The Other Side of Someday (22 page)

“Just keep rolling. Add more flour if it gets too sticky,” Sebby instructed as I struggled to make a circle out of the dough we had made from scratch. Apparently, he had worked at a New York-style pizza shop during his high school days and had become quite the master at tossing dough, making him the perfect person to help me cross
Learn how to toss pizza dough
off my mother’s list. I was eager to see him in action, wondering if he had become rusty over the years and would splatter dough all over my condo.

“I think I’m a complete lost cause at this.” I glanced between my pizza dough and his, which looked to be expertly rolled out into a slightly larger ball than he had begun with.

“It takes practice, Baylee,” he encouraged.

“I’ve always sucked at this kind of thing. I can make cakes and stuff like that, but rolling dough? Never been my forte.” I wiped my brow with my arm, probably smudging flour on it in the process.

“There’s nothing to it,” he insisted. “The hardest part is making the dough. Once that’s done, all you have to do is get it into the right shape and you’re good to go.” He winked.

Sighing, I returned my attention to the disaster in front of me, ready to throw in the towel. A loud knocking broke through the silence, followed by the sound of someone barging into my condo. We both shot our heads up simultaneously to see Cora running through the foyer, coming to an abrupt stop when she realized I wasn’t alone.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, smirking and crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Sebby’s torturing me by trying to teach me how to toss pizza dough. Little did I know I’d have to learn
how
to make pizza dough first.”

“Oh, jeez.” She took a seat at the large kitchen island opposite us, eyeing our projects with interest. “I thought you said you weren’t a great cook.”

“I’m not,” I responded, rolling my eyes.

“I’m not taking any excuses,” Sebby explained. “She’s crossing another thing off that bucket list today if it kills me.”

“It just might if you eat this pizza later,” I joked.

“I supervised. I should be okay. If not, well… It’s been nice knowing ya.”

“Ditto.”

We shared a smile, then I returned my attention to Cora. She raised her eyebrows at me, questioning. No matter how many times I had assured her and the rest of our circle of friends that there was nothing going on between Sebby and me, they always gave me that same look, as if they knew something I didn’t. Sometimes I wondered if they did.

“So… To what do I owe this visit?” I asked, ignoring the expression on Cora’s face.

“Right,” she started, an eagerness about her. “I just got home from a promotional shoot for one of my charities. That freelance photographer I told you about was there and I talked to him.”

“Great.” My tone displayed my lack of enthusiasm. I didn’t know what came over me when I agreed to her little plan. Part of me was hoping this photographer of hers wasn’t interested.

“He was
very
intrigued by what I told him.”

“And what was that?”

“That doesn’t matter…”

“It does if you told him stuff that isn’t true.”

“I didn’t,” she insisted. “He’s free on Tuesday if you are.”

I glanced at Sebby, whose attention seemed to be entirely devoted to his pizza dough, but I saw his jaw tense, his back growing rigid. I raised my eyebrows and he gave me a strained smile, kneading the dough in front of him with so much force, his formerly perfect ball became torn from being overworked.

“I am.” I smiled, ignoring Sebby’s jealous antics.

“Good. Initially, he tried to plan something for Saturday, but I know you said that’s your birthday, so—”

Sebby’s head shot up. “Your birthday’s coming up?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

“Were you going to tell me so we could celebrate it?”

“I don’t celebrate my birthday.”

“Why not?”

“No reason.” I grabbed my rolling pin and started butchering my pile of pizza dough once more, most of it sticking to the pin and the counter. “There’s too many expectations on birthdays…expectations that are never met. So I figured if I stopped celebrating it, I could never be disappointed.”

“That’s Baylee’s way of saying Will never remembered her birthday,” Cora offered. “Trust me. I’ve been there.”

“Really?” Sebby questioned.

“It’s not a big deal.” I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible about it. In truth, it bothered me that Will never put in the effort to do anything for my birthday. No card. No flowers. Nothing. Not even a phone call or text wishing me happy birthday. It was never mentioned. “Saturday would have been fine,” I assured Cora, “but Tuesday will work better so I can prepare for my uncle’s arrival on Sunday.”

