Our Year of Maybe

I wave her inside. In the light, her face is blotchy, and I can tell she’s trying to hold it together.

“Tabby,” I say, and wrap my arms around her. Her body relaxes into mine, shoulders heaving. I pull her onto the bed with me.

“I am such a mess.” She inhales deeply, reaching around me for the box of tissues on my nightstand.

“Did you—did you guys—” I can’t even get out the question.

“Did we what?” Her eyes grow large as she realizes what I meant. “Did we break up? No! No, we’re okay. Or . . . we will be.”

“Do you . . . want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head. “No. Not right now. Could we just . . . watch something stupid and mindless? Or talk about literally anything else?”

I bring my laptop onto the bed with us. “There’s a new season of The Bachelor.”

“Perfect.”

We watch together for a while—an episode, then two, of contestants accusing each other of being there for the wrong reasons. I wish I could more easily slip into an older-sister role, give Tabby the comfort she needs.

But maybe this is exactly what she needs right now: someone next to her.

Me next to her.

CHAPTER 28

PETER

“WHEN WE GET FAMOUS,” KAT says as she d

abs glitter onto her eyelids, “we should have ridiculous preshow requests.”

Chase glances up from his guitar. “Like Van Halen and the brown M&M’s?”

We’re in the green room at the Blaze, a teen center converted from an old firehouse. Everyone has their own warm-up rituals: Dylan is tuning his bass, Chase is playing some warm-up exercises, Kat is applying meticulous makeup, and Aziza is in the corner, sharing earbuds with Bette. She gets terrible stage fright, and listening to thrash metal, somehow, is the only thing that calms her down.

Given that it’s my first show, I’m not sure what my ritual is yet. Before piano recitals, I usually tinkered with my phone or attempted small talk with the other kids. But this is different. There’s a whole audience out there who paid five bucks to see us, not just parents waiting for their kids to bang out “Heart and Soul.”

“Exactly like Van Halen and the brown M&M’s,” Kat says.

“Brown M&M’s?” I repeat.

Kat stows her pot of glitter and reaches for a tube of lipstick. “Van Halen specified in their concert rider that they wanted a bowl of M&M’s with all the brown ones removed.”

“It was actually a smart business move,” Chase continues, “because they had this elaborate stage setup. So if they got backstage and saw brown M&M’s in the bowl, they knew the venue hadn’t paid attention to the contract and would have to double-check all their lighting and everything.”

“Does anyone have M&M’s? I want some,” Dylan says, and Kat rolls her eyes.

“Knock-knock,” comes a quiet voice from the doorway. Sophie, wearing tight black pants, a black sweater, and a swipe of dark red lipstick. All dressed up for my first show. She holds up a water bottle. “Peter, I brought you this. In case you need it onstage?”

“Thanks,” I say, accepting it.

There are no free chairs, so she leans against my keyboard amp. We rode over with Chase. When we got here and I explained to the band that Sophie had known me forever, Kat asked immediately if she had any embarrassing stories about me as a kid. Sophie blushed. “So many,” she said, and it made me happy, seeing her gain a bit of confidence with my new friends, “but my allegiance is to Peter. I’m sorry.” My bandmates groaned, and I grinned at her, liking her here with us so, so much and unsure why it took so long for this to happen.

Worlds colliding.

Kat drops her lipstick into her bag. “What kind of music are you into, Sophie?”

“Mostly modern stuff,” Sophie says. “I listen to a lot of remixes, I guess?”