More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  X

  I feel my eyebrows furrow in anger. The only thing that the motel had going for it was that it I could be hidden away from Xavier here, out of his sight and control. Apparently even that was too much to hope for.

  How does he know? He’d pushed Baby until she told, maybe. Or Baby had told Randall and Randall told him. Or he’d hired a private eye. Or . . . hell, the guy is all about tech. He might be tracking me through my iPhone, for all I know.

  Or maybe . . . maybe he’s just so good at keeping track of details that nothing is left up to chance for him. I think back to the first gift I’d gotten from Xavier, that first black dress. How well it had fit — like it had been made for me.

  I reach over then, and I turn my iPhone off.

  Who knows?

  It doesn’t matter.

  I now understand that when a man has the money and resources that Xavier does, knowing every detail about a person must be completely trivial. If I’m alone right now, it must because Xavier is allowing me to have my own space.

  He might even know all about my little tryst with Mark.

  This thought makes me angry — physically furious. Ocean-View isn’t a place of escape any more . . . it’s a place of punishment. For me, not him. The letter has flipped the situation completely. I feel like a child that’s been sent to the corner for not playing well with others.

  Fuck that.

  I can’t trust my iPhone now, apparently. Instead, I collect up all the stray coins I can find, and I walk to the lobby of the hotel to find a payphone.

  The voice on the other end of the line is sleepy. “Hello?”

  I’ve never been happier to hear Jayla’s voice. “Hey . . . ” I say, the emotion raw in my throat.

  “Veronica! How’s my favorite California girl?”

  I take in a deep lungful of morning air and I close my eyes. “I am . . . not too good, actually.”

  “Aw, no. What’s wrong?”

  “Yeah . . . I am actually going through a thing with Xavier right now. I think . . . I think it’s over.”

  “What!? Why?”

  I tell Jayla about the whole mess. The line goes quiet.

  “That is . . . shit, that is really messed up,” she says.

  “I know, right?” I say. “So . . . look, I don’t know what to do, and normally I wouldn’t ask, but . . . ”

  “Oh, come on now. The answer’s yes, you know that.”

  “I . . . haven’t asked yet.”

  “’Can you stay with me?’ That’s the question. ‘Of course you can stay with me.’ That’s the answer. The place isn’t huge, and you’ll have to put up with Dom, but . . .”

  “Dom?”

  “Dom. Domino. My new cat. Black and white thing. When I got him from the cat shelter his name was Oreo, but that’s what they used to call me in grade school and it used to piss me off, so . . . ”

  “Jayla?” I can’t help but interrupt her, because even though her voice is making me smile I’m beginning to cry again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  * * *

  Soon I am on my way back to Chicago. I manage to get an economy seat on standby. There are no aisle seats available and there are no window seats either, so I wedge myself in a center seat. I’m between a nervous, poofy-haired businesswoman who makes stinkeye at me and a gentle giant of a man with large sideburns and a wedding ring. He introduces himself in a soft British accent as James, then leans back in his seat and steals furtive sideways glances at my boobs until he falls asleep.

  Halfway through the flight the an attendant offers to sell me something called a Skyfateria! tomato/pesto/mozzarella sandwich for $8.75, and though I am actually hungry enough to buy one there is a problem. They don’t take cash, and I have only one valid credit card: Xavier’s, the one that I absolutely cannot use . . . and, somehow, cannot throw away.

  I gently elbow James in his fleshy arm until he stirs, and then I tell him my predicament.

  He nods. “Not a problem, Miss. I have a card.”

  I shake my head. “It’s like nine bucks. It’s too much. Really, I have cash — let me give you the money.” I start to dig around in my purse, but James stops me and hands his MasterCard to the flight attendant.

  “Actually, no. You let me do this. I’ll be helping a charming young lady. Like I said, not a problem.”

  “You’re too nice.”

  The poofy-haired businesswoman next to me begins to rummage around in her briefcase with a sudden crackle of angry energy, and at last comes up with a dark spaghetti knot of twisted earbud headphones that she picks at with obvious frustration for nearly a full minute.

