Someday Maybe (3 page)

Chapter Four

“Rachel. Rochel. Rachel Bachel…Ray-Ray.”

“Still funny,” I sing-songed, tapping a pen on the side of my desk, forcing a polite smile.

Bruce, my new work colleague, was the genius behind my string of office nicknames. He was the first person I met Monday morning. Or rather, he was the loudest. His official title was Assistant Creative Director, meaning he was my immediate supervisor under Claire, the scary Creative Director.

Bruce gave me a tour of the office and introduced me around. He was a really jokey guy, though I didn’t find his particular brand of humor funny, especially when he made an extremely unfunny joke about me coming from Dallas, even though I’d told him numerous times that I was from Southern California.

“Hey, you hear why the baby Jesus couldn’t be born in Texas? No? No? It’s ‘cause they couldn’t find three wise men and a virgin. Ha ha ha! Get it?”

After that, he was your garden-variety jackwad, cussing out coworkers for no apparent reason, sporting those not-so-ironic logo T-shirts, and most importantly, when it was just the two of us in the ad department’s war room, it wasn’t long before I sensed that I knew more about advertising than he did. And most of my game came from Wikipedia and
Mad Men
.

“You can call me
Rachel
,” I said as Bruce was leaving my cubical.

He chuckled over his shoulder. “Sure, Ray-Ray.”

Hmm. I had a pretty good nickname for him, too. Bruce the Moron.

I slumped back in my chair. My new cubical was nice—as far as cubical living went. Our building sat just north of the Financial District, and NRG Interactive took up the thirty-eighth and thirty-ninth floors. Huge windows faced east, showing the picturesque Embarcadero and San Francisco Bay. From my desk, if I leaned forward and craned my neck just right, I had a lovely view of one corner of the Oakland Bay Bridge.

I still had a lot to learn at my new job, but I was also kicking some serious ass at it. I loved the excitement, and even the long hours made me feel needed. Most everyone left me alone while I worked, probably because I knew what I was doing. After the first few brainstorming sessions, I realized I
did
have a flair for sitting in a room with five other copywriters and spit-balling until we came up with the exact words to go on the front of a pack of mechanical pencils. Bruce and his gang of high intellects’ suggestions always included subtly phallic images, leaving me to roll my eyes and think up something last minute that wouldn’t get us sued.

I’d studied creative writing in college, but it wasn’t until my senior year that I’d tweaked my ten-year plan and tagged on a marketing minor. Writing was where my heart was, and maybe I’d get back to it. Penning fun short stories to add to my “someday I’ll be a writer” file was one thing, but in the real world, that career path was way too risky.

“
Rachel
”—my intercom buzzed Claire’s voice—“
in my office
.”

Yeah, Claire was still plenty scary, but after two weeks, I could tell she’d noticed my hard work and dedications, and she knew I was paying my dues. We’d warm to each other, eventually.

She was my scary boss, though, and my stomach did lurch as I grabbed my tablet, scraped back my chair, and rounded the corner toward her office. We hadn’t spoken face-to-face since I’d given her my proposal, the first one I’d attempted on my own—pretty ambitious, I know. She must have read it by now and was ready to give me another assignment—maybe something cool and important.

“
This
,” Claire said before I’d taken a full step into her office. “Unacceptable.” She stabbed her pencil at my proposal that sat on her desk, then slid it toward me like it was contagious.

I blinked and glanced behind me. Did she think I was someone else? Bruce the Moron stood at her side like a sentinel, arms folded, nodding like a moron.

When it was obvious Claire knew exactly who I was, I said, “Umm, sorry, I thought—”

“It’s like you have absolutely no training in copywriting,” Claire added through tight lips.

I didn’t speak. Claire was the one who’d interviewed me.
Twice
. She
knew
I’d come from print journalism. Now, however, was not the time to remind her of that.

“S-sorry.” I picked up my proposal that had several coffee cup rings graffiti-ing the top page. And was that a lipstick blot?

“Ask for help next time.” Bruce exchanged a look with Claire. Just as I was about to peg him as a cruel ass and not a moron, he shot me a look and mouthed, “Ray-Ray.”

Moron
.

