Our Year of Maybe

“Sophie,” I start, intent on telling her she isn’t—of course she isn’t—but she just raises her eyebrows, and I relent.

He and Sophie’s mom are at a restaurant, but he says they’ll be here in fifteen minutes.

“My parents are obsessed with yours now,” I say to Sophie, trying to lighten the mood. To distract her.

“The feeling seems to be mutual.”

Her makeup is smeared, and as though compelled by instinct, I reach up to swipe off the black streaks beneath her

eyes.

“What are you doing?” she asks, a laugh in her voice.

“I . . . don’t know,” I say, laughing now too. “Your makeup looked so nice earlier.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”

We’re quiet for a few moments, Sophie’s mascara tattooed on my thumb. Her knees are still pulled up to her stomach, and while I’m sitting close to her, we’re not quite touching. Together we listen to the applause after one song and then another.

“I’m so sorry,” she says to her knees for the twelfth time. “I feel shitty about all of this. I didn’t want you to miss the show, I swear. I know you guys have been practicing so much, and—”

“Hey. Stop.” I scoot closer, placing a hand on her shoulder, trying to get her to look at me. “This is exactly where I want to be right now. Obviously it would be better if you were feeling okay, though.”

She lifts her head, and something about her expression, the pureness of it, kills me a little. It’s gratitude and pain and still, I think, love. I’m not sure what kind—only that I’m lucky to have it, something I wonder if I forgot or at least pushed to the back of my mind over the past few months. I’m lucky to have this girl in my life, this girl who changed my life.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Is there anything I can do for you right now? Before your parents get here?”

She shakes her head. “Maybe—you could just hold me?”

“I can absolutely do that.”

I put one arm around her shoulders and one around her legs, and she leans into me, settling one of her palms against my chest. Tonight she smells like some foreign perfume mixed with something achingly familiar. I rest my chin in her hair, and although it tickles, I don’t dare move.

We stay nearly frozen like that for a while, breathing each other in.

When Sophie’s parents arrive, promising to call the doctor on Monday, I load my keyboard and amp into their car but decline a ride home. Instead I hide in the back of the crowd during the next two bands’ sets and then wait in the loading zone behind the venue for Chase. Regardless of how worried I am about Sophie, she’ll be fine with her parents, and Chase and I left too many words unsaid between us.

It’s colder than it usually is in February in Seattle, and my hands are frozen. If I tried to play piano now, it would be slow and stilted.

Chase is the last one out, after I’ve traded awkward, sympathetic good-byes with the rest of the band. At first he says nothing as he loads his guitar case into his car. Then he shuts the trunk and walks right over to me.

“I’m not going to pretend I’m not angry about this,” he says, hands jammed in his pockets, breath meeting the air in white puffs. “But I also want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Her parents picked her up. They’ll go to the doctor next week.”

“Okay.” He’s quiet for a few moments.

“I’d hope someone’s health would be more important than some show.” It’s not the nicest thing to say, I realize that. But his coldness toward Sophie is a little maddening.

“Did I not just ask how she was?”

“Not before informing me how pissed you were. So I could tell you really cared.” I cross my arms, unsure where this combativeness is coming from, this protectiveness of Sophie.

“Seriously?” he says. “You bailed on us!”