Our Year of Maybe

“Well, as nerd club president, I can tell you exactly what they do. They’re basically like trash collectors. That’s how my doctors explained it to me when I was younger and was having trouble understanding what was going on. They process blood and sort out waste products and water . . . which become urine.” I wince. I’ve become so desensitized that I forget sometimes that pee is not a normal conversation topic.

But Chase doesn’t flinch. “I was such a little nightmare whenever I had a cold. I’d throw tantrums about not wanting to go to school.”

“If I had so much as a 98.7-degree temperature, we were probably already on our way to the hospital.”

“I’m glad you’re better now,” he says, his eyes heavy on mine.

The words linger between us as the lights go dark, and I shift my attention to the ceiling, my heart hammering in my chest. My mind turns over his words, trying to figure out if they mean something beyond the fact that he’s happy I’m not dead. There are a lot of reasons you can be happy someone isn’t dead, like that you’re a decent human being.

Or those words, his gaze, his shoe against mine mean something else entirely.

The brightly colored lasers dance along the ceiling. I can hear Chase humming the guitar licks along with the album and softly singing some of the lyrics off-key. The music is alternately experimental and peaceful, and sometimes quiet and full of longing. It’s so easy to lose myself in it. At some point during the evening, one or maybe both of us shift so our legs, not just our shoes, are touching, which ignites a very pleasant fire in my belly.

I loved the Beatles before, but now I love the Beatles.

It’s nearly midnight when Chase drives me home. We’re in the middle of this game where we play a song and then hard-core judge the other person if they don’t know the band. He gets me on Pink Floyd.

“You’re a musician and you don’t know Pink Floyd?” he asks, incredulous, spiking the volume of his car speakers. “This is unacceptable.”

“I know of them,” I insist. “I just . . . wouldn’t be able to name any of their songs.”

He scoffs. “Doesn’t count. Listen. They’re so inventive. No one was doing this kind of stuff back then.”

We drive for a while, over bridges and beneath trees, Pink Floyd serenading us.

“I’d never done anything like this before tonight,” I tell him when the song changes. “I think I missed out on a lot. And not just because I was sick—or maybe I used that as a crutch, because I was sick and my parents were overprotective. Until a few weeks ago, I’d never been to a party. I’ve never gone to a high school dance, and I’ve never gone on a date.”

“Poor, stunted Peter,” he says, shaking his head. His golden-brown hair falls in his face, and he shoves it away. “Wait. You and Sophie haven’t ever dated?”

“We’re best friends,” I say, which doesn’t answer his question. “Friends” barely seems to encompass what we are. There has to be a word deeper than “friend” and more personal than “donor” to describe someone who has given you a kidney. “But, uh, no. We haven’t dated.”

“I guess I don’t really know her. We had a class together last year, and I think I heard her talk once.”

“She . . . she takes a while to open up. But I’ve known her forever, and she’s—she’s amazing.”

The way I feel about Chase isn’t at all how I felt about Sophie. My attraction to Chase is stronger—because I’m older now, because I understand what that attraction can lead to. Chase is newness, excitement. A band with a catalog of albums I haven’t listened to yet. Sophie, when I liked her, was all comfort. Warm blankets and a TV show you’ve seen a hundred times. In a way, though, Sophie’s the reason I’m even in the car with Chase right now.

“Okay, so you’ve never been on a date. Have you ever . . . kissed anyone?” He doesn’t say it cruelly. It’s almost like he wants to make sure I haven’t missed out on the greatness that is kissing someone who wants to kiss you back.

The question brings heat to my cheeks. “Only Sophie,” I say, and he turns in his seat to lift his brows at me, like maybe I was lying about not having dated her. “A few years ago. We weren’t dating, though. It just sort of happened.” I don’t tell him about the kiss at the party—those feelings are still too raw, especially after Sophie’s outburst at dinner earlier this week. A brief silence follows, so I punt the question back. “Have you?”

“I had a boyfriend last year. I met Jeff at a show last summer. He lived in Olympia, but he’d come up to see this band he was into. We flirted all night, and then when he said he went to high school in Olympia, we sort of tried to date long-distance. But . . . it didn’t work. And we only really hooked up once.”

My throat goes dry. Hooked up. It can mean a hundred different things. It can mean just kissing, or it can mean everything.

“Hooked up?” I repeat, before I can rein myself in. I’m too hot in my coat. I fiddle with the zipper, dragging it down halfway so I don’t feel like I’m suffocating.

“Made out, fooled around a little. No clothes came off or anything. Is this making you uncomfortable?”

Oh no. Something’s giving me away. Is it all the sweating? I shake my head. Too fast.

“No, no, I’m just . . .” Curious. I don’t bother to finish the sentence. Chase doesn’t seem to mind.

“He was the first guy I did anything with. The only guy, actually.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, still playing with my stupid zipper. Now it’s stuck. Excellent.

Made out. Fool