More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  Maybe.

  Maybe if Rosco had seen me that night, he could have given me a nice sarcastic laundry list of style pointers — rolled his eyes at the pasties on my burlesque costume, asked to know at which truck stop gift shop I’d purchased my shoes.

  Probably.

  Maybe if Baby . . .

  Well — come to think of it, Baby would have just had another shot of Jägermeister and screamed her head off the moment I came out onto the stage.

  Anyway.

  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

  My routine isn’t perfect that night. I’m not perfect that night. But my count . . . my count . . .

  1, 2, 3, 4 . . .

  My count is on.

  . . . 5, 6, 7, 8.

  My count is dead-on.

  That is enough — and there, on that stage, in front of the noise and the lights and the desperate eyes of the desperate crowd, I finally make my peace with Perfection.

  * * *

  I don’t really want to drink much tonight, and normally I’d go straight for the Diet Dr. Pepper and a tall glass of crushed ice.

  Still — traditions are traditions.

  “Ladies,” says Jayla, looking at us like a mama bird with her chicks, “I would like to get a toast up in here: to the new graduates of Amateur School! Cheers, ladies!”

  We raise our champagne flutes together in adrenaline-fueled celebration — me and Jayla, the girls of Amateur School, and some random guy calling himself Hank. He’s the one providing the bottle of not-too-bad champagne for our celebration, which means he gets the honor of hosting the after-dance party at his table. The look on his face tells me he thinks it’s a fair trade.

  We did it. Every one of us.

  “Oh my god — I messed up so bad out there!” says Kayla, obviously embarrassed.

  “No way!” says Jasmine. “I saw you — you looked amazing. Anyway, that was a tough act to follow, Veronica.”

  Hank, red-faced and more than halfway drunk, erupts with a sudden explosion of far-too-loud laughter. “WELL!” he booms, in a voice like a thunderclap. “I THOUGHT YOU ALL DID GRRRRREAT!”

  We all look blankly at him, suddenly remembering that he’s there.

  Awkward. We all pause for a second, holding our champagne glasses frozen in mid-air.

  “Uh — thanks, Hank!” I say, flashing him a quick forced smile. I cinch the sheer gown I pulled on after my routine a little tighter around me, then look at Lauren and roll my eyes.

  She laughs. “Anyway, you were great!” she says.

  “You too!” I say. “I saw you from the side of the stage. Nice moves up there.”

  She blushes a bit. “Well . . . not too bad, I hope. I’m just glad it’s over and done with. Uh . . . by the way,” she says, moving closer so I can hear her, “how long do you think we have to hang out with Hank here? He smells like he took a bath in Axe Body Spray.”

  I laugh, and lower my voice a bit. “No idea. I think we’re just supposed to work the room, try and make ourselves some tips. Or, you know, whatever. If you think you’d rather go home, one of the security guys can escort you to your car.” I point across the room at the bouncer near the door — he’s perched on a tall bar stool, checking IDs as people enter. The door swings open to let in a hammered-looking bachelor party, and . . .

  What happens next happens quickly, and with the lights and the noise it’s hard to be sure of what I see. Still, as the newly-entered crush of tipsy bachelors fumbles goofily for their driver’s licenses, I notice another figure squeeze past them and slip out the door into the night.

  My heart skips.

  Jayla notices the look on my face. “Veronica? Everything okay?”

  I can’t speak. I hand Lauren my glass of champagne.

  I don’t want to go, but I can’t stop myself — my platforms are already clicking their way forward over the tile floor of the club, and I’m hurrying toward the door, ignoring everything, everything — the stares from the customers, the frown of concern on the bouncer’s face.

  “You okay?” he asks. “You want me to walk you out there, miss?”

  I shake my head, my hand already on the door handle. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Holler if you need me,” he says, shrugging and turning his attention back to the customers. I push open the door and rush through, and I don’t stop until I’m outside . . .

