Our Year of Maybe

“Sometimes,” she says. “Sometimes later. Sometimes it lasts a long time. That’s what they said. There haven’t been a ton of studies done about chronic pain in organ donors yet.”

“A long time as in the rest of your life?”

She doesn’t say anything.

Someone knocks on the green room door. “Diamonds Are Forever?”

“For Never,” Dylan corrects.

“Right. You guys are up in five.”

“We should head out there,” Aziza says, but I don’t budge. To me, she adds: “You . . . want me to help you with your amp?” Her kit’s already assembled behind the stage. Everyone else grabs their instruments.

Sophie is not okay, and it’s my fucking fault. How can I go out there and play “Precipitation” and “Bad Ideas” knowing she’s back here suffering?

“Peter,” Sophie says softly, as though reading my mind. “You have to go.”

“Give me a couple minutes,” I tell the band.

“Okay.” Kat offers Sophie a sympathetic smile. “I hope you feel better.”

Everyone leaves but Chase, Sophie, and me. Three statues in a tiny room. Chase is still standing, guitar slung low across his chest, staring down at us as he turns a pick over and over in one hand.

Sophie breaks the silence. “I—I think I’ll take an Uber home.” The pain makes her stammer. Twists my heart. “I really want to hear you guys, but—”

“We’ll have other shows,” I say, but my voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. “I’ll come home right after.”

“She’s going to be fine,” Chase says, and maybe it’s meant to be reassuring, gentle, but I detect an undeniable thread of annoyance. “We’re only going to be out there for half an hour, tops.”

Half an hour, and then I can rush home to her. Okay.

I stand and hold out my hands to help her up. As I pull her to her feet, she gasps, collapsing against me, and I only just barely manage to keep her from falling to the floor.

“Sophie!”

“It’s—fine,” she grits out, grabbing at her abdomen, but it’s so clearly not. She doesn’t have to put on a mask with me. She needs someone to help her outside, to sit in the car with her, to make sure she gets home okay.

I can’t leave her. And despite that my band is waiting for me, I don’t want to leave her either.

Over the top of her head, I flick my gaze over to Chase. “I can’t go. Onstage, I mean. You’re”—I swallow—“you’re going to have to play without me.”

Chase’s shoulders rise and fall. His eyes move between Sophie and me, and then he nods once, as though suddenly understanding something. It makes my stomach drop to my toes because that is not what this is. He can’t even see it. Can’t tell the difference between what this is and what it isn’t.

“We played without a keyboard before,” Chase says. “I guess we can do it again.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Sophie and me alone in the green room, pressed up against my keyboard amp that won’t be amplifying any keyboards tonight.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie’s saying as she slides back down to the floor, and I join her there. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey.” I touch her knee. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

The sounds of stage setup echo back to us: the beats of a bass drum, a guitar lick from Chase. I can’t hear them introduce themselves, but I imagine it: We’re Diamonds Are for Never, and we were always meant to have only four people!

Then the opening chords of our cover of “This Is Radio Clash.” Their cover. My chest aches with longing, though I’m confident I made the right choice. I’m here with Sophie, who gave me more than anyone ever could.

“I’ll get an Uber,” I say. “If you think you can make it out there?”

“I might need a few minutes.” She pauses, and then: “Could you maybe just call my dad? That way you could stay here, and I don’t have to ruin your entire night.”