Someday Maybe (17 page)

“Yeah?” I faced the real Nick, more than ready for him to relieve my restlessness. “Whatcha reading now?” I lowered my gaze to his mouth then cocked an eyebrow.

Some bad line, Rachel. But it worked.

Finally, a real kiss. Though at first, I didn’t know what I was doing, like kissing a hottie was a secret procedure reserved for lucky people. I hadn’t been lucky in years. But there I was, enfolded in the arms of a strong, sexy guy who cared about me, someone I trusted and liked. Yes, I liked him.

“You’re shaking.”

I lowered my chin and giggled softly, not remembering the subtleties of how to chitchat after a first kiss. Chitchat was overrated.

“Do you want my coat?”

“I’d rather you warm me up this way.” I kissed him this time. It was soft and romantic and made my heart beat fast and my palms tingle. It was everything off the checklist of what you’d read in a romance novel: the two of us under the moonlight, forcing people to walk around us, the taste of chocolate on both our tongues. Before I knew it, the shops were closing for the night, and we were the last to retrieve our car at the valet stand.

Nick double-parked on the hill outside my apartment. “Roger’s home.” I peered at the glowing light of my living room.

“We better say good night, then.”

I grabbed his rental car keys and hid them behind my back. “How can you?”

“Am I going to have to wrestle you for those?” He tucked a piece of my hair behind an ear. “I think I might like that. Or we can always”—he fingered a lock of my hair—“take a drive.”

Take a drive. That was code for “find a deserted parking lot and tear each other’s clothes off in the backseat like oversexed teenagers.”

The thought was certainly tempting, and when he kissed me again, pressing me against the car, it was very hard not to start the process right there on the sidewalk. But a voice inside my head wouldn’t let me. No, it wasn’t in my head…it was the voice from my dream telling me it wasn’t Nick.

For such a tiny voice, it rang louder than the fog horns on Golden Gate Bridge.

“It’s late.” I handed over the keys, my breaths jagged and loud—not matching my action of pushing him away. “You want to check out Bodega Bay in the morning?”

Nick exhaled a soft, frustrated moan. “Sure. But you’re driving this time.”

“Fun.” I smiled at the prospect. “I’ve got a convertible.”

He opened his car door. “You’ll pick me up at Rad’s place?”

The happy little campfire in my chest was suddenly dowsed. “Right, s-sure,” I said with a big smile that gave me a sudden headache. I hoped against hope that things would not be awkward, like Roger implied, even though there was no way in hell they wouldn’t.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I had to knock three times. I wasn’t thrilled to have to be there in the first place, climb those fourteen stairs. But since I didn’t see Oliver’s car anywhere on the street, I was fairly certain he wasn’t home. The door finally swung open. Nick had a phone to his ear.

“I tried to catch you on your cell.”

“Oh.” I pulled my phone from the outside pocket of my purse. “I must have turned it off.”

“I need to finish this conference call.” He looked properly apologetic as he stepped back and waved me in. “It’s work. Is that cool?”

I glanced past him. The place appeared otherwise empty. “No problem.”

Nick promptly disappeared down the hall and I leaned against the couch, taking an uninhibited examination of Oliver’s living room. The smell of fresh paint from the only other time I’d been there had faded. It now smelled like pinecones and—I sniffed—cinnamon? Or more specifically, Cinnamon Bliss essential oil. But that was insane.

The walls were bare except for five framed pieces of artwork. Paintings and drawings. The signature “S. Wentworth” was scribbled across the bottom of the first painting. Huh. All the pieces were Sarah’s. I knew she was an artist, but she’d never shown me her work. If she was self-conscious about her talent, she didn’t need to be. Her paintings were beautiful.

Undaunted Courage
and a recent biography of Steve Jobs were opened and dog-eared on Oliver’s coffee table. Beside them sat a black spiral notebook. I ran a finger across its cover, wondering if it was one of the great-great decedents of that notebook Oliver used to carry around with him back at USF. He was always writing in that thing. I was tempted to accidently push it off the table at the exact angle to make it fall open so I could get a peek inside, but I swiveled on my heel and walked away.

