Someday Maybe

by Ophelia London

  “She’s awfully quiet.” Oliver’s lowered voice came from around the corner. He and Meghan must’ve been waiting for me at the table. Voices sure did carry in these old houses.

  “I know.” Meghan sighed, her voice just as low. “She wasn’t always. She used to be hilarious, actually. But something changed. They talk about the freshman fifteen, well, she gained ten, but in years. I’m not surprised you said you barely recognized her the other day.”

  “Huh,” Oliver said, then I heard him pop open a bottle.

  “She came back that summer a different person,” Meghan added. “I had to practically drag her around with me. It was sad.”

  I was afraid to move; hardwood floors in these houses creaked louder than a coffin at a haunted house.

  “Did she…” Oliver’s voice was quiet. “Did she ever tell you why?”

  “She hardly talks about freshman year at all. Want me to pour the wine? Like I said, she was a different person, all anti-social and serious.”

  Oliver was silent. I was dying to see his expression. “Did she date?” he asked after a few moments.

  I stiffened, not wanting to hear Meghan’s answer, whatever it might be.

  “We were both really busy in school. I remember her going out sometimes.” She chuckled softly. “Actually, we used to joke that she had a secret boyfriend stashed somewhere. But she’s never been like that. Now it’s like she sees dating as a job—no fun. She’s cynical about the whole thing.”

  “You’ve never asked her why?”

  It was quiet. I wondered why Meghan was taking so long to answer.

  “I’ve set her up with a few guys but she’s not interested.”

  I was beginning to feel hot in the face. I couldn’t believe Meghan was openly discussing my personal life—practically right in front of me. None of it was untrue, but still.

  I heard a chair scrape back. “She’s got this ten-year plan for the future that she’s sworn by since we were eighteen. With that and the way she works herself to death at that stupid ad agency where they treat her like crap, it doesn’t seem like she intends to get serious with anyone. Unlike me, I love dating. And I especially love when my dates cook for me.”

  Yeah.

  I grabbed the knob to the bathroom door and pulled until it slammed shut. The painting I’d just been admiring shook on its hook.

  “Rachel?” Meghan’s voice held the tiniest hint of guilt. “That you?”

  “Who else would it be?” Oliver answered. By the time I’d rounded the corner, he was pushing back from the table to stand. “Oh good, it is you. Otherwise I have a major mice problem.”

  “Just me,” I said, trying to not appear like a girl who was way overworked, treated like crap, was cynical and sad about relationships, but had never had a secret boyfriend. I wasn’t sure how that was supposed to look, so I just smiled and tucked some hair behind my ears. “Need any help?”

  “We were waiting for you.” Meghan slid into the chair across from Oliver. There was an empty chair beside her and beside him. For a moment, I didn’t know which to take, until Megs glanced at the one beside her. I took the hint.

  While Oliver ladled the soup and Meghan poured the drinks, I kept my mouth shut. Since Oliver had already noticed how non-talkative I was tonight, why spoil the illusion. So I listened to their conversation, enjoying the soup very much.

  I’d had authentic Spanish gazpacho when I was younger. With the jalapeño peppers and what tasted like a splash of Worcestershire sauce, Oliver’s was better than what I’d had in a granny’s cocina in Seville.

  “Where did you learn to cook, Rad?” Meghan asked, sawing off a hunk from a loaf of sourdough.

  “College.” He shot a quick glance my way and reached for his drink. “Late in college.” He set down his glass without drinking, then ran a hand over the top of his head.

  “Is that when you started shaving your head?” Meghan leaned her elbows on the table. Before he could answer, she continued with, “How often do you have to shave it?”

  “Every other day.”

  “That’s how often I shave my legs.”

  I wasn’t sure why I decided to chime into the conversation with how often I shaved. Meghan and Oliver stared at me, each displaying a slightly different quizzical expression.

  “I mean, I shave every day, but just one leg. Then I shave the other the next day. It’s more Zen.”

  The words hung in the air like a bubble over my head.

