Our Year of Maybe

“It’s optional, of course, but it’s not too pricey and seems like a great experience.” Montana opens her bag. “I’ve got permission slips! We need your parents to sign to make sure the school’s not liable if someone does something stupid. Which none of you are going to do.” She raises her eyebrows at this, and everyone shakes their heads no.

A weekend away from Peter. It shouldn’t be a huge deal, especially since I’ve been dancing so much with Montana and Liz lately, and he’s been hanging out with a couple of new mysterious friends, who I’m sure I’ll meet soon. In fact, I’ll ask him about them tonight when I see him.

If I can’t handle a weekend, how could I handle eight weeks?

As the team disperses, Montana and Liz congratulate me on today’s practice. Honestly, they are both still a bit of a mystery to me. Last year I thought they were intimidating, these cool girls who were somehow actually my age but so much more put together. The worry that churns in my stomach is this: I’m not sure what they get out of our relationship. The satisfaction of mentoring a shy choreographer? That cannot be it. They’ve given me so much, but I’ve given them absolutely nothing in return.

“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask in the locker room. Practice loosened me up.

Montana and Liz exchange a sweet look. “It’s our one-year anniversary,” Liz says. “We’re going to this Italian restaurant downtown that has acrobats perform while you eat.”

“Wow. Happy anniversary!”

“Hard to believe she’s put up with my bossiness for this long.” Montana slings her arm around Liz.

“I love your bossiness. I love all of you.”

My heart twinges. Their declaration of love is so clear, so confident.

“What about you?” Montana asks. “Any plans with your love interest?”

“Love interest,” I repeat. It would be funny if it weren’t heartbreaking. “Yeah, I mean, we’re neighbors. It would be weird if we didn’t spend the weekend together.”

“Have fun,” Liz says. And then she ropes me in for a hug. It’s so surprising that at first I flinch, unsure what’s happening. “I’m hugging you! Christ, you’re skittish.”

So I hug her back. And then I hug Montana, which is equally strange—they’re both so much taller than I am that it feels a little like hugging my mom—and yet I can’t stop smiling as I head for my car.

“Okay, so I have a million things to tell you,” I say to Peter, all in one breath. I drop my bag next to me in the booth at a divey Mexican restaurant called Dos Sombreros.

“Me too.” He dunks a chip into tomatillo salsa. “Their salsa is the best.”

“I have dreams about this salsa. Why would anyone have red salsa when green salsa is a thing that exists in this world?”

We’re quiet for a minute as we shove chips into our mouths. Then Peter says, “Tell me your news first, because you look a little like you might explode if not.”

“Okay. Okay. Well, first of all, I taught my song to the dance team today and . . . da-da-da, it didn’t suck! They actually really liked it.”

Peter claps. Like, actually claps. It’s adorable. I notice he must have gotten a haircut this week. It makes him look older.

“That’s so great, Soph. I’m happy for you.”

A server comes by, and we order tacos. Then we both reach for the last chip, and our hands tangle in the basket. I’m not sure who pulls back faster.

It’s this kind of thing that makes me anxious we might not be able to get back what we used to have, makes me wonder if this is what we are now: two people uncomfortable with even an accidental touch. We used to knock shoulders and brush arms constantly. We didn’t think twice about it. But now every touch feels like it means something. I worry he’ll read into it when all I want is for him to stop looking at me like he’s worried I’m going to spill my emotions at any moment.

He loved me once, though, the middle school version of love.

“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure I am.

“It’s fine,” he mumbles. He pushes the basket toward me. “Take it.”

“They’ll bring more,” I say as I swipe the last chip, dip it in salsa, and chew it slowly. Peter waits.

“So that was thing one out of a million?” he asks.

I swallow, wash down the spicy salsa with a gulp of water. “I have two more.” I mention the upcoming weekend dance intensive, building up to my biggest announcement: the workshop I haven’t told him about yet. “Montana told me about this choreography workshop this summer. It’s . . . it’s eight weeks long, though.” Eight weeks I’d be away from you, I think, and hope he hears the subtext.

“Eight weeks. Wow. In