More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  Saying those words aloud feels like a cleansing. I’m breathing hard, my heart is racing, but I feel incredibly light, weightless, reborn. Whatever I’d been forced to keep inside is out of me now. I’ve just written the manifesto of my future. A declaration of independence from my past.

  I actually know what I want.

  And then I find myself wondering how it sounds. Fantastic? Ridiculous?

  I look at Xavier, half-expecting him to erupt in laughter.

  He doesn’t. He just stares at me with those eyes of his for a long, long time. He’s thinking, hard. About what, I can’t be certain.

  At last he speaks. “We’ve arrived.”

  “What?”

  “Your apartment,” he says, pointing out the window. “This is your building, correct?”

  I hadn’t even noticed. The car has indeed stopped — it’s somehow parked itself directly across the street from my building.

  “Oh,” I say, trying to steady my breathing. “Right.”

  I unfasten my seat belt and make to remove Xavier’s coat from my shoulders.

  He stops me. “Keep it for tonight. I have others.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Absolutely. Keep it safe for me, until you see me again. And I will be seeing you again,” he says. He speaks the words as if the decision has already been made. The thought that I’ll actually be seeing Xavier again fills me with a glow of joy.

  He takes his phone from his pocket — the same exotic-looking black rectangle I’d seen earlier at the club. “I’ll need your number, of course.”

  I groan. “But I can’t get yours. My phone’s still back at Mirages.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll call once you get it back.”

  I tell him my number. He taps it into the phone, smiling at the look of curiosity on my face.

  “Nice phone. Another top-secret Xavier prototype?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Is it that obvious? It’s another little mystery, yes — but one I may unravel for you in the near future. But as for right now, I need one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A name.”

  I frown. “You know my name.”

  A straggly bit of my hair’s fallen into my eyes again. Xavier reaches forward, brushing it aside with his fingertips.

  “I know two of your names, actually. I don’t know which one you prefer, however.”

  I take a deep breath. “Veronica Kane,” I say. “Call me Veronica.”

  Xavier gives me a solemn smile as he enters the letters into his phone.

  “Very well. Goodnight, Veronica.”

  I open the door and step out into the night, the click-clack of my heels rapping a confident beat against the concrete. I want to look back at Xavier, so very much . . . but I force myself not to. I walk straight toward my building, holding out as long as I possibly can.

  When I finally turn around and look behind me, Xavier’s car is gone.

  Chapter 4

  “You have GOT to be kidding me.”

  Jayla stares at me with her mouth open, a blend of shock and disbelief plastered across her face. She’s been holding her salad fork in the air for a good two minutes now, a lonesome crouton balanced precariously on the end. She simply hasn’t found a good time to put it in her mouth.

  We’re sitting at a cozy corner table together at an Olive Garden near my apartment. I’d checked my Gmail on our sputtering old Dell PC last night to find six frantic emails from Jayla, all wanting to know just where the hell I’d disappeared to. I’d let her know I was fine, and she’d set up an early lunch the next day so she could give me back my gym bag and cellphone.

  To tell the truth, I’d been pretty worried about facing her . . . I was half-terrified that she’d be furious at me for disappearing from Mirages without saying anything.

  It turns out I have nothing to worry about, though, and I learn again just how great of a person Jayla really is. She’d been all smiles and big hugs when she’d first seen me . . . and better still, she’d told me that she totally understood. Stagefright is a pretty common occurrence, it seems, especially with the amateur dancers.

  “Don’t worry about it. Nobody’s even mad or anything,” she’d told me. “Billy said to tell you that it’s all part of the fun. Said you’re welcome to try again anytime.”

  Not likely, I’d thought. I’d kept it to myself, though. Instead, I’d changed the topic to one much more pressing on my mind: Xavier. I’d told Jayla about my adventure in the alley, how he’d offered me his coat. I’d even let a few choice details slip about the adventure in his car, once Jayla had been sworn to secrecy — how I’d almost had a heart attack when Xavier had taken his hands off the wheel.