  “It was a joke,” I said. You can always tell that a joke has fallen flat when you have to explain it. I was about to slide from my chair onto the floor then crawl away when Oliver burst out laughing.

  “Every other day.” He ran the back of his hand over his mouth. “That’s funny—clever. You’re still—” He cut himself off and his smile immediately vanished. In fact, the lightning-fast glance he shot me held anger more than anything. He grabbed his empty bowl and disappeared into the kitchen.

  I watched him go. Oliver used to laugh at all my jokes, especially the ones that were particularly lame, like on the day we first met in the cafeteria and I’d made that super-lame crack about running for both Congress and the Senate. He claimed one of the things he loved best about me was my wit. He called my sense of humor sexy. Was he thinking the same thing now? And why would that suddenly piss him off?

  “Rachel.” Meghan’s hiss jerked my gaze away from the kitchen. “What the hell?”

  “What?” Did I have that glazy “thinking-about-sex” look about me again?

  “You’re talking to Rad about your legs? In the shower?”

  “Oh.” I shook my head and reached for my glass. “S-sorry.”

  “Are you all right? You’re acting weird.”

  I exhaled, wishing I’d told her about me and Oliver a zillion years ago, or at least before tonight. It felt too late to come clean now, like I’d been lying all this time on purpose.

  “I’m okay.” I held up my glass and clinked it against hers. “Too much caffeine, not enough sleep. Same old shizz.”

  “Well, no more shaving talk, okay? If Rad’s going to think about anyone’s naked legs, they should be mine. And stop being so funny and—”

  Oliver came back to the table with some napkins and sat down, just as abruptly as when he’d left. It might have been just me, but it felt like he was giving me the cold shoulder. Which was fine, whatever. I wasn’t supposed to be pulling his attention. It wasn’t our date.

  For the next little while, Meghan had us engrossed in a story about the director of her current movie project. She hovered over the table, drawing a picture of the complicated set. Just as I leaned forward, I shifted my gaze to Oliver. His elbows were on the table and he was also leaning toward Meghan’s sketch. But his eyes were on me.

  When I met his gaze, he didn’t look away, as though he’d been expecting me to look at him. There were questions behind his gray eyes—I recognized the strong, silent expression. In that moment, I was willing to answer anything he asked of me. His lips began to peel apart like he really was about to say something. My heart beat in my temples, waiting. But he cleared his throat and looked away, tugging at the neck of his shirt, pushing up his sleeves.

  This was a nervous tick in the Oliver I used to know. But how could that be now? He was cooking dinner for Meghan and I was the pathetic third wheel.

  It took a few moments for me to realize I was still staring at the side of his face. I swallowed and glanced toward Meghan, nodding at whatever she was saying.

  Maybe it was the silvery moon cresting through the picture window behind him or his zesty-delicious soup that lingered on my tongue, but that look we shared shook my soul like the ’92 earthquake.

  I’d broken up with Oliver while I was still in love with him and never got over it, never really moved on. Every other guy who’d come into my life, guys I might have fallen for, could never fight their way in. My heart had been closed off ever since that sunny spring morning freshman year.

  If I wa
nted to move on—which I did!—then I needed to write an ending to the Oliver Wentworth chapter in my book. Complete, total, healthy closure…before he married Meghan and I hated them both.

  After this personal epiphany, Meghan didn’t have to tell me twice to stay quiet and let her shine. I was too afraid to speak, anyway, nervous that I’d blurt something totally inappropriate. So I learned even more about her movie and some of the backstage romances going on. The girl really did share everything.

  “Damn.” Oliver looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost midnight. I’ve got a conference call tomorrow so I’m working from home. I didn’t think about how late it was getting.”

  “We should go.” I pushed out my chair.

  “Already?” Meghan glanced at her phone. “It’s not that late.”

  “You can stay, I’ll go.” And now, please. Nothing more awesome than being a third wheel at the end of a date.

  “You’re going alone?” Oliver moved into my line of sight, looking unexpectedly concerned after practically ignoring me for the last two hours.

