Our Year of Maybe

I scratch at the bracelet on my wrist. Suddenly it feels too tight. A shackle more than anything else. “You don’t have to be indebted to Sophie’s parents anymore.”

My dad frowns. “Indebted? Peter, that’s not what this—”

“You’ve been sucking up to them nonstop since the transplant! It’s embarrassing.”

“Peter. I think you should go to your room.” My mom crosses her arms. “And frankly, I’m not sure if you should go out this weekend.”

I choke out a laugh. “Wait—are you—are you grounding me? Wow. Wow.”

“It’s our fault for being so lax with you lately,” she says. “Honestly, we’ve spoiled you.”

“You’ve sheltered me!”

“I don’t know why this upsets you so much,” my dad says, slightly calmer than my mom. “You love Sophie’s parents.”

“Sophie and I—” I shout, unsure where I’m going with that. I’m not about to tell them Sophie and I had sex. They used to know everything about me, but this is far too personal. Too private. It barely feels right to say her name out loud, not now. “We—”

Realization dawns on them at almost the exact same time. My dad’s eyes get wide, and my mom brings a hand to her mouth.

Oh. Oh no.

They know. They can tell.

“Peter,” she says slowly as she lowers herself onto the couch next to me.

“What? I’m fine.” My throat is scratchy. Raw. I’m not fine. I’m a toxic, terrible friend. Some part of me thought I deserved all those things: the gifts from my parents, Sophie’s attention. Her love, even. I can’t get her words out of my head. I don’t know how to apologize for all those years of taking so much from her, let alone this past year.

My dad sits down in a chair across from us. “So you and Sophie . . .” He doesn’t even need to finish the sentence.

I drop my head in my hands and nod. This is a thousand times worse than the sex talk.

“You used protection?” my mom asks. “You’re such a smart kid, I shouldn’t even have to ask, but . . . I need to know.”

“Yes.”

“And Sophie—she’s okay?”

“I don’t

know.” It’s the truth. “Emotionally, I mean.” I explain as much as I can without completely losing it: Chase, the breakup, the guilt I’ve felt for exploring a life that didn’t always include Sophie. The horrible, horrible things I said to her in the gym. Things I wish I could take back. Things I couldn’t have fully meant because I’m not a cruel person, am I? “I’m not sure we can get back what we used to have,” I finish. And Sophie—Sophie doesn’t want me back. At all.

I was a fucking idiot to think we could rewind. Go back to being friends, as though our relationship has ever been that simple.

“Peter,” my mom says, turning sympathetic. “Oh, Peter.” She shuffles closer to me on the couch, and I let her. All I want is a hug from my mom right now, so when she offers one, I lean into it.

I eye the front door. “Are you still going out with the Orensteins?”

“We should probably sit this one out,” my dad says as he picks up his phone, making me wonder whether I’ve ended more than one relationship today.

The anger is back. The anger I had through most of my early teens, the blind fury I felt toward a world that had cheated me before I was born.

Later, when I’m not as mad at them and embarrassed they know about Sophie and me, I’ll tell my parents I want to go back to therapy. That all three of us should go.

But for now I’m angriest at myself most of all.

I look around my room at all this stuff. That’s what it is: stuff. Did I need the vintage record player? The Yamaha keyboard, when we already have the bajillion-dollar baby grand? The extra bookshelf space for my signed first editions? The chinchilla, because I couldn’t have a hamster or a guinea pig—I had to have something exotic and expensive, something I knew my parents wouldn’t say no to?

The truth of it is, all those things made me feel better when I was convinced nothing else would. Sophie can’t possibly understand that. Sometimes I even craved the attention, the gifts. This is the real problem: My family never gave in, and I grew to expect it from Sophie, too. Deep down, I’ve always known the balance between us was skewed, and I never did a single fucking thing about it. The night we were together, I wanted so badly to even things out between us and only succeeded in making it all worse.