Someday Maybe (10 page)

“Fine, sure,” I said. “Which song?”

She rubbed her chin. “I want to make it hard for you this time. How about Maroon Five’s
Misery
.”

Happy with the successful change of subject, I sat cross-legged on the floor. “Okay, it’s now titled ‘I am Rotisserie,’ and it’s about a chicken in a restaurant window. Wait.” I held up one finger. “Only it’s not a chicken, it’s a woman, and she’s naked…naked in a restaurant window, covered in herbs.” We all burst out laughing, even Rog. “Give me a second to come up with the chorus.”

“Did you know Ollie writes music sometimes?” Sarah said. “He used to make up funny lyrics all the time. He’ll think this is hilarious.”

My laughter cut off mid-cackle. Oh, please never mention my name and naked chickens in the same sentence to Oliver!

“I’m gonna text him about it right now.” She grabbed her phone and snorted a laugh. “Rotisserie. You’re so funny, Rachel.”

Chapter Sixteen

Work wasn’t my favorite place to be the next few days. In fact, it was pretty impossible to concentrate on anything advertising-related. My mind kept going back to the jogging trail and my naked chicken song and watching Sarah text her brother all night.

During one of my lunch breaks, I started free-writing a scene—not set at the hilly trails of Golden Gate Park, but the paved and shady running paths along Katy Trail in uptown Dallas, where I used to go after work with the rest of the yuppie population. The chick in my story wasn’t only sporting last night’s melted makeup and frizzy hair when she ventured out to walk her dog the “hideous morning after,” but she was also wearing last night’s wrinkled cocktail dress—which I found much more funny than her brother’s holey T-shirt. And she actually did trip the jogging couple, whom she didn’t know. But also, she ended up leaving with the guy in the purple baseball cap.

My story: my happily ever after.

By the end of my lunch hour and the end of the twenty-page short story, I was giggling at the exploits of my girl hero, a Texas version of Bridget Jones. I’d forgotten how much fun creative writing could be. If only I could make my day job as enjoyable.

Claire’s assistant buzzed my office phone. Last-minute meeting in five minutes. I grabbed my notebook and headed for the conference room, though for the next hour, I kept wondering why I was still invited to these things. No one ever listened to me.

“Rachel, what have you got?”

I looked up from the notebook page I’d been doodling on to find Claire and four other copywriters staring at me. “Oh, um, well…” I glanced at what I’d just written but then shook my head. “Pass.”

Claire arched her thin eyebrows. “If you have an idea, by all means, speak up.”

Silently, I read the tagline I’d scribbled then I couldn’t help it, I pressed my lips together to hold back a very inappropriate laugh.

“What is it?” Claire dropped her pen. “You’ve got us intrigued.”

“It’s nothing. I was just free writing and—Bruce!” Suddenly, my notebook was gone and Bruce the Moron had it in his mitts. The fifth grade bully stealing my lunch.

He chuckled after scanning my scribbles. “Looks like she’s more
creative
than we thought. Wait’ll you hear what sweet little Ray-Ray thinks should be the branding for a ten-pack of high-end emery boards.”

I sank into my chair and held a hand over my face, prepared for the oncoming mortification.

“Well, Rachel?” Claire said. “Tell us your tagline. Now.” Why she hated me, I had no idea.

“Because”—I coughed when my throat went dry—“because sometimes…” Oh, hell. Get it over with. The rest of the tagline came out in a rushed mumble.

“What was that?” Bruce cupped his ear.

I blew out a breath and sat ramrod straight. “Because sometimes a girl likes it rough,” I said, louder and more pronounced than necessary.

It was dead quiet, and I wondered how many trips it would take to my car to load my personal belongings after Claire fired me. Another hitch in the ten-year plan.

A weird snickering came from the other side of the table. It was Claire, laughing behind a hand. “Well, I admire your, uh, imagination, Rachel, but we should perhaps save that for another—more fitting—product.” She swiveled in her chair, grinned, and recrossed her legs. “Now, who has the guts to follow that creative genius?”

I exhaled, never so relieved in my life. Aside from a couple of the douchy ad execs asking me out for drinks and snickering about how I liked it rough, the rest of the day flew by. It was Thursday, which meant Meghan and I were meeting at Pluckers for dinner and trivia night. Which also meant I’d taken public transportation to work instead of my car. As per our two-month tradition, I would hop a cable car up to Russian Hill and Meghan would drive us home at the end of the evening.

At 7:03 p.m., I’d claimed a coveted inside seat on a northbound cable car when my cell rang.