  And there, in the middle of the cold silence of the parking lot, is a solitary figure clad in black.

  Chapter 21

  I’m a muddle. I don’t know what to do, what to say. I wish so much that I had some magic — something I could do that would make everything all right.

  Something to make him disappear. Something to make him turn around — or, no, no — something to make him walk away, leave me for once and for all and forever, make him go back to his empty parade of temporary rooms and temporary women . . .

  “Hey!” I shout.

  It’s a greeting. An accusation of betrayal. A defense.

  The figure stops . . . and then he turns, very slowly, like there’s some incredible weight pressing down on him, like he’s having to force himself to move. His gaze takes an eternity to meet mine. It slips around the quiet of the parking lot, up to the bright shock of icy stars in the chill night sky and finally comes down to land again . . . to look at me right in the eyes.

  There can be no mistake now, and in the ghostly neon lighting of the Mirages parking sign, I once again see the face of Mr. Xavier Black.

  “Hello,” he says, the sound of his voice distant, flat. It hasn’t really been that long at all, but I feel as if I haven’t looked at him in years. He’s the same, though . . . same face, same piercing eyes.

  “Here we are again,” he says. “Déjà vu.”

  I can only stare at him in disbelief, as the mounting anger inside me breaks into my voice.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  He points a finger at the buzzing glow of the Mirages sign. “That sign said you have some kind of Amateur Night here. Thought I might stop in and see for myself.”

  I explode. “Bullshit! This is just more of your weird envelope-under-the-door stalker crap. How did you know I was here? Are you still tracking me somehow? Following me? Or did Jayla tell —”

  He holds up a hand. “The website.”

  “What?”

  “I checked the Mirages website,” he says, his voice plain and honest. “I actually check that website quite a lot. More than I should, perhaps. One day I managed to get lucky.”

  I look at him doubtfully. “I’m on the Mirages website?”

  “You are. Or your alias is, at any rate. I thought I’d drop by.”

  I give him a burning glare. “Why would you even bother to check, though? How’d you know I’d get back on that stage at all?”

  “Well,” he says, his face breaking into a hint of a smile. “That part wasn’t hard at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew you’d be back up there. Of course I knew. Because whatever you are, Veronica — you are not the kind of person that quits,” he says, shrugging. “Unless . . . ”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless you’re quitting on your own terms.”

  I know what he’s talking about — but I do not want to go there, to begin that conversation. Sure, part of me wants to hear him out, hear him explain . . . hear the nice neat sentences he’s memorized to try and win me back.

  But part of me doesn’t.

  “I have to get back inside,” I say, realizing that I’m shivering.

  “Wait,” he says, closing the distance between us with two long strides. He reaches out for me, and before I can react I feel the soft leather of his black driving glove close around my arm.

  I make a half-hearted move to pull away. His grip holds fast.

  I glare at him with pure unadulterated fury. “You really want to start grabbing people?” I ask. “One scream from me and you’ll have two pissed-off bouncers holding tasers agains
t your neck.”

  Xavier doesn’t let go — he just brings his face closer to mine. He’s breathing quickly now . . . but his voice is calm, and full of an odd tranquility.

  “Veronica, listen. Letting you go before was the worst mistake I’ve ever made. So hear me out, at least. Listen to me, every word. Then . . . if you still want me out of your life, I’ll be gone. For good this time.”

  Xavier looks at me with the eyes of a man who has nothing left to lose.

  “Or you can scream,” he says. “And send me to the hospital.”

  I feel my lips part at that. To scream for the bouncer, maybe.

  To tell him to leave. I’m not really sure.

  And yet I make no sound. I just look at him, the black freeze of my stare daring him to continue.

  It’s enough for him. “Veronica, I want you to see something.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, and as he does I find myself shuddering involuntarily, because I’m almost sure I know what he’s reaching for: that stupid, wretched xPhone of his. That phone, or mine, or another one like it.

  “I’m not looking at your goddamn phone again, Xavier. I won’t.”