  “I’ll take a cab, it’s cool.”

  “Do you think that’s safe?” He looked at Meghan. “I thought you drove.”

  She didn’t reply for a moment, probably trying to decide if she wanted to grab some alone time with her man at the cost of painting herself as an inconsiderate friend. Despite her earlier gossip session, Megs was not inconsiderate.

  “I did,” she said, brightly. “You’re right, Rad. It’s not safe to be alone this late at night. Rach, we’ll both go.”

  I was about to point out that I used public transportation all the time, day and night, and I carried a king-sized can of pepper spray in my bag for such occasions. But I didn’t want to ruin Meghan’s chance at showing what a giver she could be.

  “May I use your bathroom first?” she asked, probably wanting to make sure she hadn’t left any closet doors un-snooped-through. After Oliver pointed her in the right direction, she added, “I think I need that soup recipe, Rad. I’ve been meaning to cook more at home. Maybe take a class. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  He disappeared into the kitchen and I sat on the arm of the couch. The room was empty and quiet and I felt conspicuous with only the sound of the ceiling fan above my head to break the silence.

  “Too bad,” Meghan’s voice continued, though her footsteps slowed, probably stopping to investigate some closet. “Too bad you don’t cook, Rachel. We could take the class together, but you hate touching raw food.”

  “I remember that,” Oliver said, leaning against the kitchen doorway, looking all gorgeous and intense—like in my dreams. His voice was low, meant only for me to hear. “You were the one who burned our toast in the morning, Rachel. If I recall.”

  My stomach filled with butterflies and I took in a deep breath, ready to begin some kind of dialogue about our past with this hunky guy who lived in a pink house.

  “We ready?” Meghan reappeared, fresh as a daisy. “Good night, Rad. Thanks for”—she smiled and wound a curly lock of her hair around a finger—“you know, everything.”

  “Sorry again that it’s so late.” His eyebrows pulled together as he glanced at the floor, looking and sounding apologetic. “The night got away from me, there was something else I wanted to—”

  “It’s no problem for me, since I’m not due at the studio until noon,” Meghan said. “Rachel’s the one with the early schedule.”

  “Don’t remind me.” I automatically started kneading my left temple. “I’m going to be dead tired in the morning and I have such a busy day with—” I cut myself off, knowing I did indeed sound like I was “working myself to death.”

  “Ya know what—screw it.” I grabbed my purse and jacket. “I officially decide to play hooky tomorrow and go to the beach or the wine country. No wait, there’s that twenty-four-hour spa in Calistoga with the volcanic mud baths. I’ll start my weekend early and head there tonight.” I slid into my jacket and pulled open the door. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll see you guys later.”

  Before either of them had the chance to speak, I was out the door and down all those steps, heading toward the bus stop, finger on the trigger of my pepper spray.

  True, I’d been meaning to try out that mud spa, but my exit had more to do with not wanting to witness how Oliver and Meghan said good-bye.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For a while, I didn’t see Oliver very often—the odd museum outing or group trek to Alamo Square to picnic at the feet of the “painted ladies.” Though I did receive steady, unrequested updates from Meghan and Sarah. Ollie was busy at work again. Rad said the funniest thing the other night. Once, Roger was sitting right next to me on the couch during one of Meghan’s updates.

  “She doesn’t know?” he said to me after she’d left.

  “No,” I said.

  “Have you two—”

  “No.”

  More often than not, when I did see him, he was monopolized by Meghan or otherwise engrossed in conversation. We were never alone. He never came around. Sarah—his sister—had my phone numbers, knew where I lived. If he wanted to see me or talk to me, he could have. But he never reached out. Then again, neither did I.

  The rare moments when we did happen to be sitting next to each other in a taxi van or happened to be at the bar waiting for drinks at the same time, he was polite, but no more stolen glances across the room. Whatever I’d felt at his house that night…I’d imagined it.

  Oliver was over me.

  Worse than that, it was as though we had no history at all.