“Get off at Bay Street instead of Lombard,” Meghan instructed before I’d finished clipping on my Bluetooth.

“Why?” Bay was only two stops away, so I grabbed the overhead bar, hauled myself to my feet, and did the monkey hand-over-hand toward the standing platform, trying not to fall over when the car came to a bumpy stop at the top of a hill. “You wanna meet somewhere else?”

“You know those awesome Victorians on Stockton across from that park with the weird tree where we saw that group of trannies?”

I laughed, knowing exactly where she meant. “Other side of Coit Tower?”

“Meet me there. The pink Victorian with the tall-ass stoop and blue stained glass on the third floor.”

Just as I grabbed the vertical brass bar near the outside running board, the guy behind me started shoving against my back. There was no need for that, the car wasn’t full, the next stop wasn’t for another few minutes, and I wasn’t in the mood to fall four feet and face-plant across the train tracks. I felt the need to turn and knee him where the sun don’t shine.

“Megs,” I said, suddenly annoyed by everything, “I’m starving. I thought we were eating.”

“We are—chill.” Meghan laughed, then she was talking to someone else. In answer to that someone’s question, she said my name. The car jerked to a start, making my teeth rattle. I gripped the bar as my upper body swung out over the running board into empty space, wind whipping through my hair.

“Fine,” I said after the car’s momentum swung me back inside. “As long as I’m fed within eight minutes of arrival. I think I’m about to faint from hunger. I skipped lunch. Stupid Moron Bruce.” I made a point of glancing over my shoulder at pushy guy. “You won’t
believe
my day. Rachel needs fuel.”

“Don’t worry.” Megs was whispering now. Noise from the street made it hard to hear so I pressed a hand over my Bluetooth. “And he cooks, too. Bet you didn’t know
that
about him at USF.”

“What?” The hand over my ear started to shake. “Meghan. Where exactly am I meeting you?”

The stoop had fourteen steps. I knew because I counted them three times from across the street. Pink Victorian: check. Blue stained glass on the third floor: check. Tall-ass stoop: check. It was part of a duplex, connected to a mint green house, mirroring the architecture exactly.

The minty house was cute, with a darker shade of green around the windows and outside moldings. But its twin—the pink house—was gorgeous. Instead of just plain paint, the six-inch moldings were carved wood, painted in intricate designs of blue, yellow, and purple. None of the windows were curtained, and the third floor’s was not only blue stained glass, but it actually looked tie-dyed.

Even though the sun was almost set, the October air was humid, causing a drop of perspiration to trickle down my spine. This shook me awake. The last thing I wanted was to appear flushed-faced and moist like on the running trail, so I crossed the street and up those fourteen stairs.

The front door was dark mahogany with worn, thick grooves down the wooden grains. It was probably not the original door, though it looked ancient and well preserved. There were two built-in mailboxes, one labeled “Rennaker” in block letters, and the other read “Wentworth” in neat dude script that I found eerily familiar. I lifted a hand to knock, but lost my nerve.

Did I have another choice here? How about running away? Possibly. Jumping in front of oncoming traffic? How would that look?

Feeling another tingle of sweat under my hair, I made a fist and knocked.

When he opened the door, what would his reaction be? I braced myself, feeling way too unprepared to come face-to-face with the only guy I’d ever loved. Before I could tell my pounding heart that everything was cool, the doorknob started to turn from the inside.

Crap. Here we go.

It was Meghan. She grinned, looking happy and well groomed, while I hadn’t brushed my teeth since breakfast and had crazy cable car hair. An automatic jolt of jealously, of my best friend, shot through me. It was a completely unfair emotion, but I couldn’t help it.

“Get in here.” She grabbed my arm.

There were a million ambiguous questions I wanted to hiss at her, like, “How could you do this to me?” and, “Don’t you know how stupid I feel?” But I simply allowed myself to be pulled in.

The scent of fresh paint, new leather, and woodsy-smelling furniture was my first impression. The vestibule was small but bright, with a narrow staircase along the duplex wall for tenant number two. Apparently Oliver resided on the first floor, because Meghan led me past the second entrance and into the living room.

A dark brown couch and loveseat surrounding a coffee table were the only furniture. Victorian duplexes were never overly spacious, but these walls and ceiling were bright white, loft-style trendy, contrasting perfectly with the huge picture windows and original hundred-year-old wooden floors. I couldn’t recall what Sarah told me her brother did for a living, but it seemed he wasn’t struggling.

