More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

Xavier just looks at me, stone-faced . . . but I think I can just detect a little-bitty glimmer in his eye. “Well, then,” he says, “I can only think of two possibilities. One: the party has been canceled, all the guests have been kidnapped or fallen out the window to their deaths, and every stick of furniture has been stolen by a dangerous gang of thieves.”

  I can only blink at that. “What’s the other possibility?” I ask.

  “The other possibility,” Xavier says, walking closer to me, “is that this is our apartment.”

  My heart leaps.

  Is he joking?

  He isn’t joking.

  I have to make sure. “You’re serious?”

  “Very serious,” Xavier says, breaking into a wide grin. “I designed it. You are looking at the results of years of research and development. The next big thing. Interior automation, energy efficiency, sustainable materials . . . ” For a second I think I’m about to lose him on a tangent, as he begins to slip into his own little wonderland of systems and futuristic nonsense . . .

  But then he quickly stops himself. “All of those things, however . . . they do not make a home, Veronica,” he says.

  In a second those strong arms are around me again, and he’s pulling me in close. “Home . . . that takes people,” Xavier says, slowly. “I wanted . . . no, I needed to ask you this. Now. Before you went through with that surgery of yours. If that’s still something you need to do . . . well, you still have my full support, of course. You do know that, don’t you?”

  I nod. Now more than ever, I think. I see relief wash over Xavier’s face.

  “Good. But I still wanted to ask you this beforehand. So you wouldn’t think this was about anything but my true feelings for you. As they are right now.

  “I realize that I’ve been spending my life trying to avoid attachment,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Trying to stay flexible enough that I could deal with anything life throws at me. I thought that my work was enough . . . that if I actually committed to someone, it would trap me somehow. But when I’m with you, Veronica . . . I don’t feel trapped at all. I feel light. I feel free.”

  I love where this is going — and the tingle at the back of my neck signals the arrival of an anticipation I’ve been afraid to let myself feel.

  “I want us to be together,” he says. “To live together. I want our relationship to be more than just some night-to-night thing at a hotel. So please, Veronica. Live with me. Make a home with me here.”

  The thought is powerful, immediate: Of course I will.

  He wants to have me. Keep me.

  I’m something Xavier wants to keep . . . something rare. One-of-a-kind.

  So that means . . .

  I know what I have to do. It’s almost impossibly difficult not to break down in tears and a chorus of Yes Yes Yes . . . but I manage to keep it inside.

  I don’t say it.

  Instead, I put a mysterious smile on my face and walk forward into the living room. I let my hands slip away from my sides and float into the air, and I spread my arms as wide as I can.

  “We’ll need a sofa,” I say. “Here.”

  Chapter 12

  Rosco and Baby are giving my LA-aching tootsies a long overdue aromatherapy bath at Beauty World. When I tell them the latest, though, Baby’s face is a weird mix of Extremely Happy and Incredibly Stunned.

  “Let me get this straight,” says Baby in disbelief. “He surprises you with a beautiful beachfront apartment, asks you to move in, and your very first response is to ask for a sofa?”

  I nod, just a bit sheepishly. “Did I play that wrong, would you say?”

  Baby breaks into a grin, rolls her eyes. “Honey — I would say that you’re learning. I might have asked for a Queen Anne desk and a shih tzu, but you’re on the right track.”

  I frown. “It didn’t seem natural. Like I was punishing him for doing something I really wanted.”

  Baby shakes her head. “You can’t look at it like that. This is how it works. You’re supposed to be motivating that guy, giving him a reason for getting up in the morning. Don’t forget what the reward is supposed to be. I’ll give you a hint — it’s you.”

  “You should listen to her,” says Rosco, butting in with a glass of Napa’s finest. “Jake — you know, my husband? He’s a Xavier type himself. Finance guy. A real numbers kinda man, you know? Spreadsheets and Dow Jones and . . . well, yeeeeech,” he says, making a face. “Before we got married, he was like Why do I do all of this? What’s the point of it all?”

  I swish my toes around in the foot bath as I look up at him. “And now?”

