Someday Maybe (11 page)

“I didn’t know.” His eyes lowered as he straightened a spoon next to a bowl. “I mean, I didn’t know what you’d like to eat. I hope gazpacho’s okay. Mine is spicy,” he explained, or maybe warned, as he set down another spoon, “I make it with jalapeños.”

“That sounds good.”

“I just have to add the ice and…”

I couldn’t keep from chuckling under my breath.

“What?” He took a step forward.

“You—following a recipe. You used to burn toast on a regular basis.”

He slid his hands into his pockets. “We both sucked on that front back then.”

“I know.” I laughed. “If it weren’t for the cafeteria and free pizza delivery, we’d have starved.”

He looked like he was about to say something else, but instead, he pulled back a slow smile. “Rachel Daughtry,” he said, then ran a knuckle under his chin. Such a familiar gesture.

For a moment, it felt like time froze then whizzed us back six years. I was standing before the Oliver I knew, the one I was in love with. Every hair on my body, every nerve ending was experiencing total recall of exactly how I used to feel about him, and exactly what I used to do to express that.

Exactly.

My knees swayed and my vision blurred. Before I fell over, I tightened my grip on the couch behind me.

Oliver stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets. “Sarah told me—”

“What’s next, Rad?”

We both flinched when Meghan appeared with a bread basket.

“Um.” He closed his eyes and pressed a thumb along the bridge of his nose. “Nothing, thanks. I’ll finish up.”

The moment he was gone, Meghan slid to my side. “I could freaking die,” she whispered in a rush. “He is absolutely the hottest thing I have ever seen. A gorgeous man cooking for me.” She fanned herself. “Total sex fantasy, right? I’m marrying him, I swear I am.”

“Yeah.” I lifted a wobbly smile, staring toward the kitchen.

“I’ve no clue what he’s making in there. He was chopping stuff and dropping it in a blender. He called it something Italian, but I can’t—”

“Gazpacho.” My gaze was fixed over her shoulder. All I could see were cabinets and shadows of someone moving. “It’s a Spanish soup. Tomato-based. Served cold.”

“Huh. Well, even if it tastes like floor, I’ll praise him out the yin-yang.” She glanced toward the kitchen with a hungry expression. But not food-hungry.

Coming here was a huge mistake.

“Do you know where the bathroom is?” I asked, needing a couple of minutes alone.

“Down the hall.” She pointed. “I’ve already scoped out the place. If he wasn’t so hot anyway, I’d marry him for this apartment.” As I turned to leave without replying, she hooked my elbow. “I was kidding. You know I don’t care about money. I care about what’s under those suits he wears.”

“Yeah.” I offered one noncommittal chuckle. “Good one.” Feeling a little wonky, I slid my arm out of her grip. “I’ll be right back.”

Unlike Meghan, I did not snoop around Oliver’s bathroom. It was a half bath anyway, which meant he most likely never used it. If I was after personal evidence of what the twenty-four-year-old Oliver Wentworth was like, I wasn’t going to find it behind the single cabinet in that bathroom. Instead, I kicked off my shoes and leaned against the sink, counting backward from three hundred, while inhaling the oil dabbed at the inside of my elbows.

I wasn’t ready to go back out, but didn’t want anyone to hail the fire department thinking I’d fallen in, so eventually, I slid into my heels and made my way toward the dining room. En route, I stopped to study an oil painting hanging in the hall. It was on canvas but not framed. With deep blues and golds, it reminded me of Van Gough’s “Starry Night.”

“She’s awfully quiet.” Oliver’s lowered voice came from around the corner. He and Meghan must’ve been waiting for me at the table. Voices sure did carry in these old houses.

“I know.” Meghan sighed, her voice just as low. “She wasn’t always. She used to be hilarious, actually. But something changed. They talk about the freshman fifteen, well, she gained
ten
, but in
years
. I’m not surprised you said you barely recognized her the other day.”

“Huh,” Oliver said, then I heard him pop open a bottle.

“She came back that summer a different person,” Meghan added. “I had to practically drag her around with me. It was sad.”

I was afraid to move; hardwood floors in these houses creaked louder than a coffin at a haunted house.

“Did she…” Oliver’s voice was quiet. “Did she ever tell you why?”

