Someday Maybe

by Ophelia London

  We hopped off the trolley across the street from Golden Gate Park. To the left was the café we’d talked about eating at, and to the right was the street toward home. Before I could come up with an excuse for skipping on dinner, we both headed right.

  “Okay,” Meghan said, “I can tell you’re totally wiped out. Get some sleep, bestie. We’re all going out tomorrow night, no?” When I gave her a doubtful look, she got right in my face. “You promised, Rach. You totally bailed last weekend.”

  “Okay, okay.” I laughed, as we stopped on the corner between our two apartments. “I’ll be there.”

  She stepped in front of me, her head tilted to the side. “Take care, you.” She kissed me on both cheeks, something she’d been doing for years, attempting to appear more Hollywood. “Mmm, you smell dreamy.” She stuck her nose to my neck and sniffed. “What is that? Lemon zest?”

  “Tangerine and chamomile oils. It’s supposed to be grounding.” I took a whiff of the inside of my elbow. “You like it?”

  “Totally yumsville.” Megs grinned and did a little twirl on the corner, waiting for the light to turn green. “Have a good night, Rach.” She stopped in the middle of the crossway and turned back to me. “Hey. Just think, maybe you’ll meet Mr. Right tomorrow night. I’ve got hot friends.”

  “Works for me!” I waved good-bye, catching sight of her again as she crossed the next street. Her apartment was two streets over from Roger’s. I could actually see her porch light if I squinted just right.

  After I made it up the steps, I leaned my elbows on the ledge and gazed up at the sky. It was wide and bursting in a colorful sunset. The kind of sky a Californian could be proud of. I sighed, feeling a bit more grounded and at peace at being here.

  Right on the heel of that peace came a pang of the old regret. I hadn’t expected Oliver to invade my thoughts so much.

  Face it, Rach. You’ll never be ready to meet a Mr. Right, a Mr. Almost-Right, or even Mr. Maybe-For-A-Few-Hours until you banish all memories of Oliver Wentworth.

  After I zeroed in on one silvery star, I wrapped my arms around myself, moved inside, and bolted the front door, hoping I wouldn’t dream about Oliver again.

  Chapter Seven

  April, Freshman Year

  Roger was uncharacteristically quiet as we moved around his kitchen, preparing our traditional Sunday morning sibling brunch. After eight months, we were like a well-oiled machine at it. Though it was odd not to be making even small talk. Graduation was looming and Rog had been accepted to both Stanford and NYU for grad school, though he hadn’t yet decided if he was ready to give up being a West Coaster.

  I figured that was what occupied his mind, until he said, “How serious is it, Rachel?” He was cramming two pieces of bread in the toaster. “With you and Oliver Wentworth.”

  Hearing that name come out of Roger’s mouth made me drop the egg-covered spatula I’d been holding. I stared at my brother across his kitchen, my mind going a million miles an hour in a million directions. He stared back, his expression giving nothing away. Was he pissed? Shocked? Disappointed?

  I glanced at the front door, wondering if he could catch me if I tried to flee the scene without answering.

  “Um, serious,” I finally replied, moving the pan of scrambled eggs off the heat before I burned them any worse.

  “When can I meet him?”

  “Ha!” I couldn’t help snorting. “You guys are so anxious to meet each other, why don’t I set up a date for just the two of you?”

  Roger’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s been wanting to meet me?”

  My stomach dropped. This wasn’t a joke. I brushed past him to dish out the eggs. “How did you find out?”

  He folded his arms and leaned against the counter. “So it was a secret.”

  I scoffed and rolled my eyes, doing my best to play the role of surly little sister.

  “Let’s go out tonight,” he said, both of us dodging each other’s questions. “We’ll do dinner—my treat, no pressure.” He smiled, though there was a dare behind his eyes. “Unless you have something to hide.”