  And that’s why she’s now completely frozen. It’s a new experience for me — my stories don’t usually have that effect on people. I decide to attempt to break the silence.

  “You okay?” I ask, fluttering my fingers in Jayla’s face, trying to revive her from her catatonic state. I flash her a grin. The crouton takes the opportunity to fall off the end of her fork, clattering against the dish holding her half-eaten salad.

  She finally finds her voice. “What? That’s . . . that’s it? You sure there was nothing after that? You swear? You better not be holding out on me, bitch.”

  I smile at that as I shake my head. “Nope. Really, that’s all there is. ‘The failed stripper stumbled through the door of her apartment and woke up the next day on her sofa, still wearing her makeup’. The End.”

  Jayla gives a sympathetic laugh. “That sucks . . . but The End? No way. Trust me . . . it’s definitely To Be Continued. No way this is over,” she says, turning her attention back to her salad. She starts chasing the fallen crouton around her plate with little furtive stabs of her fork; I’m detecting some serious jealousy in her body language. “And this Xavier guy . . . what kind of name is that, anyway? He sounds like . . . like . . . ” She makes a vague gesture with her hand. “I dunno. Sounds fake to me. Like maybe he’s got a whole drawer full of passports, and only one of them says Xavier.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” I say. “So I Googled him.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “And . . . anyway, yeah,” I say, trying to recall all of the details. “He is apparently a real, actual guy. Xavier Black. Did you ever hear of a company called BlueHorizon?”

  Jayla nods, slowly. “Yeah . . . I think so. Sounds kinda familiar — some kind of Internet startup thing?”

  “Kind of,” I say. “More than just Internet, though. They’ve done engineering stuff, social networks, aerospace. I read an article that called BlueHorizon a kind of — how did they put it? ‘Silicon Valley in a box’. Xavier founded it together with his brother. He’d come up with these new inventions and business ideas, and then make these little teams to bring the best ones to market. His brother ran the business side of things. It was looking like the next Google for a while, but . . . ”

  “But not now?” she asks.

  I take a sip of my iced tea and shrug. “It gets kind of murky, but there was some kind of falling out with his brother.” I remember how Xavier had acted in the car — what he’d said about not being able to trust anyone in Silicon Valley. “He left just before BlueHorizon had their IPO a few years ago. Nobody’s really sure of all the details, but he walked away with something like $1.2 billion.”

  Jayla’s eyes pop open. She just shakes her head. “The dumb luck on this bitch right here! Falls butt-first into a lap of luxury. I swear to you, there is no justice in this world. Where’s my Xavier, huh? Tell me again how you two met . . . ?”

  I roll my eyes. “Very funny.”

  She laughs. “Well, enough about my unlucky ass. Check your phone already. This guy must have left you about a million sexy booty call texts so far.”

  I sigh. “I dunno . . . ” I say, slowly unzipping the gym bag and rummaging around for my iPhone. “I’m kind of afraid. What if he didn’t call? Or what if h
e did — what am I supposed to say?”

  Jayla points her fork straight at me. “Either you get that phone out and check your messages, or I will stab you in the eye with this fork. My hand to God.”

  I raise my hands in front of my face in mock terror. “Whoa there, crazy! I’ll check already.”

  I manage to locate my phone and fish it out, then lay it solemnly on the table between us. I take a very deep breath. It’s driving Jayla nuts, I can tell — but I haven’t had a moment like this in . . . well, ever. I want it to have a sense of occasion.

  “Okay, then,” I say, trying with very little success to keep my pulse in check. “I should just do it, then. On what — on three? One, two, three?”

  Jayla squeezes her eyes shut tight and pinches the bridge of her nose.

  “Will . . . you . . . do . . . it.”

  “Okay.” I grab the iPhone, unlock it with a quick horizontal swipe of my finger, and look around in frantic expectation for the message that should be, must be there . . .

  And there it is! From a half-hour ago:

  > Hope you slept well.