  Rosco laughs. “Now he knows why he goes to work. He’s gotta bring me home the bacon. God knows I don’t get nearly the bacon I’m entitled to around this place. Hint hint, Boss Lady.”

  Baby smiles, but ignores him. “Look, Veronica: if you’d asked me before, I’d have told you that Xavier had a lifelong case of non-commitment . . . that he’s been doing all this temporary bullshit so long that it’s actually become permanent. But this — him wanting you to move in with him? It’s the biggest step I’ve seen him take with someone in . . . well, ever.”

  She smiles and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re close to him, Veronica. Closer than any girl has ever gotten. Just don’t forget — keeping you is his reward. Until you get a ring on your finger, that should always be just out of reach for him.”

  I consider this for a few seconds, then nod. “Always one sofa away.”

  Baby laughs. “Or a shih tzu.”

  * * *

  Of course, I get my sofa — and Xavier gets his Yes.

  Things move into high gear then. The weeks slip by, and it’s amazing how quickly the apartment becomes a home.

  Soon the huge walk-in closets are full of our clothes from the hotel. My months of shopping takes up most of the space — neat rows of heels and skirts, hanger after hanger of dresses from Bettie’s Retro, fluffy cashmere throwovers for nighttime beach strolls. On one side is Xavier’s Gloom Closet, the black Japanese fashions a dramatic counterpoint to my cornucopia of whites and pastels and pinks.

  My shopping suddenly becomes a lot less Bettie and a lot more Williams-Sonoma. We get a juicer, and an espresso machine that uses little individually-packaged bullets of coffee, and a rotisserie. Xavier brings home a ridiculous countertop pizza maker that looks like a record player, and while I appreciate his effort, we never do get around to using it.

  When I’m not busy turning the apartment into a home, I spend a lot of time stretched out on the sofa that started it all. It’s a long thing of leather and sophisticated stitching, and quite cool to the touch; one of those rare pieces that’s as stylish as it is comfy. I’ve just started to enjoy the freshly-poured glass of Chardonnay in my hand when I get a text message:

  > girl it has been 4 eva! u still livin like a princess

  I totally am . . . but I don’t exactly know how to tell Jayla that.

  Truth be told, I haven’t been keeping in touch. Not as much as I should have, anyway. If the last time we’d talked had sounded like bragging, then I don’t know what this is going to sound like. Still, I know that I do owe her an update. For everything.

  So I call.

  There’s no trace of sleepiness — Jayla’s voice is as excited as I’ve ever heard it. “Hey, what’s up? Been too long, bitch!” she says. “I wanna hear everything. But first — shit, you’re not going to believe this!”

  “What is it?” I ask, feeling a smile spread across my face.

  “I did it! I got accepted!”

  “Slow down for me, hon,” I say. “Accepted into what?”

  “The nursing program!” she says, almost tripping over the words in her excitement. “The nursing program at Johns Hopkins! Exactly the one I wanted. My advisor turned out to have a friend who knows the dean, and he made a couple of calls . . . ”

  “That’s fantastic!” I say, my voice nearly a shout. I’m genuinely happy for her . . . medical school might not have been my
big dream, but it certainly was Jayla’s. “Fantastic! So I guess you’ll be saying a fond farewell to the girls at Mirages.”

  “No way!” she says. “Not yet. If anything, I’m going to have to turn it up a notch over there. I’ve still got my savings . . . but that school is going to cost a ton. I’m going to shake it for another year, and then I’m off to sunny Maryland. But anyway — enough about my black ass. How are you and the California Prince?”

  “Good! Actually . . . Xavier asked me to move in with him. We’re just getting settled.”

  For a second I think she’s dropped her phone. “Are you for real? Seriously?”

  “For real.”

  “Damn! You sure there are no other Xaviers floating around out there in the ocean?”

  I stand and walk to the window, looking out over the vast blue expanse of the Pacific. “It’s beautiful, Jayla,” I say into the phone. “You should come. See it for yourself.”

  “You know I’d love to, but . . . shit. Never a dull moment around here,” she says, a bit sadly.

