Our Year of Maybe

“Let’s see how she feels in the morning,” my dad says.

A deep sigh. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. She was much too young to make this kind of decision.”

I spring to a sitting position, ignoring the flash of pain that for a split second agrees with my mom. “Are you serious?”

My parents rush into the living room. “Sophie?” my dad says.

I shake my head. “How can you talk about being too young to make this decision after what happened with Tabby? Where was all this concern when she got pregnant?”

At this, my mama-bear sister turns ferocious. Josh, who’s been tidying up the hallway, pokes his head into the living room. Sometimes I forget he doesn’t live here. Which is something I feel like I shouldn’t forget.

“You think they weren’t concerned?” Tabby says. “Maybe you were too wrapped up in Peter to realize it was a big deal—”

“Really? Because it seems like it isn’t a big deal at all. It seems like you still have a completely normal life.”

Tabby spits out a laugh. I haven’t seen her like this . . . well, ever. “What Josh and I are doing is extremely hard.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Tabitha . . .”

&nb

sp; “I’m sorry having a baby at sixteen wasn’t the stroll through the park you hoped for.”

I know it’s terrible as soon as I say it. No one ever asked what I wanted. If I wanted to share my space with a newborn who would make studying and sleeping impossible. If I wanted Josh, as much as I like him, to be here all the freaking time. It’s incredible how one tiny human can change so much.

My parents act like we’re this big wacky family. I’m the one who did a selfless thing, and all they have for me is judgment and, tonight, pity. But as sisters tend to do when they’re acting like brats, I said something I thought would shift the attention to Tabby. I needed my parents to stop saying the transplant was a mistake—so the microscopic part of me that wondered if they were right would be quiet.

Tabby’s face is red, her eyebrows slanted. Luna lets out a piercing wail. “Shh, shh, ladybug, I’m so sorry,” Tabby coos, patting Luna’s back the way she patted mine.

“Girls,” my dad says softly, barely able to be heard over Luna. “Sophie, Tabby has nothing to do with this.”

“Right. Because Tabby can do no wrong.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I do not regret what I did for Peter.” I get to my feet. Luna’s crying has reached ear-shattering decibels. “God, Tabby, can’t you get her to stop?”

“Does it not look like I’m trying?”

“Girls!” Mom says this time, her voice louder than Dad’s was. “Please. We’re all on edge right now, so if everyone could calm down—”

“I’ll calm down in my room,” I say, yanking the heating pad from the wall outlet.

Upstairs, I turn on my laptop. According to WebMD, I’m either dying or totally fine. The kidney transplant sites tell me this kind of pain is rare but not entirely unheard of after a transplant, which I know already. Still, it helps me relax a little.

I clutch the bracelet on my wrist, sigh, release my grip. Something about its presence, and those two tiny charms, soothes me. My room is nothing like Peter’s, but I wouldn’t exactly call it messy. Sure, there are clothes on the floor, draped over the back of my desk chair, under my bed. But my desk area is clutter free—I can’t focus if it isn’t—with a giant whiteboard mounted on the wall next to cutouts from the Twyla Tharp calendar Peter got me years ago, an array of folders to organize my assignments, the rainbow pens I use to mark up my notes.

My teachers let me record their lectures because I have a lot of trouble listening and taking notes at the same time. I sort the past week’s audio files into folders on my computer. Then I download an audiobook for English and curl up in bed with my headphones and heating pad and imagine Peter next to me, warm and solid. His hand on my back, tracing the ridges of my spine. I don’t always think about kissing him. Sometimes it’s enough to imagine him holding me.

I dance my thumb along his name in my phone, though if I really wanted to see him, I could go across the street. Right now putting on a coat, slipping into shoes, walking seems like too much effort. The lights are off in his room anyway.

Playing with him always feels incredible. But tonight was different, maybe because it had been so long or because I was keenly aware of the scars connecting us. This time when we played, we had more in common than we ever had before. Instead of feeling like the surgeons stole a part of me and gave it to Peter, it feels like that missing piece stitched us closer together.

I wonder if he felt—feels—it too.

When my feelings for him changed, it wasn’t because of a singular romantic moment between us. It was gradual, a side effect of the music we made and the hours we spent together. I started noticing how cute his smile was, how much I liked his eyes, the warmth that flooded my body when we hugged or leaned against each other while watching a movie. When I made him laugh, something deep inside me rumbled along with him. Something that said, Do that again.

After his declaration of love, the one in hindsight I wish I could have returned, Peter went out of his way to ensure I knew he didn’t feel that way anymore. I don’t think we hugged for a full month. So I decided I’d wait for a sign. The problem is, anything can be a sign if I wish hard enough.