  Xavier pauses at my words, his face a chasm of sadness. He shakes his head. “That phone is gone, Veronica,” he says, sliding a small leather folio from his pocket. “I was going to leave these for you, but . . . maybe it’s better if I show you. To be certain that you see.”

  He hands the folio to me.

  “No more phones, Veronica. Just photos.”

  He . . .

  He actually expects me to look at those women again. It’s almost impossible to speak. My voice trembles, cracks with the effort. “You came all this way to show me pictures of . . . of your creepy trophies? Why? Why would you do something like that?”

  His voice is firm but insistent. “Just . . . look. Tell me what you see.”

  I can’t move for a moment — but then, somehow, I find my fingers opening the folio.

  Fine. Anything. Anything, just to be rid of you.

  I very slowly slide out the thin pile of recently-printed photographs. There’s me, right on top of the pile. It’s like a punch to the stomach, but I force myself to thumb through them, to the next face, the next. The faces stare up at me, haunting me . . . the women, the restaurant, the oversized drinks, the frozen smiles . . .

  Xavier speaks, and when he does there’s a clear note of expectation in his voice. “Tell me, Veronica. What do you see?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice incredulous and full of fury. “I see . . . I see these women. These women, who apparently you thought to be . . . interchangeable enough to take on exactly the same date. Before you took them to bed, and fucked them, and sent them on their way. So tell me, Xavier. Really. What kind of person does something like that?”

  As I speak the words, I’m suddenly aware that I’m not trying to attack him.

  I just actually, truly want to know.

  Xavier sighs, turns his head. His gaze falls to the ground. “That’s not it, Veronica . . . really, it’s not. I’ll admit . . . it looks terrible, maybe. Definitely. But that’s not how it is. Not my intention, anyway.” He runs a hand through his thick black hair and closes his eyes, as if trying to arrange his thoughts in a way that will make sense. It’s like all his practiced manners, all his polish are stripped away in front of my eyes. I’m finally seeing down to who and what this man really is.

  “My life, Veronica, my business . . . it all comes down to these . . . these systems. These cold, inhuman systems — numbers and spreadsheets and the squiggly lines on graphs. I’ll sweat for months, years sometimes, trying to fix all the problems that turn a broken system into one that works. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been really good at. And so, I thought maybe . . . just maybe . . . I could do the same thing with myself.

  “A man with my responsibilities can’t . . . well, I can’t exactly go on dates, Veronica,” he says. “Not like other people. There’s my unpredictable schedule, the constant travel . . . it’s impossible. So this was my solution — as unusual as it might seem. I decided to have one date. I’d choose only those I felt a spark of connection with, that special spark of serendipity. Those that wanted more from their lives, more for themselves — women that had that magical desire to bloom. And then I’d eliminate all the variables. I’d repeat just that one perfect experience — the best food, the finest of accommodations. I’d eliminate all the millions of things that can go wrong on a first date. And then I’d focus on just the two of us. To see if there could be more.”

  “Until you got bored of them!” I erupt, the emotion exploding out of me. “Tell me, Xavier — when exactly was my breakup scheduled? When was I due to become just another photographic trophy in that stupid phone of yours?”

  The words shoot out of me like daggers. For a moment he’s cut by them, stunned. When he turns his stormy eyes toward me once again, the pain behind them is naked, like a wounded animal.

  “Trophies?” he cries in disbelief, as if the word is bitter in his mouth. “Oh, Veronica. Don’t you see? Those aren’t trophies at all. They’re reminders. Reminders of all those relationships that never made it past Maybe. Reminders of all those relationships that couldn’t continue.”

  Reminders. From behind the swirl of my anger and my hurt, I suddenly remember what he’d told me all those nights ago. About the love that his father had lost. About that locket.

  We can never throw away what hurts us most.

