Our Year of Maybe

“We won’t judge,” Becki insists. “We love seeing the two of you doing your creative thing.”

“We should do it,” I say to Sophie.

She twists her mouth to one side of her face, then appears to give in. “We could do that piece you wrote last year. ‘Starlight’?”

“Yeah, I love that one.”

We move into the living room. Our families take seats on the couch and chairs, and Sophie removes her shoes and socks so she can dance barefoot on our hardwood floor. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversize gray sweatshirt, which she also takes off, revealing a blue tank top and freckled shoulders.

I slide onto the piano bench and play a few C scales to warm up.

“Play ‘Free Bird’!” Josh calls from the couch. I pivot to see Tabby elbowing him.

“Ready?” Sophie asks.

I give her a brief nod. This song starts at the low end of the piano and slowly works its way up. I wanted it to sound like nighttime, stars gradually appearing and making the dark seem less hopeless. I sink into the first ominous chords, and Sophie takes her place on the floor in a child’s pose. Slowly her body comes to life, though I only see her out of the corner of my eye: arms, legs, a flash of red hair.

It probably sounds cliché to say that the rest of the world falls away when I’m playing piano, but I swear that’s how it feels. I started piano lessons when I was eight; my parents heard me humming to myself constantly and figured I might be a musical person. My hands know these keys. When I’m at the piano, I have eighty-eight keys and three pedals to create an infinite number of sounds. It’s a special kind of power.

And yet—even when I’m inside the song like this, it’s hard not to be aware of her presence, her movements, her breaths.

I may not understand dance, but I do understand music, and I’ve always loved watching Sophie. Not in a gross way like I’m leering at her body or anything. It’s deeper: two artists connecting. It’s impossible to watch someone do what they love and not feel something, and what I feel for Sophie in this moment is pure and true. A familiar longing.

We finish “Starlight,” and then I grin at Sophie and start banging out a louder, more animated song. We haven’t played this one in a couple years at least, but I’ve always liked it. Once we hit high school, our art became moodier. Less naive. She laugh-groans, but then, as though remembering the choreography she made up so long ago, busts out hip-hop moves that make her sister double over, cracking up.

After another couple songs leave us sweaty and breathless and smiling from ear to ear, I beckon Sophie over to me and link my hand with hers. Together, we take a bow as our parents give us a standing ovation.

“We really do need to do this more often,” Sophie’s mom says again. Sophie’s eyes meet mine, still blazing with the rush of our performance, her cheeks pink, and I think, Yes, we do.

CHAPTER 9

SOPHIE

I’M OPENING THE DOOR TO our house after dinner with Peter’s family when a sudden pain bites through my scar. It’s so strong and unexpected that I gasp out loud, bracing myself against the door to keep from falling.

“Soph?” Tabby says, passing Luna to Josh as she jogs over to me. Our parents are still crossing the street. “Soph, are you okay?”

My sister’s voice is filled with a worry I’m not used to hearing. I’ve activated Mom Mode.

“Yeah. Just—a second.” I breathe deeply, clutching my abdomen.

Tabby moves my hair out of the way to rub the back of my neck. If I weren’t in pain, I’d push her away. It’s strange for my younger sister to be fussing over me like this.

“Should we go to the hospital?”

“No! No. It—it’s not that serious.” It can’t be that serious. We talked through all the risks with the doctors, like how some donors experience new sensitivity to extreme temperatures. I knew occasional pain at the incision site was possible, though rare. What I was doing for Peter felt more important. A few weeks of discomfort and then I’d be fine. That’s what I said to convince myself.

My parents have reached us now. “Soph, what’s going on?” my dad asks. He and my mom wear twin worried expressions I grew up seeing etched onto Peter’s parents’ faces.

Tabby motions to Josh to take Luna inside. “She’s in pain,” Tabby says, continuing to rub my upper back in a way that’s oddly comforting. She doesn’t have to add but does anyway: “The transplant.”

My parents help me inside and park me on the couch with a heating pad, a glass of water, and a bottle of ibuprofen. Tabby sits in the armchair next to me, rocking Luna to sleep. Watching me.

“We should have spent more time discussing it before she went through with it,” my mom says to my dad in the kitchen, loud enough for me to hear.

“I’m eighteen,” I mumble. “My body . . .” But I trail off, realizing they probably can’t hear me. Instead I close my eyes and burrow deeper into the couch.

“Should we take her to the doctor or wait until tomorrow?” my mom continues. “See if she feels better in the morning?”