  Of course I had a choice; my brother wasn’t lord and master over me. But he was a master at hitting where it hurt. “I’m not hiding him, we’ve been busy,” I said, bending the truth to the point of almost snapping. Because the glaring truth was, Roger would be pissed to high heaven if he found out about my sucky grades. Though, knowing my big brother, he’d be more pissed at Oliver. “Why do you always suspect I’m up to something?”

  “Because you always are.” His calmness while being logical made me crazy.

  “Fine, Roger, fine. You wanna meet him? No problem whatsoever.” I gave him a tight smile, holding my eyes wide and steady, taking his dare. “Just say when and where.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Sure is.”

  It hadn’t registered—what I’d just agreed to in my irrational haste—until smirking Roger was programming the address of the restaurant where we’d be meeting into my phone. Dammit. I braced myself against the sink, feeling queasy and feverish, sweat breaking out under my hair. Maybe if I said I was coming down with West Nile Virus, Rog would cancel.

  But Oliver would learn I’d weaseled out of the meeting, and that would crush him.

  Oliver held open the door to let me enter first, but I wasn’t ready. “You’ll do great,” he said, touching the small of my back.

  “Yeah, you too.”

  He laughed and gazed past me into the restaurant. “You’re the one who’s worried, Rach. I’ve been looking forward to this for months.” He was grinning when he looked down at me, but it dissolved, maybe sensing that I was stress-sweating under my clothes and that my stomach was tied in a very complicated sailor’s knot. “Hey, hey, it’ll be fine, seriously.” He pressed his lips to my temple. “Don’t worry, sweet pea.”

  It shouldn’t have surprised me that the guys got along, had typical guy things in common. They were only three years apart, though Roger always seemed like a “grown-up” rather than a peer. I wanted them to get along—I did. Two of the most important men in my life. But the stress-sweating kept up all through dinner.

  Right as we agreed to order dessert, Roger scooted his plate and glass away, folded his arms on the table, and leaned forward. “So, tell me, Oliver.” There was a slight clench to his jaw, the first hint of aggression all night. “What are your plans for the future?”

  “Rog,” I said, squirming in my seat. “What happened to your promise of no pressure?” Though, secretly, I’d been wondering this same question for months.

  My brother didn’t move his eyes from Oliver. “Can’t he answer for himself?”

  “Roger.”

  “Rach.” Oliver touched my knee under the table. “It’s cool. He’s in big brother mode now.” He moved his eyes from me to Roger. “I respect that.” Then he cleared his throat and spoke of his plan to lifeguard back home over the summer, and of a job his uncle had waiting for him with his construction company.

  Evidently, Roger had been holding back during dinner, because he went on to question Oliver about everything, from his still-undeclared major to his student loans. I couldn’t pretend those issues didn’t irk me, too, but I wouldn’t voice that in front of Roger. I’d never really voiced it to Oliver, either.

  My brother wasn’t letting it go, though, and the tension of not being able to help was unbearable. I had to do something to get him off Oliver’s back.

  “You should probably know, Roger,” I interrupted when I couldn’t take it anymore. “We’re moving in together next year.”

  Oliver did a double take at me. “We are?”

  “Yes.” I nodded, glancing at him first, then glaring at my brother. There was no way he would call my bluff.

  Roger actually chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Did you tell Dad?”

  I huffed. “It’s no one else’s business.”

  “So, that’s a no.”

  I was ready to bare my teeth and go for his throat,
protection instinct kicking in, and more than a little sibling annoyance.

  “Rach,” Oliver said, slipping a tiny bottle of lavender oil into my hand. “Why don’t you take a walk?”

  “I’m not leaving you with him.”

  He laughed under his breath and glanced across the table. “I swear not to throw the first punch if he promises the same.”

  The first smile in a half hour crossed my brother’s face. “Deal.” He nodded toward the courtyard. “Give us a minute, Rach.”

  I glanced back and forth at them; both of their expressions were eerily blank, so I gave up. “Okay.” After coating my pressure points in lavender, I made exactly one loop around the parking lot then returned to the dining room. Neither guy was smiling anymore, but I didn’t notice any blood, either. I took that as a good sign. Oliver was on his feet by the time I got back to the table.