  “Yeah . . . I know. Well — listen, it was great talking to you. I’ve got to let you go. Got a package coming.”

  “Anytime, bitch. Love you!”

  “Love you too.”

  I hang up and drink wine for another half-hour until the package comes: a new cordless Dyson vacuum cleaner with a rechargeable battery. I test it out: it sounds like a hyperactive hair dryer.

  I put it in a closet in the hallway. Then I sit and watch our new Roomba travel around the carpet, searching for crumbs and dust bunnies. The cleaning service has been very thorough, however, and it doesn’t seem to find any.

  * * *

  All through the final week leading up to my surgery it is nearly impossible to keep my nerves in line. Xavier often asks how I’m doing, but although I know he means well I find that I don’t much want to talk about it. Instead, I try to keep myself distracted by putting the finishing touches on our new apartment.

  But then Boobday has actually arrived — and it’s now or never.

  I decide on now.

  I’m wearing a blue hospital gown and an elastic hospital cap. I’m lying on a padded table, looking up at an intense white light and trying to control my breathing.

  The nurses are very kind. They put me in a warm bed and give me a pair of squeezy leg socks that are supposed to keep me from getting thrombosis. The socks feel amazing — it’s a leg massage that rivals one of Rosco’s at Beauty World. I almost find myself wishing I could take them home with me.

  Dr. Michael Patterson enters the room wearing much the same gown as I am. He looks at me, still kind, still professional . . . and while that puts me at ease a bit, my heart is still pounding. What can I say? I’m nervous. Dr. Patterson asks me if I’m all right, and I force a little smile and tell him that I am.

  Then the anesthesiologist is here, an Indian man with a serious face and a formality that contrasts with Dr. Patterson’s gentle cheerfulness.

  “Hello . . . Alice White, is this correct?” I give a little nod at the sound of my old name, wondering at just how unfamiliar it sounds in my ears. “All right, so it is now time for you to have the sleep medication. So I am going to give you the special medicine, and you will sleep, and when you wake up you will be relaxing in the recovery center. Is this all right?”

  I squeeze my lips together and give a little nod, and he gives me an injection in my IV.

  A few minutes later I see darkness.

  * * *

  I wake up in a warm heavy daze of medicated confusion.

  I’m wrapped so tight it’s like there’s a boa constrictor around my chest. Xavier is at one side of my bed, Baby at the other, and they’re both got their Worried Faces on.

  Baby squeezes my hand, and Xavier keeps checking with anyone who will listen to see if I’m okay. They keep telling him Yes. It hurts, though. I complain about the pain, and they give me a dose of something and the pain recedes into a dull fog.

  They tell me that I have to stand, to go to the bathroom. I don’t want to, but the nurses are firm. They help me over to the toilet and wait until I finish, but it’s hard for me to start peeing for some reason. Eventually I can, and I do. Then they bring me back to my bed.

  After a while they get me into a wheelchair and they push me outside to the front of the hospital. Xavier has already called a limo, and he puts me inside very slowly and very carefully. Baby’s there too, and they both talk during the ride, and I think they ask me some questions . . . but it’s hard for me to focus on what they’re saying.

  We drive in silence then, until we reach our home. We leave Baby in the limo, and Xavier takes me upstairs and puts me into our big new bed.

  The pain is dulled but still very real. A wave of nausea hits me, and I begin to worry that I’ll throw up. I tell Xavier, and he looks around in the medications they’ve given me until he finds one that makes me feel better.

  Xavier makes me some soup later and he tries to feed me some, but I don’t eat very much.

  Soon I am asleep.

  * * *

  For a while it is very hard for me.

  The middle of my rib cage is very sore. Xavier makes a small joke about how it’s like I’ve been in a car accident with a pair of boobs. I smile at him a little bit, though I really don’t think it’s a very good joke.

  There are a lot of instructions to follow, so I just try to pay attention to those and not think about how it hurts. There are a lot of pills to take. There’s something called Norco for the pain, and an antibiotic, and Valium to relax my muscles and take the edge off the stress. Xavier organizes them all in a plastic pill case for me and sets an alarm on my phone so I don’t forget any of them.