  At last they’re untwisted, and she shoves one end into her laptop and the other into her ears.

  She cranks up the volume, and I can just make out the tinny sound of her music as I eat my sandwich.

  * * *

  Jayla’s amazed at how different I look — she tries to play it off, but I can tell. I’ve sent her the odd picture now and again, of course, but there’s a big difference between judging someone’s completely new look from a selfie and actually seeing how much they’ve changed in person.

  “Bitch, you look fantastic!” she says.

  “Thanks! I mean, it’s all pretty different, but I like it.”

  “I can tell. I mean, big changes,” she says, stifling a sly grin behind her fingers, “but yeah, I can definitely get used to you like this.”

  We walk over to the parking area and she swings my carry-on into the trunk of her Volkswagen. I get in, she starts the car, and in another minute we’re on the highway.

  “Jayla, listen,” I say, turning to look at her. “I just want to say . . . ”

  She holds up a hand. “Look. We all go through some crazy, messed-up shit in this world. And we all react differently to that shit it when it comes. But I’m really glad to see that you made yourself your own person out there. You don’t have to justify anything to me. You know that.”

  I shake my head. “I appreciate that — but it’s been awhile since I’ve felt I could totally open up to someone. I’d like to get some things off my chest.”

  My hand flies over my mouth as I realize what I’ve just said. Jayla chews down on her tongue, and she stares furiously out the window at the highway in front of her. I can tell what’s going through her mind, as sure as if I were psychic: Do NOT make a boob joke. Do NOT make a boob joke.

  Her reaction makes me break into a huge grin — and I can’t help but tease her. I arch my back and point the girls in her direction. “Jayla, did you hear what I just said? I said I’d like to get something off my chest . . . ”

  She suddenly bursts into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “Yes, damn it,” she says, hitting the steering wheel with her palm. “I heard what you said! And it is ABOUT TIME you brought it up. Tell me everything! When, why? Did it hurt? You just trying to make me jealous?”

  Then I’m laughing, too. It isn’t the smoothest introduction to Veronica Kane’s Big Californication adventure, maybe, but it’s great to be able to tell someone everything start to finish — no shame, no secrets. I tell her about Baby, and Rosco, and the long pampering sessions at Beauty World. I tell her about Xavier, and the restaurants and the shopping and Dr. Michael Patterson and the vacation to Sand House. How Xavier had proposed.

  The good, the bad . . . the horrible. I tell Jayla everything.

  “And the rest you know,” I say with a sigh, as we arrive at Jayla’s apartment. “That whole drama with me and his phone and everything.”

  “That’s some nasty shit, girl, no question. You did the right thing. A guy like that wants nothing but control — and if you give him the chance, he’ll take it.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Pff — guess, nothing. I am right. Now let’s get you inside, get a cup of chai in you.”

  Jayla’s got a third floor walk-up, too. Her apartment building looks decidedly better than Mark’s did, though — while hi
s front yard had consisted mostly of twisted bicycle parts, Jayla’s is a series of well-kept tulip planters.

  Her apartment has the same tended look as the exterior — neat, tidy, but not exactly Neat Freak Neat. The kitchen is surprisingly large in comparison to her bedroom, which is a cozy example of what a person can do with a budget and a lot of creativity. It’s a look I decide to call Underwater Medical Stripper. Her bed is a soft mattress set into a cozy loft, overlooking a large study desk with a dented metal reading lamp. It’s off — most of the light in the room comes from a futuristic-looking blue lava lamp on a corner table that makes the entire bedroom seem like it’s frozen in a sea of aquamarine jelly.

  Jayla points at the ladder leading up to the loft. “Okay, so we’ve got a couple of options. First option is that you take the bed up there, if you want. It’s the best place in the world . . . until you decide that you want to have sex or need to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. The other option is that you take the Amazing Unfoldy Chair.”

