Page 43 of Our Year of Maybe

That stomach flip again—both because of the music we made, and his compliment. You have a nice voice. You have a nice voice. It’ll reverberate in my mind the rest of the day.

“We’re keeping you,” Kat decides, and I don’t dare argue with that.

Five songs later, each played at least three times through, we’re exhausted, Bette’s bored, and we’re all ready for a break.

“Diner food,” Kat declares, and the rest of the band cheers their agreement. To me, she explains: “It’s a band practice tradition.”

We cram into Aziza’s van, which boasts a bumper sticker that says MUSICIANS DUET BETTER. In the back seat, Chase’s thigh touches mine for a full fifteen minutes. It’s very distracting. Aziza pulls into the parking lot of the Early Bird Diner—where Sophie’s sister works.

Sophie and I have been here plenty of times, though not recently. We usually get waffles and pancakes and split them both. She drenches everything in syrup, I make fun of her, and she says since she’s miraculously never had a cavity, she’s living on the edge.

Aziza, Bette, Kat, and Dylan skip inside, but Chase hangs back in the parking lot, grazing my arm with a fingertip as though asking me to hang back with him. It isn’t a handshake, but somehow the tentative uncertainty of it is better.

“Hey. Is this all . . . okay?” He pushes his old-man glasses higher on his nose. “I don’t want it to feel like I’m throwing you into something that you’re not into.”

“Seriously?” I raise my eyebrows. “I’m so into this.”

He visibly relaxes, blowing out a long breath. “Good, because I don’t think the rest of them are going to let you go.”

“I like them.” I like you, I want to say. “I sort of always wanted to be in a band. I never thought I’d get the chance. And . . . this might sound weird, but I’ve never had other queer friends.”

“Not weird at all,” he says. “I know the feeling. Maybe—” he starts, and then sort of awkwardly stares at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe we could . . . hang out just the two of us sometime?”

“That would . . . Yeah. Okay.” In my attempt to not sound as excited as I actually am, what comes out is a statement devoid of emotion. I clear my throat. “I mean—yes. Let’s definitely do that.”

There’s a rapping on the window of the diner. “Come on, losers, it’s grease time!” Kat shouts.

The Early Bird is a fifties-style diner with red vinyl booths and black-and-white-checked floors. Aziza and Bette rush over to the jukebox to fight over songs. I scan the restaurant, unreasonably anxious about the possibility of seeing Tabby here.

I slide into a booth next to Dylan, across from Chase. Beneath the table, his shoe bumps mine.

“Sorry,” he says. “Small booth.”

/> But it’s not that small. And the next time it happens, he doesn’t say sorry.

“What can I get you—oh! Peter,” Tabby says, standing in front of our table with a notepad in her hand and a very confused expression on her face.

I feel my face flame. “Hi.”

“Where’s Sophie?”

“I—um—I’m not sure,” I say quietly, which doesn’t feel like the right answer.

Tabby’s eyebrows rise, and I give her what must be a pained expression. I’m not sure what I’m worried about—that Tabby will tell her sister I was having dinner with people who aren’t her? Sophie and I didn’t have plans. I’m not doing anything wrong, being here.

“You two know each other?” Dylan says, wagging a finger between Tabby and me. “Is there any chance of getting some free food here?”

We order too much of everything, and Tabby throws in a free order of pancakes.

“We should change our name,” Kat says thoughtfully between slurps of milkshake.

Dylan catapults a fry at her. “You say that every week.”

“You can’t change your name. Then I’d have to make a new T-shirt,” Bette says.

“What does our new keyboardist think of the name?” Kat asks.

“I like it.”

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