  “If I don’t hear from you this week,” Roger said to me, “I’ll see you next Sunday at breakfast.” He nodded at Oliver. “Wentworth.”

  “See ya,” Oliver said. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “You’re welcome.” Rog leaned back in his chair and had his phone out, paying no further attention to us.

  “Um, bye,” I said.

  Oliver clasped my hand and had to pull me away from the table. “I only wish we could do that every night,” he said the second we were outside the restaurant.

  “What happened in there?”

  “The president of the student body grilling me, you mean?” He dropped my hand and put an arm around my shoulders as we set off to walk the six blocks to my dorm.

  “Was it bad?”

  He chuckled. “Not even a little, Rach.”

  I scrubbed at one eyelid. “Wow. You’re braver than me.”

  He pulled me into his side. My limbs were shaking from leftover adrenaline, but I wasn’t as relieved as I thought I should be. In fact, the whole thing was kind of…disappointing. Had I wanted there to be blood? Had I wanted Oliver to throw a punch or demand my hand in marriage? Or had I expected Roger to order me to break up with him?

  “What a relief,” I said, smiling at him, while gnawing the inside of my cheek. “I was afraid you might cut your losses and head for the nearest sorority house in search of a less complicated girlfriend.”

  “Sweet pea, I crave your kind of complication.” He twirled me under his arm then into a hug. He was so damn happy. After he planted a kiss on top of my head, he said, “So, we’re moving in together, huh?”

  My heart thudded inside my ribs. I still wasn’t sure why I’d thrown that into the conversation. “Um, if you want to.”

  “Hell, yeah. Are you kidding?” He took both my hands and laced his fingers between mine. “This”—he tugged me forward to kiss my forehead—“all day, every day.”

  “Yeah,” I said, trying my best to sound as jazzed as him. But a brick sat in my stomach, and a heavy, antsy feeling I couldn’t explain made it hard to breathe.

  He draped an arm across my shoulders as we walked. “You’re constantly surprising me, Rach.” In silence, I played with his fingers until we reached my dorm. “Thank you for setting up tonight. It meant a lot to me.”

  He sounded really happy, which made me happy that I could do that. The moment we kissed, that brick of dread in my stomach got blasted to bits by an eruption of heat and love, making my knees buckle, making me want to do more than kiss him. This…this was what I wanted. This was all that mattered. Why couldn’t my head and my heart ever communicate properly when it came to Oliver?

  “You’re so sexy when you’re my superhero.” I squeezed him tight. “Wanna sneak up to my room so you can show me who’s boss?”

  He exhaled a playful groan into my hair. “I’m dying to, but we can’t get caught again.”

  “What about your place?”

  “The guys are having a party; there’ll be fifty people over.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll drag you into the bushes. It’ll only take six minutes.” I knotted my fingers in the back of his hair and kissed his neck. “Maybe less.”

  His body shook with laughter. “You’re so sexy when you’re trying to be hilarious. I love that about you.” He dipped his chin to kiss the spot behind my ear. “Wait until the party’s over at my place and spend the night. I want to watch you sleep.”

  “Oliver,” I said, giggling into his warm neck. “You don’t really do that.”

  He cupped my face, lightly running his fingertips over my eyelids. “All the time,” he said. “I can tell when you’re dreaming about me.”

  I giggled again, a little self-consciously, like he truly did know how often he frequented my REM cycles.

  He kissed my eyelids. “When you’re just waking up, too. That might be my favorite moment. It’s what I picture when you’re not right here.” He touched his forehead to mine. “Every night I’m not with you, I can still see you waking up beside me.”

  The fluttering in my heart was almost painful, but I felt warmth, followed by an acute sting behind my eyes that wasn’t at all unpleasant. He pressed me against the glass doors that were about to lock me out for the night, kissing me one last time. When we were done, he waved good-bye through the window and turned toward home, leaving me to drift upstairs to my room.