  > A special courier is currently in front of your building, anxiously awaiting your return. He has something for you — along with instructions to wait until 1:00 PM.

  > If you’re unable to meet him . . . well, another time, perhaps.

  > X

  Jayla slaps her palms on the table, sending the dishes clattering. “It’s already after twelve, girl! You’ve got to get your ass home!”

  * * *

  Jayla gives me one more big embrace as we say our goodbyes. I’m dying to see what the delivery is all about, and she’s got to go off to class. It’s a class we used to share, I realize — one I’ve now had to drop out of. She looks suddenly sleepy as she makes to leave; a moment ago, she’d been so wrapped up in my story that she didn’t look tired at all. I’m struck by just how exhausted she must usually be.

  I make double sure that I remember my doggie bag of half-eaten rigatoni, then start to walk home at a brisk pace. The sun is warm, there’s a nice bit of breeze against my face, and there’s still plenty of time until 1:00. I don’t have to wait tables until later in the evening, and bed still sounds heavenly. I decide that when I get back I’ll just crawl under the covers and wait for my night shift to begin.

  When I arrive at my building, there’s a thin man waiting for me . . . navy blue work cap, company polo shirt, khaki pants, and an enormous black cardboard box covered with EXPRESS — SPECIAL stickers. He sees me approach, waves me over.

  “Do you live here?” he asks.

  “Sure do,” I say. “Is that for me?”

  “I hope so,” he says. “Do you know anyone living here by the name of Veronica Kane? Or possibly Alice White?”

  I nod, smiling inwardly. Xavier had remembered both names after all.

  “That’s me,” I say.

  “Oh, fantastic,” he says, breathing out with relief. “Can I just see an I.D. real quick?”

  I search around in my purse for a moment, then flash him my driver’s license. It’s almost expired, I realize . . . but then again, you don’t need a license to ride the bus.

  “Sign here, would you?” the delivery man asks.

  He holds out a plastic pen, and I more or less make my signature in the little box on his electronic package-delivery-guy doodad. He thanks me and leaves, and I struggle the box into the foyer of my building. I grab the wad of mail that’s been collecting in my mailbox, shove it in my purse, and begin the climb up the stairs to my apartment.

  I have a pretty good idea who the package is from, of course, but I try and put it out of my head. It’s a habit left over from when I was little — when I’d get something I wanted, a bowl of ice cream or a Christmas present, I’d always hesitate just a bit before I’d let myself enjoy it. It helped me appreciate things more, maybe. Desire them more. Something like that.

  Anyway, I decide not to open the package until I’ve at least dealt with the pile of mail in my purse. I’ve been avoiding it for the past few days. I decide to make the package my reward for finally facing it.

  I dump the mail onto the kitchen counter to try and make sense of it all. Most of it is the normal flood of junk mail, the usual demands for money.

  Water bill. Electric bill. One of mom’s unpaid medical bills. An offer to subscribe to StudentMedNow, the “premiere magazine for today’s modern pre-med students”. More medical bills . . .

  The next letter, however, makes me go rigid. As soon as I see who it’s from, I immediately want to ignore it, bury it under the other mail, crumple it up and stuff it in the trash . . .

  But I don’t. I’ve promised myself that I’ll deal with the mail, and so I do. I rip the envelope open with my little finger and begin to read:

  Dear Ms. White —

  I would like to express my sincere condolences on the recent passing of your mother. Please know that my thoughts and best wishes are with you during this difficult period.

  Unfortunately, the nature of my business dictates that I must sometimes be the bearer of bad news during times of difficulty. I am afraid that this is one of those times.

  Our records indicate that your monthly rental payments for the last two months have not been received. If you are unable to rectify this situation in the next two (2) weeks, I am afraid that we will have no choice but to begin formalized eviction proceedings.