An acoustic guitar without a case leaned against the wall in the corner. I hadn’t played for years but something drew me to the instrument. I picked it up and strummed a few chords. It was in perfect tune, meaning Oliver—or whoever’s it was, Nick’s? Sarah’s?—had played it recently. My wandering fingers doodled up and down the strings, not playing anything specific. The doodles took shape, morphing into a song, the catchy, upbeat Motown classic turned melancholy under my fingers.

The floorboards of the vestibule creaked. I looked up to see Oliver standing at his open front door.

“You play. Why didn’t I know that?” It didn’t sound like a question. He shut the door with his foot.

I set the guitar against the wall. “Nick’s on the phone, so I’m waiting for him.”

“Lucky Nick.” He cleared his throat, and slowly, almost cautiously, entered his own living room. He tossed his jacket over a chair. “It’s been a while, Rachel. Two months.”

“Yeah.” I pulled at my ear. Where the hell was Nick?

“Last time we talked, you were angry.”

Very observant. And he could hardly say what we did at the end of the color run was “talk.” If he really wanted to talk to me, he could have. Okay, maybe he’d tried once, but—gah! It didn’t matter now.

I hadn’t seen him since Pasadena and noticed he wasn’t shaving his head anymore. His chestnut hair had been growing back for two months. Maybe he decided it was time for a change. Women did that all the time. He also looked slightly more tired since the last time I’d seen him. Maybe he was dating someone and out late every night, or up even later right here playing her love songs on his stupid guitar. Well, good for him.

“Was I angry?” I eyed the couch to sit, but didn’t move. “I don’t remember.”

“I do. You asked if I’d quit my job, and I asked if you were going to Dallas with…” He jerked his head toward the back of the house. “But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“
Did
you quit your job?”

“What?” He looked baffled, just like he had when I’d asked him the first time. “I still don’t have a firm plan about—” My scoff cut him off. Oliver crossed his arms, confusion turning to annoyance. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” I glanced at the couch again, then down the hall. “It’s just…you’re exactly the same. You don’t
plan
for the future.”

It was Oliver’s turn to scoff. “Don’t I?”

“Obviously not. And some people need that. Some people need to feel secure in what’s coming.”

“Life doesn’t come with a crystal ball.”

“There’re ways to take some of the risk out of the equation.” I shrugged, tired of dancing around the subject. “Though I guess some people don’t give that a second thought, even if it affects someone else.”

He pointed at his chest. “Are you talking about me?”

“
You
—” I lowered my voice when it echoed off the hardwood floors. “You have a good, steady job and you’re willing to throw it away.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but you have no idea what you’re saying.” He took a step toward me. “There’s always risk in life, especially when it comes to careers. Yes, I’m starting my own business, if that’s what you’re referring to, but I’m being smart about it. And believe me, this is
nothing
like before, Rachel. You of all people should realize that I learn from my mistakes. All of them.”

Then why didn’t he realize what he was doing was reckless? These things could take years to plan and organize. Not preparing for the future killed relationships, hurt even the strongest ones. I was living, breathing evidence. Oliver was smart, I knew this, but I didn’t understand why he couldn’t see he wasn’t being smart now.

“I…don’t know what else to say.” I blew out a breath, frustrated, trying
not
to be frustrated. Being frustrated showed I cared. And I didn’t care. I couldn’t. “We shouldn’t be talking about this, anyway.”

Nick was in the next room, I was wearing sexy new underwear, I was armed with both latex and latex-free, and it shouldn’t matter to me what Oliver was doing about his job.

“Then what should we be talking about, Rachel?” He took another step toward me. “The weather? Politics? Or that weekend with me in your dorm that you swore you would never forget?”

Heat flooded my chest. Painful, exquisite. Reeeeally unhelpful.

“I…I noticed Sarah’s paintings.” I pointed to one. “They’re excellent.”

Oliver stared at me with arched eyebrows, then he exhaled and ran a hand over the top of his head. “She doesn’t think so.”

I blew out my own slow breath. At least he was willing to drop the subject before it got any more heated.