“Okay.” I pulled at the side of my skirt so I had something to do with my free hand. “I will.”

It was a rude awakening. I wasn’t supposed to fail. Well, my personal life was a big fat failure, but—except for a tiny hiccup freshman year—school and work I’d always nailed. I kept my chin tucked and blinked rapidly as I headed to my cubical, really wishing I had an office with a door I could close in case I decided to burst out crying.

Instead, I forced myself to swallow the lump in my throat and work on the weekly newspaper ads about the Vondome, a luxury high-rise being constructed and leased. It was one of my bigger clients, though the work wasn’t that difficult. If I had to regurgitate the same basic copy for the next sixteen weeks, I was going to do it with flair. Claire wanted the first month’s worth by the end of the day, but I prepared double.

My copy wasn’t Shakespeare, but it would be sufficient to get me on Claire’s good side.

I held my breath for a second before clicking send. Not three minutes later, I got a reply message. I stared at the screen, needing to read the email twice. If I couldn’t get this right, she was going to give the Vondome project to someone else. That was the entire message.

What was happening today?

My heart thudded when my desk phone rang, with Claire’s extension flashing in big red numbers. Sweat pooled in my palm as I reached for the receiver.

“This—” my throat felt like it was shriveling around my vocal chords. “This is Rachel.”

“Do you need me to explain?” Claire asked in her scariest voice. “I’ll explain again, if you need me to.”

I opened my mouth. Explain what? “Um, yes, please.”

Claire sighed. “Well, I don’t have time now. But remember, I told you to ask for help if you need it. Remember that. I don’t know why this is so hard for you.”

I clutched the phone. Hadn’t I just asked for help? She was right, I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand anything today. “Okay,” I said, feeling like I might puke. “Um, whenever you have time—” But the line was dead.

How had my day gone from awesomely bright to steaming crap on a platter?

I did my best to hide from Claire the rest of the day, knowing I really would have a meltdown if she confronted me again. Though I didn’t want to be unavailable if she did need me. So I worked through lunch, in case she happened to walk by and I was taking my government-allotted food break.

I’d never been a quitter, and I was totally prepared to do what it took to be a stellar employee, but I wasn’t a mind reader.

“Hey.”

A shadow over my shoulder blocked the overhead florescent lights. I looked up to see Bruce the Moron pointing at my rejected, coffee-stained proposal on the corner of my desk. Okay, so it wasn’t up to Claire’s standards, but I didn’t want him anywhere near it; I didn’t want him to breathe on it.

“There were three misspelled words on the first page,” he said with a smirk. “Ask me to proof it next time, Ray-Ray.” He chuckled and walked off.

The boiling, about-to-be-released scream that had been building inside my stomach for hours started creeping up my throat. I had to get out of there, so I shut my laptop, grabbed my purse, and took the long way to the elevator so I wouldn’t have to pass Claire’s office. If nothing else, I was going to do a first-class job at sneaking out of work early.

Not until I shut my car door with me inside did I feel all the tension in my shoulders, neck, and head. Was work supposed to be this grueling? I fired up the ignition, flipped to a hard rock station, and sang/shouted along.

As I started for home, road construction put me on Golden Gate Avenue and multiple detours. It was a déjà vu moment when I found myself idling beside the familiar green-and-gold signpost and meticulous landscaping of the University of San Francisco entrance. The one place in town I’d been avoiding like the plague.

Instead of continuing home like I should have, I made a U-turn and pulled over. Just through those trees were the aquamarine windows of the S.J. science building
and
the landmark spires of Saint Ignatius Church. Up the next hill were the University Center and law buildings. I used to cross the greenbelt of the Gleeson Library every night on my way home.

On impulse, I climbed out of my car and peered up the steep stairs past the USF sign. It was plenty warm for four o’clock in the afternoon, so why did I shiver like it was winter? I slid on my silky-lined suit jacket, crossed my arms, and began to walk up the hill toward the center of campus.

The way my high heels clicked on the walkway sounded strange, way too grown-up and mature for a place where I’d worn sneakers or ballet flats nearly every day. When I’d first moved to San Francisco, my most prized possession were my vintage Chuck Taylors that I’d found at a thrift store. I’d been wearing those the day I’d met Oliver.