  “Which is . . . ”

  Jayla walks over to the square foam armchair in the corner and gives its cushions a well-practiced flip, and soon I’m looking at a basic-but-very-decent-one-girl bed.

  “Cool,” I say. “But where do you usually sleep? Up there in the loft, or . . . ”

  Jayla laughs. “You got me. Usually I’m completely wiped from dancing or studying, and I lay my head down right here on the fold-a-bed.”

  I smile. “Okay, I thought so. I’ll take the loft.”

  “You got it. Anytime you change your mind, you just let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “You better! Now then — chai!”

  Chapter 18

  It’s not long before I find myself wishing for more cups of chai — for more long talks at the kitchen table, like the one we shared on that first night together.

  It’s simply not to be. It quickly becomes clear that I’ve stepped into the middle of someone else’s life — someone who doesn’t get enough sleep as it is. We’d ended up talking until almost three in the morning that first night, and Jayla had been too tired to bother going to her classes the next day.

  She’d laughed it off, of course.

  “Don’t worry about me, bitch! It’s not like there was a test going on,” she’d said, waving her hand at the concerned look on my face. “My classes these days are mostly PowerPoints. And they usually put those online.”

  So instead I’d ended up helping her blow off school the next day, and we’d spent the late afternoon shopping for odds and ends together. She’d kept up a steady stream of Jayla Cheerfulness as we’d picked me out a new Hello Kitty toothbrush and some fuzzy green slippers for me to slouch around the apartment in. In full Jayla Mode, she’d kept telling me how my stay was completely open-ended — about how much fun it was to finally have a roommate other than Domino.

  Still, I’d forced myself to remember something important: Being a houseguest is not going to work out for very long if I make this hard for her. If get in the way. If I keep making Jayla ditch out on her responsibilities.

  I’d waited until she was taking an after-dinner pre-Mirages nap . . . and then I’d made myself a strong cup of Nescafe and gone to work getting my life together.

  I’d made a count of my cash first. There’d been $2232 left out of what Baby had given me — all that had been left after the plane ticket and my stay at the fabulous Ocean-View Motel. Jayla hadn’t said anything yet about me sharing rent or utility costs, but as far as I was concerned it was an absolute given. I didn’t want to lose any friends down that road.

  $2232.

  Assuming I kick in $500 a month for rent and utilities, budget $500 a month for myself . . . that means I can stay here for . . .

  Fuck.

  I need a job.

  Soon.

  * * *

  Before that, though, I set about trying to become the perfect roommate.

  I begin by doing a little bit of secret late-night grocery shopping when Jayla’s at Mirages, and I make sure I wake up before her the next morning so I can surprise her with breakfast. I make us a pair of omeletes, big slices of bacon, cherry tomatoes and mushroom caps. The smell of them sizzling in the pan takes me right back to Sand House, but I try not to think about it.

  Jayla comes out of the bedroom with sleepy eyes and a hand to her forehead. “What’s all this?”

  “Breakfast! Eggs, coffee — the whole deal,” I say, gesturing at the table like a celebrity chef. “Ta-da!”

  She blinks groggily. “Oh. Oh! This is . . . shit, this is great,” she says, sounding for all the world like it isn’t really exactly great. “Thanks.”

  I can hear the uncertainty in her voice. “Why do I get the sense that I’ll be eating two omelettes this morning?” I ask, trying not to let my smile falter.

  She shakes her head. “No, it’s my fault. I should have told you. I’m actually vegetarian. Did I . . . I didn’t say that, did I?”

  I smile sadly and shake my head. “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Yeah, actually. Recent thing. I’m a healthy kinda girl these days. My bad, I should have said something. But hey, you know what? These eggs look fantastic. That’s what, spinach?”

  “Yeah . . . ” I say, already moving to clear the plates from the table. “Spinach and chorizo sausage, actually.”

  “For real? Damn. Then I guess I’ll be having myself a nice cup of black coffee.”

  “Coming right up!” I say, grabbing the pot and a mug. “But just so I know — what do you usually have?”