“Perfect.” Cora jumped up. “I’m out of here. Tuesday night, Baylee. Seven o’clock at The Lobster.”

I nodded and turned my attention back to Sebby, watching with intrigue as he began prepping his dough to toss. In an instant, it went flying in the air and back down again, growing in diameter with each toss, taking on the shape of a large pizza.

“Wait!” I shouted just as Cora was about to walk out the door. She spun around. “What’s his name?”

A sly grin crossed her face. “I guess that kind of information is necessary.”

“Yeah. Not so sure I want to approach every whack job at the restaurant asking if he’s my blind date. Never know what kind of unsavory character I could meet that way.”

“Never know what kind of unsavory character you’ll meet on a blind date anyway,” Sebby mumbled under his breath so only I could hear him. I glowered at him and he shrugged apologetically.

“True. His name is Owen. Owen Macallan.”

I studied her, my lips turning into a small smile. “Like the scotch?” I tried to stifle my laugh.

“Yes, Baylee. Like the scotch, except he’s not Scottish. He’s Irish, and he has the accent to prove it.” She spun on her heels and left.

Silence hung in the condo for a brief moment before Sebby turned to me. “You’re going on a date with a man named after a scotch?”

“Why not? Macallan is a good scotch. It could be worse. I could be dating someone named after a crab in a Disney movie.”

“Touché, Dixie. Touché.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

W
HEN
T
UESDAY
ROLLED
AROUND
, my nerves about my impending blind date were at an all-time high. I couldn’t remember being as nervous about my gay date or gyno date. There was something daunting about being forced into a social situation with someone to whom I had never spoken a single word. What would we talk about? What if we had nothing
to
talk about? What if he were an egotistical asshole? What if he didn’t like dogs?
Gasp!
I would give anything to be able to pick up my phone and call someone for advice. These were the moments in life I hated. The moments when I could use a little motherly encouragement.

Flopping onto the couch, my eyes fell on my mother’s journal sitting on the coffee table.
She must have some sort of wisdom about this kind of a thing
, I thought, picking it up. I flipped through the pages, scanning each one for something relevant. She wrote about her bucket list and all the things she accomplished during her last year of life. She saw the Great Wall of China. She snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef. She even swam with the sharks. My mother was absolutely fearless. When death stares you in the face, I suppose you learn to conquer your fears.

I stopped flipping the pages when something caught my eye.

June 9

Dear Diary of a Dying Cancer Patient,

Today is the anniversary of my first date with Perry. I’m not going to say how many years. That would date me. I feel old and sluggish enough these days. Apart from the fact that I’m building a human inside of me, my body is fighting it. Part of me wonders whether I’m making the right decision, but when I see the little baby bump starting to form, I know I am.

It’s a little bittersweet knowing that this is the last first date anniversary I’ll celebrate with Perry. He’s tried to remain strong, but I can tell today has been difficult for him. We never really celebrated this anniversary before, but we did this year. He bought out the drive-in theater for the night. It’s still standing, even after all these years. We even drove his old pick-up truck there. You can imagine my shock when the movie
Gidget
began playing on the old beat-up screen. I felt as giddy as I did during that first date all those years ago.

As we lay in the bed of his truck, watching the movie that had brought us together, I tried to stay strong for Perry. But as I was watching Gidget’s mom tell her all about how she would know when she was in love, how it would feel as if she had been hit over her head with a sledgehammer, I broke down in tears. I never wanted to leave that moment. For that brief moment in time, I felt it… I felt magic.

I don’t want the magic to end.

“Magic,” I breathed, caressing the faded papers that were scrawled on by the woman I never knew but wished I did. Comforted by my mother’s words, I felt a renewed outlook on my evening; however, that didn’t mean I was still ready to go in completely blind, no pun intended. This was the twenty-first century, after all. There was no such thing as a blind date anymore, not with how pervasive social media was…unless my date was one of those strange people who abhorred technology. Something inside me didn’t think that was the case. So I did what any normal twenty-something would do living in this modern day and age. I grabbed my laptop, booted it up, and set out to Facebook stalk him.