He slid his hands in the pockets of his black suit pants. “I had to steal these from her portfolio. She hates that I hung them up, but I told her it’s therapy, preparation for when she’s in all the Soho galleries.”

I laughed under my breath and moved to another piece. Art was a safe subject. “I especially like this one. The greens and blues remind me of a dream I had the other night. All swirling and nonsensical, like a storm, disaster over the horizon, fear of the unknown, but in a good way.”

“Here’s where we differ again. I see a pattern in the chaos, a path leading out.” His voice drew quiet. “Life after the storm, in a
very
good way.”

I peeked at him from the corners of my eyes, then back at the painting. “I could analyze all day. Roger tells me I’m too literal, but Meghan claims I’m blind about what’s right in front of my face.”

Oliver placed a hand on the mantel, placing himself between me and the painting. “What’s in front of your face now?”

Before I could answer, we both turned in the direction of Nick’s voice rising to a laugh down the hallway. I felt Oliver’s eyes on me, but I glanced toward the front door out of there.

“In my opinion, things for you look clear.” He dropped his hand and stepped back.

I had a pretty good idea that he was referring to Nick, and I felt the strangest urge to explain myself, explain
why
I was with another guy—a guy who wasn’t him. That’s absurd, Rachel. Unproductive. Still, I couldn’t help asking, “What things?”

The conversation derailed when Nick entered the room. He was whistling and grinning like he’d landed a golden stock tip. “Hey you.” He rested a hand on my shoulder, giving it a little massage. “Hope you haven’t been bored.”

I looked at Oliver, waiting for him to say something,
anything
, to finish a damn thought for once in his damn life.

When he didn’t, I filled the silence with, “We were talking about Sarah’s paintings.”

Nick examined one. “Kid’s got an eye.”

“Rachel and I don’t agree on what this one symbolizes.” Oliver gestured at the swirls of green and blue.

“Huh.” Nick tilted his head as his gaze swept over the painting. “No clue.”

“I think it represents chaos and disorder.” I pointed at the painting but glanced at Oliver.

“And I see optimism,” he said, at the exact instant Nick planted a kiss on my cheek. “But I’m probably wrong.”

I couldn’t look at either guy. Why did it feel like all my options were suddenly gone? Was I marrying Nick? Were we even an official couple? No! Just because Oliver said
he
thought my future with Nick looked clear shouldn’t mean crap.

It was my life, I could do anything I wanted, be who I wanted, be
with
who I wanted, choose if I stayed at NRG Interactive until I rotted and became the next Scary Claire, or tear up my stupid ten-year plan and start over. It was up to me. I had to make the choices, or suffocate.

…

I gripped the steering wheel after shutting off the radio. Would San Francisco stations ever stop playing “Time of Your Life” by Green Day? The real title, “Good Riddance” felt more fitting, anyway.

“My head’s not in a good place right now.”

Nick actually chuckled. “Pretty cliché line for a writer, Rach.”

“Sorry.” I decelerated behind a logging truck on the way back from our touristy day in Bodega Bay that had been cut short due to my unexpected announcement. “I know it’s bad timing. I mean, you came all the way here.”

He put a hand over mine, the same hand I’d clung to last night that had slid through my hair and down my back. Its touch did nothing for me today.

“I wanted to come. We needed to be in the same room to see what was really between us.”

“Yeah.” I stared at the white dividing lines on the highway.

“And there’s nothing?”

“Not enough and not now.” I flipped my hand over so I could squeeze his. It was a gesture, nothing more, and I slid it out from his after a few seconds.

For the last two months, Nick had been my way out, or rather, my way
back
to living life again, maybe even finding love. He was fun and easy, and I really liked talking to him on the phone, emailing him, IM-ing during the workday. Plus, he was gorgeous and into me and he smelled really good and…

“I have issues,” I said.

“We all do. I get it, Rachel. You’ve been hurt. You’re not the first.”

“I was the one who did the hurting,” I said. “I think I’m still doing it, to the same person. While I’m trying to figure out why or how to stop, it’s probably not a good idea for me to be with anyone. And it’s kind of a long time coming.” Almost seven years.