  Recovery comes in stages. There’s a follow-up visit first with Dr. Michael Patterson — he tells me that my new boobs are fine, and even though they look strange and are pointing down a bit he says that it’s temporary. He tells me they’re supposed to “drop” and “fluff”, and after that they will look much more natural.

  After a couple of days I feel some flexibility returning, and I’m able to move my arms a bit more naturally. Things are a little weird in the bathroom, but there’s medicine for that, too.

  I don’t like to touch my new boobs very much at first. When I brush them accidentally it’s difficult not to find them hard and weird and . . . well, kind of alien. They feel swollen and bad. When I try to sleep they’re in the way, and I have to build a pile of pillows around them to try and keep from rolling over and squishing them. I lose track of how many times they wake me up.

  The stitches come out a week later, and the clinic staff teach me some massages that are supposed to make my boobs softer and help with the healing.

  When Baby isn’t actually with me she’s calling constantly, and she never gets tired of me asking the same thing: Just how much of this is normal?

  According to her it’s completely normal. She warns me to keep doing the massages.

  “They’ve got you on a muscle relaxant, right?” she asks. “They had me on Flexeril.”

  “They’ve got me on Valium.”

  “Okay. Well, whenever you take it, that’s when you should do them. No joke, honey. The surgical pocket can get too tight and mess up the whole implant if you don’t.”

  “I will,” I promise, smiling a little at the Mother Hen concern in her voice.

  “Oh! And Scarguard for your incision. It’s the best. Seriously — it’s what I used after my revision. You can hardly see the scars. I’ll send you some. And some Vitamin E.”

  “Thanks.”

  * * *

  While the recovery takes a little longer than I’d hoped, soon my curiosity gets the better of me about a question that’s been burning inside me since grade school: Just who exactly is Victoria, and just what exactly is her Secret? I take a deep breath for courage, then I walk inside to find out.

  I want a good recommendation, so I’m upfront about my augmentation. The staff doesn’t bat an e
ye, though — supporting new boob jobs is obviously much of their bread and butter. They help me pick out a gorgeous push-up in black lace. It’s daring, provocative, and . . . miracle of miracles, it fits beautifully.

  I revel in the reflection of myself in the mirror. I actually have boobs — I have them, I love them, end of story. Veronica Kane is all grown up.

  I stand there, turning, looking at myself for a long time. Then I take off the bra and leave the store without buying anything, much to the disappointment of the staff. The sight of my girls in a bra that hot would turn any man into an animal — and I don’t want Xavier to jump on them just yet.

  Not until I’m ready.

  * * *

  Sex does eventually return to our lives. It just comes at its own pace.

  For the first couple of weeks I really don’t want to think about it — I’m simply too sore, inflexible, and self-conscious. Xavier makes a couple of quick passes at my ass, but he’s smart enough to know that the girls are off-limits.

  It isn’t long before I find myself really wanting him again, though. And with a man as undeniably sexy as Xavier, how could I not? When that first night finally comes, he goes slow — he’s still cautious about hurting me, so I go on top of him, and though I’m startled a bit by the fact that my boobs don’t move too much yet, there are plenty of other distractions to be had . . . his lips explore every other part of my body, and the old needs quickly return. When he enters me, the feeling of him inside is like water after a long, long drought . . . a gorgeous electric thrill that makes me nearly lose my mind.

  It continues like that, the first few times that I’m with him — but then one night I make up my mind. Okay, girls — you’re part of the team now, and it’s time for you to act like it. They finally feel ready: the soreness has faded enough, and I want us to enjoy them together.

  And so we do. We’re naked in bed together one night, and I take his hands in my own . . . and I guide them to my chest.

  Xavier is gentle, but I can see that he’s eager, too. He’s been waiting for this. He moves his mouth to my nipple and licks, very lightly. It’s sensitive there, perhaps too sensitive, and I feel my front teeth come down involuntarily onto my bottom lip. He moves his warm tongue over the top of my breast then, and upward to my neck. I feel his breath, hot and intense, as it explores its way upward, finishing with a kiss at the supple flesh of my earlobe.