange and fantastic. In the past, I always envied groups like this, who were loud in public and laughed too much.

Now I’m too loud. I laugh too much.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sophie, and for a second I’m convinced Tabby told her I was here and she’s going to demand to know why I’m at the Early Bird and who I’m with.

God I’m so nervous. I’m teaching my song to the team tomorrow. Say something to reassure me I won’t make a tremendous ass of myself?

“So, tell us more about you, Peter,” Aziza says before I can answer Sophie’s text. My fingers itch for my phone’s keyboard. Sophie needs me right now, but everyone’s waiting for an answer.

It occurs to me I could mention my medical history, that before this year, that would have felt like my primary defining feature. But it isn’t now, and really, it wasn’t back then, either. “Well . . . I’m a huge book nerd. I have a pet chinchilla. And . . . I can’t roll my tongue?”

Dylan asks to see a picture of Mark—of course I have at least a hundred on my phone—and the others prove to me how unusual it is not to be able to roll your tongue by doing exactly that.

“I’m majoring in English,” Kat says. “Who’s your favorite author?”

“You realize that’s like asking someone who their favorite musician is.”

“Hole.” Kat doesn’t miss a beat. “And Janet Fitch.”

“Rufus Wainwright. And . . . is it cliché to say Salinger?”

Kat pinches her forehead and groans. “Oh God, you and every other teenage guy who thinks they’re Holden Caulfield.”

“I am not Holden Caulfield. Besides, I like his short stories a lot better than—”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Kat says with a wave of her hand.

When everyone’s immersed in a conversation about whether Pearl Jam is overrated or not, I surreptitiously pull out my phone to text Sophie back.

God I’m so nervous. I’m teaching my song to the team tomorrow. Say something to reassure me I won’t make a tremendous ass of myself?

Like, literally anything.

Peter??

The desperation of those double question marks is what gets me. I should have told the band I had to go to the bathroom, given Sophie the reassurance she needed. She gave me a kidney, and I couldn’t text her back? Feeling guilty, I thumb back a few messages, one after the other:

I am SO sorry.

Phone was off

You’ll be GREAT. I have zero doubts.

The band feels too new to tell her about yet. I want them to be solely mine for a while longer.

Her reply comes back right away. Thanks.

There’s something about the finality of that period. There’s a sadness to it. Maybe my response isn’t what Sophie wanted, or it didn’t sound genuine, even though I meant it. Or it wasn’t enough to make up for my silence. Punctuation is really messing with me today.

Beneath the table, Chase’s shoe taps mine again.

And stays there.

A spark shoots up my spine, and my entire body feels warm. I take a huge sip of ice water in an attempt to cool down.

“Something wrong?” Chase asks me, grinning. Subtly he runs his shoe along mine.