Chapter Twenty-Four

A few days after I’d dropped off Nick at the airport, I called Sarah and Giovanna to meet for lunch and some serious girl time.

“Nick’s hot. You’re cray-cray.” Gio flipped her glossy black hair then dug into her salad. “If I was in your shoes, he’d be on his knees.”

I smiled at my beautiful friend. Sometimes it was hard not to tie her down and give her a Mohawk. “Thanks for the support.”

“I think what Gio means”—Sarah passed me the pepper—“is we’re a little surprised. I thought you liked him. Was there no chemistry?”

“Plenty of that.” I licked the back of my spoon. I’d ordered nothing but soup because my stomach felt queasy and my jaw ached like I’d been clenching it for hours. Maybe I had a cavity or an oncoming sinus infection. “I did like him. It’s complicated.
I’m
complicated.”

Gio snorted. “Since when?”

“Shit, guys. I miss Meghan. At least she humors me.”

“Sorry,
cheri
.” Gio put a hand over mine, her accent coming out. “Tell us all about your
many
complications, Rachel Daughtry.”

I needed lunch with my girls to take my mind off Nick, but also to take my mind off the dream I’d had last night—the creepiest one yet. Though it cut off before anything tragic happened, it was weird. I’d never come so close to dying in a dream before or…or knowing that I was about to die.

Halfway through lunch, I dropped the next bomb. “I’m considering moving back to Texas.” I’d planned the statement to sound both casual and exciting. Mostly though, I just needed to say it out loud, see how it felt released into the atmosphere. “
The Dallas Morning News
is hiring. I’ve been in touch with my old boss and…”

Sarah dropped her fork. Giovanna looked like her chair was on fire.

“I’m
thinking
about it.” My voice held much less conviction now.

“Well, stop.” Sarah slammed her palm on the table. “You can’t leave, too.”

“Rachel.” Gio looked beautifully miserable. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

“I said I’m
considering
, keeping my options open. Options are good. Choices are good. Life without choices and chances is smothering, right?” When I got nothing but blank stares, I stopped. “Forget I brought it up.”

I grabbed my drink, the ache in my jaw giving me a headache. I got a few more skeptical glares across the table at lunch, but nothing more was said on the subject until I was dropping Sarah at her dorm.

“I know why you want to leave.”

“It’s not about
leaving
, per se.” I set the car in park. “But a change might be nice, something unplanned.”

“You don’t do unplanned.”

“Oh.” I blinked at her. “Maybe I need to start.”

“I don’t want you to go,” she said, biting her thumbnail. “This just seems so spur-of-the-moment…moving, taking some new job. Is that what you really want to do?”

I looked away from her and stared at the gauges on my dashboard. “Just because I don’t have a complete plan set in stone right this second doesn’t mean I’m not working on it. What I’m doing now, or what I’m
thinking
of doing, will put me in a position to have more choices later.” I ran a finger over the cruise control button. “And I’m sorry, I don’t really want to move, either, but sometimes stepping into the unknown is necessary. Sometimes you need to take risks—
smart
risks. That’s the only way to grow.”

Sarah scoffed and folded her arms. “You sound exactly like Ollie.”

I stared at her, slack jawed, my latest inhale stalled mid-breath.

Oh. Crap.

Was this the same as what Oliver was doing?

No. No, no, no.

Well, I guess I didn’t know exactly
what
he was doing. I’d never given him a real chance to explain why he was making these choices and taking risks that seemed unnecessary. Unnecessary
to me
. He told me he was being smart about it, and I hadn’t believed him. Hadn’t even bothered to hear him.

I closed my eyes and pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead. It was burning, pounding.

No, no, no. It couldn’t be the same.

Currently, my job at NRG Interactive was more stable than ever, yet I’d considered leaving that for something new, taking a risk. But it was a calculated risk, not a spontaneous move because I was bored or felt like blowing my life savings and ruining my life.

Was Oliver preparing himself the same way?

And what about those stories I’d submitted to
Vogue
and
Best
and
Redbook
? What was my plan if something came of that? Did I need one right this instant?