  “Usually? Like I said, a nice cup of black coffee. I usually grab a smoothie at the Jamba Juice on my way to class — protein, berries, all that shit. Like I said, you’re looking at a healthy girl.”

  I nod, handing her the steaming mug. “Well, I’ll be on Smoothie Patrol for you while I’m here. I can smash up fruit along with the best of them. I’ll get some blueberries in here, I’ll —”

  Jayla takes a sip of coffee and holds up her hand to stop me. “Veronica, listen — seriously. You don’t have to go to all this trouble for me, okay? Just worry about yourself for right now. Get your head together. If you really wanna make me happy, then just sit your ass down on the couch, watch yourself some Netflix, and try to save me a little bit of vodka.”

  I close my eyes. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I know you’re right, I just . . . ”

  She shakes a finger at me. “Did you get yourself some kind of Jesus complex out there in LA? I mean, I used to have the same thing . . .”

  I find myself looking down at my slippers. “Is that what it looks like?”

  “Kinda,” she says with a shrug. “I mean, when I was a kid I was always bringing home skinny kittens and stuff. Hey, don’t get me wrong. It’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes, though, you just gotta take care of yourself. I mean, that’s why you went to Cali in the first place, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Okay then,” she says, giving me a hug. “Sofa. Netflix. Vodka is in the freezer.”

  * * *

  A shot of breakfast vodka is the furthest thing from my mind, but just to make Jayla happy I grab the bottle from the freezer and settle myself onto her worn-but-cozy sofa. I turn on the TV and start scrolling through the New Releases section of Netflix while Jayla grabs her books and notes and heads off to class.

  For once I’m not in the mood for monochrome romance. I end up checking out what Jayla has watched recently, and I find an interesting documentary called Exit Through The Gift Shop. I tell myself that I’m going to turn it off after a minute and start my job hunt, but I end up watching the whole thing while I pick at one of the lukewarm breakfast omeletes. It’s about a famous political street artist named Banksy, and how he helps another street artist become rich and famous.

  “I used to encourage everyone I knew to make art,” Banksy is saying, looking into the camera. “I don’t do that so much anymore.”

  Banksy is from the U
K, and his accent makes me think of James on the plane, and I find myself wondering if maybe James has heard of him. Thinking of that plane ride with James makes me think of how I’d left California — about Baby, then Xavier, and all of the millions of other things that are now a massive terrible airplane ride away. I feel my eyes starting to get wet, and I stare at the condensation forming on the unopened bottle of ice-cold vodka on the coffee table in front of me.

  I decide to tuck the vodka back inside the freezer before it gives me any ideas. Alcohol is not what I need right now. I need some sort of . . . organization. Structure. A plan.

  A job.

  I switch off the TV and try to get pumped up. There are two kinds of people in this world, I tell myself. The ones who are going to get jobs, and the ones who have stopped looking.

  I am one of the first kind.

  I am going to get a job.

  Right . . . now!

  I march into the bedroom and turn on Jayla’s Mac, then start scrolling through ads on Monster.com:

  - Wait Staff

  - Sandwich Artist

  - Line Cook

  I . . . could do those.

  I mean, not wait staff, preferably. Not after the last time. Probably not Sandwich Artist, either, because I am not in high school anymore. Probably going to have to say no to Line Cook as well. I mean, I can cook, but I’m not really sure that I could make the same thing over and over again all day.

  - Health and Nutrition Sales (Commission Only)

  Health and nutrition — hm. I’m kind of healthy and nutritious, but that Commission Only thing scares me. Seems like you basically work for free. Unless you sell.

  I need stability.

  What began as a feeling of mild discomfort is quickly blossoming into an overwhelming sense of dread, and my eyes fly over the job possibilities, faster and faster, trying to find something . . .

  And that is when one finally catches my eye.

  * * *

  I’d never really envisioned myself as a Data Entry sort of person. Still, I can type, which seems like 99.9% of the job requirements.

  All I have to do is pass the interview.