“Posh, right?” Meghan whispered. I realized I was ogling, so I quickly adjusted my expression to impartial. “These were refurbished four months ago. You should see the garden on the roof next door. There’s an outside amphitheater with an awesome view of the bridge. Mucho romantico.”

I opened my mouth but then shut it and made an “mmm” sound.

Off to the right of the living room was a small dining room table with four chairs, a pass-through window, and an open door leading to the kitchen. That was where noise was coming from: running water, a blender whirring, and the radio tuned to USF’s student station. Meghan walked us that way, but I flinched and pulled back. So much for playing it cool.

“Hey, don’t worry. You’re not crashing our date or anything.”

My stomach dropped—I hadn’t even considered
that
.

“When I called Rad earlier, I told him we’d be up this way tonight. I invited him out, but he said to come over.”

“Yeah, cool.” I nodded. “I’m just going to put my stuff down. You go on ahead.”

Meghan winked like we were in on the same scheme, then disappeared into the kitchen. I backed up, bumping into the couch behind me.

I swallowed hard, feeling a variety of distress. I let my purse slide off my arm and onto the floor but then picked it up and found my tiny bottle of Citrus Joy. If ever I needed to feel “elated,” it was now. I shook a few drops into each palm, then wiped my hands over my throat. I took a deep breath, trying to slow everything the hell down.

Still worried about overheating in my layers, I peeled off my suit jacket. Underneath it, I wore an almost-too-sheer-for-public, pale pink camisole, and I briefly fretted that I’d look too post-coital wearing only that. But with my jacket removed, I felt so much cooler and lighter, and much less likely to go into heatstroke, so I kept it off.

I tugged at the bottom of my gray pencil skirt that ended just above my knees. I wished I wasn’t still in my work clothes, and silently cursed Meghan for the hundredth time in ten minutes.

“Rachel.”

I gasped and spun around, teetering on one high heel. Oliver stood in the doorway of the kitchen. His blue dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up, and the tail of his still-knotted tie was tossed over one shoulder.

He looked…absolutely…making me want to…

“Hi.” I swallowed, forcing myself to forget what I’d just been thinking. “Thanks for the invite.” I wasn’t sure why I was thanking him. In fact, I had no idea what I was doing there. “We usually go out to the”—I jerked my head to the side, pointing somewhere east—“on Thursdays.”

“Meghan invited me to join you, but I didn’t feel like going out. Do you mind?”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Mind?”

“Coming here…with…” His gray eyes glanced toward the kitchen. “I get the feeling she doesn’t know.”

“Yeah.”

He blinked. “Oh. You
do
mind.”

“No. I mean, no, Meghan doesn’t know anything.” I bit my lip. “I never told her about…”

He nodded, saving me the embarrassment of having to explain further. He glanced toward the kitchen again; apparently he didn’t want to be overheard, either.

What was
his
excuse for wanting to keep our history a secret?

While pondering this thought, I took my first real look at the guy who was now called Rad. He was still nice and tall, a good six-foot-one. His face and his once-lanky, pre-man body had filled out, but not to the point of looking like he’d let himself go. On the contrary, he looked strong and fit and was probably in the best shape of his life. Those funny 1970s pop culture T-shirts he used to wear were replaced by dress pants, a dress shirt, and tie.

His metallic eyes were framed by long, dark lashes. It didn’t surprise me that his wavy chestnut hair was shaved off. The Oliver I knew was a little insecure about his hair, but I’d always loved it. I loved touching it, running my hands up the back, curling my index finger around the longer strands in front. Understanding his insecurity and wanting to help, I used to gush on and on about what great hair he had, how it was my favorite physical trait about him.

What a silly,
juvenile
thing to do.

Now, hair or no hair, Oliver didn’t look unsure about anything. He stood straight with a definite expression of confidence and intelligence. And yet—with his tie boyishly flipped over his shoulder like that—he also showed a hint of the devil-may-care liveliness I remembered.

I cleared my throat. “The subject never came up with her.”

He tilted his head. “In six years?”

“Yeah.” I touched the strap of my top, feeling flushed again.

“Oh.” Oliver dropped his gaze to the floor. “Understood. You can have a seat. Dinner will be a few minutes.” He turned and disappeared into the kitchen. I heard him and Meghan talking while I stood trapped in my personal nightmare.

What was understood? What was he talking about? What had I said to explain anything?

I hadn’t moved when he came back out. He regarded me for a moment—still leaning on the back of his couch—before he tossed three black placemats on the table and slid three bowls into place. A moment later, he looked up.