My cell rang, and I smiled when I checked the caller ID. My sister, Krikit.

“Rach!” She started in before I could finish saying hello. “You won’t
believe
my day!”

We chatted for a while about her daughter’s new soccer team and how Krikit offered to be the “snack mom” but was outvoted because the other parents knew she would forget. By the time we hung up, I had a stitch in my side from trying not to laugh, and I looked up to find myself standing at the mouth of the freshmen dorm café. Students rushed past, eager to get in line before the next class got out. My feet wouldn’t stop until they took me the rest of the way to the entrance of my old dorm.

I placed a hand over my lips, unable to halt the inevitable memory of our first kiss from rushing back. The taste flooded my mouth, fruity and rich. I later learned that he’d been sucking on multi-flavored Tic Tacs while he’d waited for me to come outside. Tic Tacs, and Oliver.

I peeled off my suit jacket, still cold on the top layer of my skin, while my insides were sweltering, uncomfortably, unwelcomingly.

“Stupid,
stupid
Rachel,” I muttered as I turned to march back down the hill toward where I’d parked, purposefully taking the hilly loop so I wouldn’t have to walk past the path that led to
his
apartment. By the time I got to the car, my hands ached from clenching tight fists. I grabbed my purse and dug through its contents. No luck. I opened the glove compartment but the only thing inside was the still-unread owner’s manual.

“Crap.” I touched the screen of my phone, opened a search engine, and let my fingers do the walking until I found what I was looking for. “Palo Alto?” I said aloud. How annoying! With all the new-agey stores in San Francisco, the only place in the Bay Area that sold my preferred brand of essential oil was across the bridge, forty miles away.

I slid on my sunglasses and headed south, taking advantage of having skipped out of work. An hour later, I parallel parked between a Subaru Outback and a black convertible Jeep across the street from
Another Time & Place
. Plucky, sitar-y music was playing when I entered the store. Multi-colored crystals and various orange salt rocks lined one whole side of the room. It took me a minute, but I spied the display of essential oils near the front. I was exhausted and weary thanks to getting chewed out by Claire and Moron Bruce, and a bit emotionally unstable from that literal walk down memory lane at USF, so I wanted to grab a few bottles of oil and be on my way, maybe even soak in a lavender bath and hit the sack before midnight for a change. But I noticed my brand—which ran a little more pricy—was on the employees-only side of the counter.

A girl with blond hair stood a few feet away from it behind the register. I’d thought she was alone at first, but then she started laughing and leaned a hand on the glass counter while her other hand pressed against her throat.

“Um, hi. Sorry,” I said, feeling like I was interrupting.

She jumped, her other hand flying to her throat.

“Sorry,” I repeated, wondering if she did actually work here. She was behind the counter, so I assumed so, and she wore a nametag with the word “
Spring
” in block letters.

“Hi.” She tucked some hair behind an ear. She sported a few tiny braids along her part, barely noticeable. She looked a couple years younger than me, so I figured she went to Stanford or one of the other colleges nearby.

“Um.” She smoothed down the front of her shirt. “Can I help—
ahh
.” She bit her lip and backed up. It took me by complete surprise when a guy appeared from out of nowhere. He must have been on the floor behind the counter, doing
what
to make her gasp that way? I did
not
need to know.

Her eyes locked on his and when he turned to the side, I could see he was smirking. “He was just…uh…t-tying my shoe,” she said, glancing at me. The guy started laughing, and her cheeks turned bright red. I felt my cheeks turning a similar color in sisterly empathy.

“Springer,” the guy said. “You know I live to tie your laces.”

I felt like those weren’t words I was meant to understand.

“Henry Knightly…” she murmured softly, censuring him. Though her breathy voice told a different story.

Dressed in a white T-shirt with an argyle sweater vest over the top, he had dark hair and was pretty damn cute. But I figured it was useless to lust after a guy who was obviously very much already into someone.

Besides that, my lusting days were over.

“Meet me in the study room tonight,” he said, then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “You know which one.” As he was backing away, she fisted the front of his sweater and kissed him on the mouth. It was a quick one but when I saw the way they locked eyes for an intense second afterward, even my toes curled.