  Despite the surprising success of the evening, my subconscious would not allow me to rest. I tossed and turned all night with intense, stormy dreams. There was thunder and rain, earthquakes, and I woke up sweating bullets, my covers kicked to the floor.

  The sun had barely risen when a knock sounded at my door. I scrambled out of bed, expecting to see Oliver. But it was Roger, holding two cups from Starbucks.

  “Rach.” He extended a cup. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter Eight

  Hearing Roger’s chipper voice through my cell made me smile.

  “Hi, Double.”

  “Hey, Trouble.” I leaned back in my office chair, also happy for his crystal-clear voice after only emails and fuzzy phone connections. “When’s your flight home?”

  “Tonight. I’m so tired of traveling. How’s my dog?”

  Rog would be a great daddy someday. He’d been out of town for less than two weeks, but Sydney’s well-being was always one of the first things he asked about.

  “After a run through the mud last night, I let her roll around in your bed, then we had a marathon petting session. You missed all the fun.” My brother laughed as I gave him a blow-by-blow account of Sydney’s actions, while I stared at my blank computer screen, needing to come up with a brilliant idea to sell some odd-tasting table crackers from Romania before Claire came at me with a hatchet.

  Roger and I caught up, chatted next about the Golden State Warriors basketball game we’d both watched an ocean apart a few days ago. I also told him I’d gone to the wharf with Meghan and stocked up on sourdough bread bowls.

  “She invited us to some party on Friday.” I toyed with a mini bottle of peppermint oil, the one I carried around with me like old-fashioned smelling salt. “Not this Friday but next.”

  “Is it at Tim’s house?”

  “Yep. If I go, I’ll probably stay here at the office then meet you guys since I’m already halfway to his place.” I ran my hand across my desk, temporarily relieved that I didn’t have any overdue project cluttering the smooth surface. “But can I tell you, I’m getting pretty sick of going up to North Beach. I work close by, we do dinner up there, the best theaters are up there, and so far every happening social gathering worth attending has been in North Beach.”

  “Was there a party up there last weekend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you go?”

  “No, and Meghan almost stroked out, but is it not my right as an American to boycott North Beach for one weekend?”

  Roger didn’t reply. Had our overseas signal died out? I was ready to start in with the old “can you hear me now?” back-and-forth when he spoke again.

  “That’s good, Rach, because it’s actually the reason I called
. You should definitely stay away from those parties at North Beach, okay?” His voice sounded weird, overly-protective, reminding me of that first year at USF.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” he said after another silent moment. “I guess you don’t know—or you do know.” He sighed, and I could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose in concentration. Right as I was about to worry about his level of stress, he broke the tension by chuckling. “You know what, it’s not a big deal. I just wanted to tell you—”

  “Rog, hold on a sec.” I hated cutting him off, but Bruce was barking at me from around the corner about how I needed to edit the copy on the Shreveport Slow Boat poster STAT!

  STAT? Really? Who talked like that outside an ER?

  “Sorry, Rog. The world’s about to come crashing down if I don’t save it with my mad editing skills. See you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow.”

  After I cut our call short, I reached for my computer tablet. Some days, the only notion that kept me going was that if I got my act together and hung on, I would probably have Bruce’s job in a few years, then the career possibilities were endless. My plan was on track. That was all that mattered.

  “Move it, Ray-Ray.”

  I scooted out my chair, and with a roll of my eyes rounded the corner toward his gym-socks-smelling office. An hour later, emotionally drained, I returned to my desk and slumped into my chair.

  Roger had phoned again and left a voicemail. I clipped on my Bluetooth to listen to the message while I packed up to go home. Through heavy static, it was tough to make out what he was saying—he was doing the stammering thing he’d done during our earlier conversation. When his voice was clear and stable for two seconds together, however, I could’ve sworn he said…

  I dropped my bag on the floor and stared blankly out into the hall, twisting my computer cord around one finger.

  I am actually going crazy now. Certifiably. I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself that I’d misunderstood Roger’s message. When that didn’t work, I played it again.