  I wish you the very best of luck in bringing this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Sincerely,

  Charles M. Fenton

  Building Superintendent

  Cloverdale Apartments

  Eviction. My emotions surge. I’m sad, I’m angry . . . I’m frightened. I look around the little two-bedroom apartment where I’ve lived for so long, and it’s like I’m seeing it with new eyes. I’ve always thought of this place as my home . . . but it isn’t. Not really. It doesn’t even belong to Mr. Fenton, the sad-eyed man who says hello to me in the hallway and occasionally stops by to fix my toilet. It belongs to Cloverdale Apartments, some faceless entity that hardly knows I exist.

  Except, of course, when the rent is overdue.

  I’m breathing quickly now — my hands begin trembling, and I rub my palms together to try and stop them. It’s fear, real fear — nothing like the stagefright at Mirages, but actual real honest-to-goodness heart-pounding terror. I’m having the beginnings of a genuine panic attack — it’s all I can do to keep myself in check. I start to pace, back and forth and back and forth, my eyes scanning the room wildly . . . as if any of the battered furniture or mom’s old knick-knacks are going to be of any help to me right now . . .

  And then my eyes fall on the package.

  Truth be told, I’m not at all in the mood for a reward anymore . . . but it’s easy to see the value in a distraction from my pile of new problems. The package seems so much more substantial than anything else in the room at the moment. I focus on it, concentrating, until I feel my breathing begin to slow and my hands start to steady themselves.

  The box is made of thick matte-black cardboard, roughly chest-high, sealed with tape. It’s scuffed a bit from its journey, but somehow it still manages to be the most dignified-looking thing in the room.

  I pull the box into my bedroom and flop it down on my bed. I find a pair of scissors, slit the packing tape, and hold my breath as I gently ease it open.

  Inside is a dark mass of neatly-folded purple tissue, expertly tied with a thick cord of soft braided rope. There’s a small tag hanging from the center knot:

  K E I J I Y O S H I D A

  Fashion Concepts

  Tokyo — Paris — Milan — New York

  . . . and below that, in the crisp, whippy stroke of a fountain pen:

  For Veronica

  A Beautiful Thing

  From Xavier

  I pause for a few long seconds, allowing myself to dance into the moment.

  A beautiful thing.

  I let my fingers trace their way alo
ng the surface of the expensive wrapping paper. I’ve received presents before — but never anything like this. It’s been prepared with such obvious care that I almost don’t want to disturb it.

  Curiosity quickly gets the better of me, though. I untie the knot, unfold the paper.

  Inside is the most remarkable dress I’ve ever seen. The material, though dark as the box and the tissue it came in, seems to actually shimmer in the light of my bedroom. It’s a dark, semi-iridescent purplish-black that reminds me of Xavier’s handkerchief. I hold my breath as I lean forward to pick it up. The lavish material is an exquisite kiss against my fingertips. The dress is so light it is almost weightless — a decadent thing from some unimaginable dream.

  I hold it to my chest and look at myself in the mirror. It’s sleek and sultry — completely unlike anything I own. Something to wear on the deck of a yacht at sunset, at a private table of a three-star restaurant . . .

  I so need to try it on. Now.

  My sweatshirt and jeans are off in an instant. I’m suddenly worried that it won’t fit, that it’ll sag at my A-cups, and I say a soft little prayer that one thing will go right for me this afternoon.

  Please. I need this.

  With the greatest of care I pull the dress over my shoulders.

  It fits!

  It fits, and to absolute perfection. The sensation of the fabric is very nearly erotic, and I’m suddenly glad about my recent close shave. The dress is silk, I suppose, but I’ve never felt silk like this — its caress is softer than a whisper. It reaches down to mid-thigh . . . provocative, but certainly appropriate for an evening of clinking champagne flutes together.

  Except . . . something’s missing, and my reflection tells me what it is: shoes.

  I’m pushing my luck, but I decide that another look in the box is in order. Sure enough, there they are: a glossy pair of hand-stitched heels in a deep shade of violet leather. They compliment the dress wonderfully, and fit just as well. It’s as if they’ve been crafted just for me.