“She hardly talks about freshman year at all. Want me to pour the wine? Like I said, she was a different person, all anti-social and serious.”

Oliver was silent. I was dying to see his expression. “Did she date?” he asked after a few moments.

I stiffened, not wanting to hear Meghan’s answer, whatever it might be.

“We were both really busy in school. I remember her going out sometimes.” She chuckled softly. “Actually, we used to joke that she had a secret boyfriend stashed somewhere. But she’s never been like that. Now it’s like she sees dating as a job—no fun. She’s cynical about the whole thing.”

“You’ve never asked her why?”

It was quiet. I wondered why Meghan was taking so long to answer.

“I’ve set her up with a few guys but she’s not interested.”

I was beginning to feel hot in the face. I couldn’t believe Meghan was openly discussing my personal life—practically right in front of me. None of it was untrue, but still.

I heard a chair scrape back. “She’s got this ten-year plan for the future that she’s sworn by since we were eighteen. With that and the way she works herself to death at that stupid ad agency where they treat her like crap, it doesn’t seem like she intends to get serious with anyone. Unlike me, I
love
dating. And I especially love when my dates cook for me.”

Yeah.

I grabbed the knob to the bathroom door and pulled until it slammed shut. The painting I’d just been admiring shook on its hook.

“Rachel?” Meghan’s voice held the tiniest hint of guilt. “That you?”

“Who else would it be?” Oliver answered. By the time I’d rounded the corner, he was pushing back from the table to stand. “Oh good, it is you. Otherwise I have a major mice problem.”

“Just me,” I said, trying to not appear like a girl who was way overworked, treated like crap, was cynical and sad about relationships, but had
never
had a secret boyfriend. I wasn’t sure how that was supposed to look, so I just smiled and tucked some hair behind my ears. “Need any help?”

“We were waiting for you.” Meghan slid into the chair across from Oliver. There was an empty chair beside her and beside him. For a moment, I didn’t know which to take, until Megs glanced at the one beside her. I took the hint.

While Oliver ladled the soup and Meghan poured the drinks, I kept my mouth shut. Since Oliver had already noticed how non-talkative I was tonight, why spoil the illusion. So I listened to their conversation, enjoying the soup very much.

I’d had authentic Spanish gazpacho when I was younger. With the jalapeño peppers and what tasted like a splash of Worcestershire sauce, Oliver’s was better than what I’d had in a granny’s
cocina
in Seville.

“Where did you learn to cook, Rad?” Meghan asked, sawing off a hunk from a loaf of sourdough.

“College.” He shot a quick glance my way and reached for his drink. “
Late
in college.” He set down his glass without drinking, then ran a hand over the top of his head.

“Is that when you started shaving your head?” Meghan leaned her elbows on the table. Before he could answer, she continued with, “How often do you have to shave it?”

“Every other day.”

“That’s how often I shave my legs.”

I wasn’t sure why I decided to chime into the conversation with how often I shaved. Meghan and Oliver stared at me, each displaying a slightly different quizzical expression.

“I mean, I shave every day, but just one leg. Then I shave the other the next day. It’s more Zen.”

The words hung in the air like a bubble over my head.

“It was a joke,” I said. You can always tell that a joke has fallen flat when you have to explain it. I was about to slide from my chair onto the floor then crawl away when Oliver burst out laughing.

“Every other day.” He ran the back of his hand over his mouth. “That’s funny—
clever
. You’re still—” He cut himself off and his smile immediately vanished. In fact, the lightning-fast glance he shot me held anger more than anything. He grabbed his empty bowl and disappeared into the kitchen.

I watched him go. Oliver used to laugh at all my jokes, especially the ones that were particularly lame, like on the day we first met in the cafeteria and I’d made that super-lame crack about running for both Congress and the Senate. He claimed one of the things he loved best about me was my wit. He called my sense of humor sexy. Was he thinking the same thing now? And why would that suddenly piss him off?

“
Rachel
.” Meghan’s hiss jerked my gaze away from the kitchen. “What the hell?”

“What?” Did I have that glazy “thinking-about-sex” look about me again?

“You’re talking to Rad about your legs? In the
shower
?”

“Oh.” I shook my head and reached for my glass. “S-sorry.”