I found it disconcerting how many profiles returned with the name Owen Macallan. I could understand if his name were John Smith or something like that, but I didn’t think I would have a hard time narrowing down my date with a somewhat obscure name like Owen Macallan. Apparently, I was wrong.

As I scrolled through all the Owen Macallans on Facebook (296 of them, to be precise), I finally stopped on one that looked about right. His profile indicated that he lived in Los Angeles and was a freelance photographer. I could have been wrong, but I found it hard to believe there was more than one freelance photographer named Owen Macallan running around the streets of this city. Confident I found him, I clicked on his profile.

“Hmm,” I muttered. “It’s not set to private.” Rubbing my hands together, I grinned mischievously. “Let the Facebook stalking begin!” Sport yipped and I scowled in his direction. “Don’t yell at me. If he didn’t want anyone looking, he wouldn’t have made it public.” I returned my attention to the laptop, feeling like a kid walking into a candy shop with a hundred dollar bill.

I clicked on his photo album and was immediately inundated with a multitude of pictures. I had to hand it to Cora. She had good taste. He had a full head of dark hair and was very well-groomed, although he did sport a bit of scruff in some photos, but not in a way that made him look unkempt. It was hot and sexy. “Rugged man.” I smiled, taking a sip from my coffee mug. I continued my sleuthing, scrolling through photo after photo…some at bars with his friends, some of him working on one shoot or another.

“Well,” I said to Sport. “At least Cora set me up with someone who isn’t completely hideous.”

Returning to his Facebook profile, the wheels started turning in my head when I saw he had recently checked-in at a hotel down the street. “What’s he doing there?” I wondered out loud. “Oh, here it is, Sport. It says he’s ‘Pool-side, catching up with a few college buddies’.”

Tapping my fingernails on the laptop in front of me, I couldn’t resist the devil on my shoulder who was prodding me that I had a perfect opportunity to settle my nerves about tonight. There was only so much I could find out about him by snooping through his profile. What I needed to do was see this guy in person.

I ran up the stairs and into my bedroom, rummaging through my dresser to find my bathing suit. Sport jumped up on my bed and stared at me as I went about grabbing my things. “Don’t give me that look. If he didn’t want anyone to know where he was, he would not have broadcast that information for all to see.” Sport tilted his head toward me, as if he were waiting for further explanation…or a treat. I couldn’t be sure which. “I’m not going to talk to him. I’m just going to observe from afar.”

After throwing my e-reader, sunscreen, and sunglasses into a tote bag, I put on my bikini, checking my reflection in the mirror. “Not bad, I guess,” I said, turning around as I raised myself on my tiptoes to check my backside. I was lucky that I had inherited my mother’s petite frame, although I would have done anything to be a bit taller.

“What do you think, Sport?” I asked over my shoulder before returning my attention to my reflection and the navy blue and white polka-dot two-piece I wore. “Well, I guess it really doesn’t matter anyway, does it?” I grabbed a white sundress cover-up, then headed out the door. Within a few minutes, I was driving down Ocean Avenue toward the hotel on the other side of Santa Monica Pier.

I lowered my windows, allowing the wind to blow through my hair. It was an unseasonably warm day for mid-November. The past few weeks had been chilly for Southern California, the temperatures barely making it above sixty degrees. Today, however, summer had momentarily returned. The sun was shining, there were only a few small clouds in the sky, and the temperature was beginning to reach eighty. It was the perfect day to sit by the pool and soak in the sun. Who knew when we’d get another day like this before winter hit, although winter here seemed to have nothing on winter back in the mountains of North Carolina.

After getting stuck at practically every stoplight during the two-mile drive between my condo building and the hotel, I finally reached my destination and handed the keys to a waiting valet. I entered the lush hotel through the revolving door, resisting my innate temptation to keep going around in circles, deciding to act my age instead.

“Well, I came all the way here. May as well follow through with this,” I said to myself, pulling out my large, floppy sunhat and placing my sunglasses on my face so my potential date didn’t see me spying on him, just in case he had also done some Facebook snooping.