Of course not. But now I could see the value in taking a chance on the unknown, preparing for that by being responsible and wise in the meantime.

My skin crawled as I remembered what I’d said to Oliver about that very thing. Accused him of being reckless and thoughtless, screwing up his life. I’d projected my fear onto him. Just like when we were nineteen.

I flinched when Sarah moved to take off her seat belt, feeling shaky and unfocused.
I
was the one who’d screwed up, not him.

“I know it’s Sunday and you have a million things to do,” she said, “but will you come inside for a minute?”

I swallowed, wanting nothing more than to be alone to finish my disgraceful self-analysis. But it was obvious Sarah wanted to talk. “Sure,” I said, and followed her inside. Her dorm room was chilly and smelled like honeysuckle candles. It was a different layout than mine had been. Good. The very last thing I needed was any more blasts from the past.

“Would you like some tea? I always drink chamomile after a meal.”

“Yes, thank you.” Tea sounded soothing to my churning stomach, but the formalness between us felt odd. I folded my arms tightly, feeling like I’d stepped into a trap by coming inside.

“Sugar?” She held two blue ceramic mugs with hand-painted daisies.

“Sure.”

She sat on the loveseat across from me, cupping her mug with both hands, but not drinking or speaking, hardly moving.

“Mmm, it’s good.” I took a few sips. “Maybe this will help me sleep tonight. I’m still having those dreams about—”

“Do you remember”—she cut me off, maybe not realizing I was speaking—“when I told you about… Umm, I feel stupid. This is hard.”

“Sarah, what’s on your mind?”

“Yesterday, I was at Ollie’s apartment doing my laundry. He knows I’m kind of seeing this one guy—it’s no big deal, but he got all bossy and brotherly and warned me not to lose focus on school.”

How ironically familiar.

Sarah stared down into her mug, rotating it between her hands. “He told me some things about his freshman year. That was the summer I was fourteen.” She lifted her chin and peered at me. “I told you about that, how my family got into goal setting and stuff around that same time.”

Talk about a blast from the past. I rubbed my nose and nodded.

“But I didn’t tell you about
before
that, what Ollie was like right when he came home from USF. He was quiet and angry, depressed—not at all like he used to be. I think my parents wanted to send him to counseling.”

I set down my mug. Pain lashed at the back of my throat when I tried to speak. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, they didn’t have to. Ollie changed on his own. Once he decided to live at home and transfer to State, it was like the first of his black clouds lifted. It wasn’t just USF he didn’t want to face, there was a girl there.”

“Sarah—”

“I’m naturally curious, Rachel. Later that day, when Ollie left for the gym, I found the box under his bed that has his yearbooks, the one from freshman year.”

I picked up my mug only to put it back down. I tried not to look at Sarah but couldn’t look away.

“All the pictures of you are circled.” She took a slow sip of her tea. “He must have bought it before your breakup. You wrote in it. Two pages.”

“I know.” I cringed when I heard my voice break.

“You
wrote
in it.” Accusation was in her tone now. “You wrote in Oliver’s yearbook, Rachel, like you were in love with him.”

“Yes.” I laced my fingers together and squeezed hard, trying to hold everything together, my emotions, especially. “I should’ve told you.”

“Yeah, you should have,” she snapped. “I’m really mad at you, Rachel. Well, I mean, I was, I wanted to be.” Her voice turned calm, then her tough façade dissolved completely and her eyes twinkled. “You and Ollie.” She leaned back and grinned. “I bet you were the hottest couple on campus.”

I blinked, still teetering on the brink of tears. “What?”

“Oh, yeah. I can totally see it. You were freaking perfect for each other, still are. You were apart for all those years then thrown back together. Meghan would call that fate.” Her eyes lit up. “Let’s call her, get her take.”

“Not a good idea.”

But she was already pressing buttons on her cell. The phone was on speaker when it rang.

“Sarah,” I hissed in panic. “Meghan doesn’t know about us.”

She stared at me and set the phone on the middle of the coffee table. “What?”

“I never told her anything—”

Meghan’s crackly voice chirped, “Hello?”