“Are you all right? You’re acting weird.”

I exhaled, wishing I’d told her about me and Oliver a zillion years ago, or at least before tonight. It felt too late to come clean now, like I’d been lying all this time on purpose.

“I’m okay.” I held up my glass and clinked it against hers. “Too much caffeine, not enough sleep. Same old shizz.”

“Well, no more shaving talk, okay? If Rad’s going to think about anyone’s naked legs, they should be
mine
. And stop being so funny and—”

Oliver came back to the table with some napkins and sat down, just as abruptly as when he’d left. It might have been just me, but it felt like he was giving me the cold shoulder. Which was fine, whatever. I wasn’t supposed to be pulling his attention. It wasn’t
our
date.

For the next little while, Meghan had us engrossed in a story about the director of her current movie project. She hovered over the table, drawing a picture of the complicated set. Just as I leaned forward, I shifted my gaze to Oliver. His elbows were on the table and he was also leaning toward Meghan’s sketch. But his eyes were on me.

When I met his gaze, he didn’t look away, as though he’d been expecting me to look at him. There were questions behind his gray eyes—I recognized the strong, silent expression. In that moment, I was willing to answer anything he asked of me. His lips began to peel apart like he really was about to say something. My heart beat in my temples, waiting. But he cleared his throat and looked away, tugging at the neck of his shirt, pushing up his sleeves.

This was a nervous tick in the Oliver I used to know. But how could that be now? He was cooking dinner for Meghan and I was the pathetic third wheel.

It took a few moments for me to realize I was still staring at the side of his face. I swallowed and glanced toward Meghan, nodding at whatever she was saying.

Maybe it was the silvery moon cresting through the picture window behind him or his zesty-delicious soup that lingered on my tongue, but that look we shared shook my soul like the ’92 earthquake.

I’d broken up with Oliver while I was still in love with him and never got over it, never really moved on. Every other guy who’d come into my life, guys I might have fallen for, could never fight their way in. My heart had been closed off ever since that sunny spring morning freshman year.

If I wanted to move on—which I did!—then I needed to write an ending to the Oliver Wentworth chapter in my book. Complete, total, healthy closure…before he married Meghan and I hated them both.

After this personal epiphany, Meghan didn’t have to tell me twice to stay quiet and let her shine. I was too afraid to speak, anyway, nervous that I’d blurt something totally inappropriate. So I learned even more about her movie and some of the backstage romances going on. The girl really did share everything.

“Damn.” Oliver looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost midnight. I’ve got a conference call tomorrow so I’m working from home. I didn’t think about how late it was getting.”

“We should go.” I pushed out my chair.

“Already?” Meghan glanced at her phone. “It’s not that late.”

“You can stay, I’ll go.” And now, please. Nothing more awesome than being a third wheel at the end of a date.

“You’re going alone?” Oliver moved into my line of sight, looking unexpectedly concerned after practically ignoring me for the last two hours.

“I’ll take a cab, it’s cool.”

“Do you think that’s safe?” He looked at Meghan. “I thought you drove.”

She didn’t reply for a moment, probably trying to decide if she wanted to grab some alone time with her man at the cost of painting herself as an inconsiderate friend. Despite her earlier gossip session, Megs was not inconsiderate.

“I did,” she said, brightly. “You’re right, Rad. It’s not safe to be alone this late at night. Rach, we’ll both go.”

I was about to point out that I used public transportation all the time, day and night, and I carried a king-sized can of pepper spray in my bag for such occasions. But I didn’t want to ruin Meghan’s chance at showing what a giver she could be.

“May I use your bathroom first?” she asked, probably wanting to make sure she hadn’t left any closet doors un-snooped-through. After Oliver pointed her in the right direction, she added, “I think I need that soup recipe, Rad. I’ve been meaning to cook more at home. Maybe take a class. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

He disappeared into the kitchen and I sat on the arm of the couch. The room was empty and quiet and I felt conspicuous with only the sound of the ceiling fan above my head to break the silence.

“Too bad,” Meghan’s voice continued, though her footsteps slowed, probably stopping to investigate some closet. “Too bad you don’t cook, Rachel. We could take the class together, but you hate touching raw food.”