Our Year of Maybe

I hurl the ball against the wall. “I have built my entire life around you,” I snarl at him. “You’ve been everything to me, and what you’re doing, breaking up with me before we even had a real chance? You make me feel like dirt.” I grab another ball. “You don’t text me back. Your new friends are more important than any of the traditions we ever had. You couldn’t bring yourself to come to another one of my games. How many of your piano recitals did I go to, Peter?”

He mumbles something.

“What was that?”

“I said a lot.” He pulls a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. Those friends—I felt like they unders

tood me in a different way. I wasn’t the sick kid with them.”

“You weren’t the sick kid with me.”

“But I was. That’s all you’ve ever known me as.”

The janitor is still watching us.

“Are we entertaining enough for you?” I ask him, and he turns around quickly, returns to dragging a broom across the gym floor. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Even as the words tumble out, I feel guilty for snapping at him, but this anger in my veins is too addictive. Peter looks stunned by it too. He is the one backing away from me now. I stare him down, this beautiful, tormented boy who let me convince myself he was the only one who mattered.

“Our relationship has always been about you,” I say, trying to keep my voice level even as my eyes threaten to spill over. “And now I thought it could be about us.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

I’ve never verbalized this before. But it’s how I’ve felt, isn’t it? “Growing up. It was always about what you wanted. We always played your games, watched your movies, listened to your music. You were the one with the shitty luck, so you deserved everything you wanted. I never had a say. I never complained.”

He blinks at me like I’ve dug my fingers into his skin and ripped out what I gave him. “Of course you had a say.”

“It didn’t feel like it.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to listen to your fucking music, Sophie.” A bitter laugh. “Is that what this is about? You can’t possibly be that petty.” He walks toward the closet and grabs a ball too. In an alternate universe, Peter and I are playing dodgeball and having an absolute blast.

“Oh yeah, that’s exactly it,” I tell him. I can lay on the sarcasm just as thickly. We’re circling each other now, each clutching a ball. I know we don’t actually mean to throw them at each other, but I can’t help wondering if Peter wishes he could. Because, God, I do. “If we’d only listened to less Rufus Wainwright, we wouldn’t be here right now!”

Peter’s jaw goes slack, eyeing me like I’m feral. Like I will bite him and give him rabies. Then I will need a medical ID bracelet that says RABID ANIMAL. STAY AWAY!

Bounce. “I always forget that you’re older than me,” he says. “Probably because you can’t seem to grow up.”

How long has this venom been inside us? Snakes, both of us.

“You want to know what the most fucked-up part is?” I fire at him, feeling a tear roll down my cheek, then another. “The pain I’m in? It’s worth it. I’d give you my other kidney if I could. I’ve seen you struggle my whole life, and I’d take all your pain away from you in a heartbeat. You’re selfish, and you’re spoiled, and you drain the energy from everyone around you, but I’d still do it again.”

His face twists with hurt. “How was I selfish? I was sick!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” A shaky breath. Clenched teeth. “You said we can’t be together? Fine. We’re not together. We’re not anything. I can’t have you in my life anymore.” I try to swallow, but the words are razor blades in my throat. “I just—I hate who I am when I’m with you.”

And there it is: Aside from this preemptive breakup, it’s not any single thing Peter did to me. No massive transgression, just a hundred little reminders that he’s in charge of us. It’s the walls slowly closing in on me, trapping me in my obsession. It’s that I’ve clung to him so tightly that I’ve lost myself.

The ugly sentence lingers in the space between us, a poisonous plume of smoke.

I don’t take it back.

Because I meant for it to choke him.

“Sophie—”

“No. I am not letting you get the last fucking word.”

I smash the ball right at his feet, and then I pivot and dash toward the door, my shoes squeaking across the gym floor. The janitor has either witnessed a dozen fights like this or is trying very hard not to act like he didn’t just see us crumble to pieces.