  Xavier can see the look of understanding gently unfolding in my eyes. “In a way, these photos are like that locket under my father’s bed. These photos, these people . . . they’re the things that haunt me. Missed chances. Memories of the sparks I couldn’t kindle into lasting love. They’re things that make me sad, yes . . . but they’re far too important to just throw away,” he says, his voice growing heavy with regret.

  “But then — then there was you. Please, Veronica — I know this must be hard, almost torture. But look at them. What is the difference you see in these pictures? The difference between you and all the rest?”

  I look at him unsteadily for a few long seconds . . . and then, with an impossibly deep breath, I turn my gaze back down to the photographs. At first I see only what I expect to see, feel only that sharp memory of the pain I’d felt on that kitchen floor. The same restaurant, picture after picture — different women, but always the same identical scene . . . the same drink, the same candle . . .

  What does he want me to . . .

  Oh.

  Then I see it, and my eyes go wide.

  My dress.

  My white dress.

  That first dress I’d chosen for that date with Xavier — that first beautiful, beautiful dress that made me feel like a hundred of my gorgeous Goddesses all rolled into one. That’s what’s different.

  Xavier breathes out heavily. He can see it in my eyes — he understands that I see it now.

  “You see? That’s why it’s you, Veronica. That’s the first moment I realized. I realized that it had to be you.”

  I shake my head. “Wait. Because . . . because what? Just because my dress is different? Because I went shopping that day?”

  “No. Not just any dress. That is your dress. Yours,” he says. He puts his other hand on my shoulder, gently. For whatever reason, I don’t pull away.

  “When I saw you that night, you spoke to me with that dress,” he says. “It was a revelation, Veronica. It said so much about you. How you want the world to see you. How you want me to see you.

  “My relationships with those other young women never turned into more, because they just couldn’t be themselves with me. They wore my gifts, ate what I ordered for them . . . but not you, Veronica. Not you. I gave you a closet — a whole closet full of things I thought beautiful, and you left them hanging there in the hotel room. Then you went out, and you decided how Miss Veronica Kane was going to look at our dinner. And when you came to the table that night . . . that’s when I knew
.”

  I’m breathing fast. “You knew what?”

  Xavier smiles with a simple tenderness so honest and real that it makes my breath catch inside my throat. “I knew that I’d never have to take another of those photos again. I’d never again have to go through the motions of that same date. I realized that with this girl — you, Veronica, you — I was heading into completely uncharted territory. And so . . . well, here I am. Taking a chance, and hoping to God you’ll take one too. Because I don’t know the future, or where we’ll end up . . . but wherever it is, I want to be there with you.”

  He puts his fingers gently against the skin of my cheek.

  “I love you.”

  I close my eyes. “I . . . want to believe that . . . ”

  “I love you.”

  “Xavier . . . ”

  “I love you.”

  His lips meet mine, in the most exquisitely broken kiss. I fall forward, helpless, and I surrender.

  He wraps me in his arms, and I let them envelop me, let myself melt into that place of beautiful sadness that makes Xavier the man he is.

  Home. We’re both there, suddenly, in that parking lot, in each other’s arms. It’s sad, joyful, ugly, tragic — a broken fairy tale for two broken people, desperately trying to make their ragged edges fit together into one single unbroken whole. This shattered man who’d always failed to trust his heart to chance . . . this shattered girl who’d dreamed so hard she’d turned into someone new.

  Tragic? Maybe.

  But in this disposable life, in this disposable world, you learn to anchor yourself to the permanent in any way possible.

  With white knuckles. With both hands. As tight and as long as you possibly can.

  Xavier is my anchor . . . and he is mine.

  I’ve seen the truth. In the end, though, it isn’t the pictures that convince me. It isn’t even his words.

  It’s his voice.

  It’s the imperfection in it, the way it spills out of him in bits and pieces — that sweet core of vulnerability. The way it breaks down in front of me before building up to those words, those wonderful words, I love you . . .

  And it’s in that kiss — that perfect, pure expression of the man he’s become at last.