  A group of us were meeting to watch the parade and lion dancers in Chinatown one Saturday afternoon. I’d made sure Oliver wasn’t coming before I’d agreed, and was surprised when I saw him standing on the curb along the parade route on Grant Avenue, leather jacket and jeans, sunglasses, and a huge smile as he chatted with Meghan and a few of our other friends.

  I sucked in a breath, adjusted my purse strap over my shoulder, and joined them, doing my best to stay on the other side of the group from him. It was easier for me when I didn’t give him the chance to snub me. Later, at Dim Sum Heaven, I had no choice of proximity, since I was last to our table and the waiter had to pull over an extra chair, right next to Oliver. After weather and traffic was all I got out of him, I stopped trying. Halfway through lunch, my stomach felt all knotty and I couldn’t stop wringing my hands. After the third time I caught Oliver glancing at them with an annoyed expression, I kept them in my lap.

  “You didn’t eat the chicken, did you?”

  I had to look twice to make sure he was actually addressing me. He glanced at my twitchy hand when I reached up to take a drink. It was red and splotchy.

  “There’re sesame seeds in that dish.”

  I flipped my hand over. Hives. I’d always had a minor allergy to sesame seeds, but I’d been so preoccupied by trying not to talk to Oliver that I’d forgotten to check what I was eating.

  “Is your throat closing?” he asked in a quiet but rushed voice.

  I swallowed, testing it out. “No.”

  He pushed back from the table a bit to get a better look at me. His eyes doing a quick assessment of my body made my heart thud. “Is the rash just on your hands?”

  He was running down the checklist we’d done half a dozen times when I’d had an allergic reaction. I pushed up my sleeves. “Stops at my elbows.”

  “Do you have your Benadryl?” I nodded and went for my bag, but Oliver was already reaching for it. “Can we get some water here?” he asked as a waiter breezed by. Then he pushed my cup away. “No more black tea. You need to flush it out.”

  I was peeling the tiny pink pill out of its wrapper, about to thank him for being so observant and calm and kind, but when I looked up, he was moving to a chair on the other side of the table, switching places with his sister.

  Disappointment weighed down on my shoulders. He wouldn’t look at me.

  “Hey.” Sarah slid into Oliver’s vacated chair at my sid
e. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I said, feeling a chill and nausea in my stomach that had nothing to do with allergies.

  “Ollie said to…to keep an eye on you.” She glanced at the pill in my hand. “Make sure you took that with two full glasses of water.”

  Tears pressed against the backs of my eyes. Taking extra-long to keep my chin tipped while swallowing the Benadryl, I blinked them away. For the rest of the meal, I kept trying to catch his attention. It finally dawned on me that, with Sarah at my side now, he was done worrying about me. After that, I couldn’t look at him, either.

  The following weeks brought a string of new dreams. There was the one when I fell down Alice’s rabbit hole and, instead of Wonderland, I was in the first car on the Titan Scream Machine at Six Flags. As the car climbed the first hill, I realized I wasn’t strapped in. My subconscious literally threw my sleeping body out of bed to wake up. Because, as everybody knows, if you die in your dream, you die for real.

  Then there was the reoccurring dream that sent me hiking through dark woods trying to find my way to the white castle. With that rusty tin cup in my knapsack, I continued on until I came to a high stone wall. I needed to get to the other side, but as I looked down at my feet, I was wearing flip-flops. Not the proper gear for climbing straight up, even in a dream. The ground below was covered with thorns and sticker bushes.

  “Trust me,” my dream-self heard from the other side of the wall. “Reach out and trust me. I’m here.” Like most interesting dreams, my alarm clock always woke me before I could find out who I was supposed to be trusting and reaching for.

  A week before Christmas, Meghan, Gio, Sarah, and I were at my apartment watching one of Meg’s “movies” while picking at two different cheese logs and cheering each other to good health with homemade holiday cider—Giovanna’s Canadian recipe which was guaranteed to grow hair on our chests. Yikes.