Someday Maybe

by Ophelia London

  “Much better.” Though I wasn’t as relaxed as I should be. “What happened to our nice pre-spring warm spell?”

  “SoCal. If you don’t like the weather, wait a day and it’ll change.”

  “I think that original quote was describing Facebook.”

  Nick shook in quiet laugher, then squeezed me once and let go. “You smell nice. Like a walk in the woods.”

  “Good guess. It’s lavender, verbena, and cedar. I blended it for this trip.” I pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to expose the inside of my wrist. When his nose touched my skin, I felt a zing. Gotta love that zing. “I hoped there’d be occasion for a man to want a whiff of me.”

  “Rachel.” He dropped my hand and stared hard at me, as if trying to convey what he couldn’t express verbally. When his expression broke into a sexy smile, my stomach turned a cartwheel. “Come on, we better keep moving before I make a scene.”

  “Promises, promises,” I said.

  He took my hand, looping my arm through his.

  Three days into our six-day trip and Nick was never more than an outstretched arm away. I wasn’t used to the attention. But I liked it.

  A few crawl stops later, we hit a bar that had a restaurant. Our group took a table in the back. Nick was parked at my left with Oliver at the head of the table, our elbows bumping every now and again. My side was to him most of the meal because I was trying very hard to put my efforts into Nick.

  “You really shouldn’t drink so many of those,” Ryan said to Meghan after she slurped down her third glass of Diet Coke.

  “You don’t say.” Her voice slurred sarcastically as she arched an eyebrow. “I suppose it would be okay if it had a shot of rum?” Meghan wasn’t a big cocktail drinker. If she was going to alter her mood, she preferred her beverages be stimulants rather than depressants.

  “Megs only intakes carbonation when she’s not on Gwyneth Paltrow’s pomegranate diet,” I said, jumping to her defense.

  “My skin felt glowy for days.”

  Ryan rotated all the way around to face her. “There’ve been studies for years on diet sodas. The cola beans, the aspartame, they actually eat away at your intestinal tissue—”

  “Eww.” Sarah squealed.

  “Excellent dinner conversation, buddy.” Oliver raised his glass.

  Ryan looked down at his plate. “It’s unhealthy. So is crash dieting—which you haven’t stopped talking about for three days.”

  “You sound like my mother.” Meghan, herself, sounded testy and a little tipsy. She flagged down our waiter and asked for another refill. “Do you think I enjoy having to whiten my teeth every six months like a chain smoker, and getting the worst migraines you can imagine when I’m not within two inches of a straw?”

  “Then do something about it,” Ryan said. “I can help.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Megs,” I whispered, trying to catch her eye.

  She scoffed. “Not all of us are born with the perfect body like Rachel.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” She took one long pull from her straw, excused herself from the table, and stomped away on her platform heels.

  Nick was the first to break the silence. “Note to self. Do not mock Meghan’s junk food habit, no matter how disgusting. Better remember that, Rad, or you’re in for a hell of a life with that one.”

  Oliver pushed away his plate. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Before he could get an answer, Ryan said, “I was trying to help.” He gazed toward where Megs had disappeared. “In every other way, she’s amazing and perfect and—” He cut off.

  Huh. Maybe we’d all been pub crawling for too long.

  Our table turned awkwardly quiet. I stole a glance at Oliver who was fingering his chin, looking faraway and lost. I would’ve had to be a heartless zombie to not see the trouble behind his gray eyes.

  “It’s cool,” I said to Ryan. “She’ll be all right. I mean, after she’s had another refill.” There was nervous tittering around the table. “So…how ‘bout them Lakers? Who still misses Shaq? Raise your hand.”

  Nick chuckled and draped his arm across the back of my chair. “Never liked the Lakers. Not since I was a kid.”

  “Me, neither,” I admitted, lowering my voice. “It must be a beating living in L.A.”

  He nodded, sagely. “I have to write about it every week during the season. We can always hope their injury list keeps growing and their defensive plays—”

  “Quiet,” I warned. “That kind of talk is grounds for an old-fashioned California firing squad.” I leaned toward him, dropping my voice to a private tone. “If you’re lucky. I shudder at the alternative, though it could be kinda fun.”

  Nick laughed out loud. “This woman is trouble,” he announced to the table. “She says too much for her own good, but when she holds back”—he nodded at me, his eyes looking all smoldering—“it’s even better.”

  “Har, har, whatever,” I said, waving him off.

  While loading my fork full of chicken enchiladas, my gaze moved to Oliver. He was watching me with a curious, almost confused expression. I did not move my eyes away, meeting his questioning gaze while asking a few unspoken questions of my own.

  “Hey, Rad,” Nick said. Oliver blinked and broke our stare. “Rad, did you know—”

  “Did you know,” Oliver cut in, “that I haven’t gone by Rad in two years?”

  Nick stared back, his mouth frozen in mid-word.

  “The only reason Meghan used that name in the first place is because she heard Tim say it, and now everyone in San Francisco calls me that.”

  “Not everyone,” I said before I’d processed the thought.

  Oliver rotated his body to face me. “I know.” It was the closest we’d been—physically—since we broke up. “Thank you, Rachel, I’ve noticed.” His voice was so kind and so solid, making warmth and butterfly wings engulf my stomach, my chest.

  His gaze remained on me, neither of us breaking contact this time. In the back of my mind, I could tell the others around us had moved the conversation along, but Oliver kept his eyes on me. After a moment, he cracked into a smile.

  “What?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

  He shook his head. “I was just thinking about that weekend.”

  “Weekend?” I repeated, leaning an inch closer.

  “Yeah. The weekend in your dorm when we didn’t watch Dawson’s Creek.”

  I knew exactly what he meant, and when his smile was replaced by an expression of intensity and longing, I knew what that meant, too; I remembered it from six years ago. Or was it seven? For a moment, the world broke apart, and it was us…

  …

  March, Freshman Year

  After trudging up four flights of stairs, I arrived home exhausted and starving from back-to-back study sessions, a huge exam, and an oral presentation in my journalism class. So ready to tear off my stupid, dressy skirt and collapse into bed, I almost didn’t notice Oliver waiting for me in my dorm room. At first sight, I panicked. My roommate was bound to come in and bust us. Then I remembered she was gone for the weekend. The moment I met Oliver’s eyes—the knowing look behind them—I realized that was his plan.

  “Hi.” I was happy to see him, but almost too tired to react. “This is the best surprise—”

  “Shh.” He took my backpack and set it on the desk, peeled me out of my jacket one sleeve at a time, then wound his arms around me, lifting me off my feet, my shoes falling off in the process. “I know what a long twenty-four hours you’ve had.” He kissed me lightly. “Now I’m here to take care of you.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I have your favorite pizza, the third season of Dawson’s Creek on DVD, and I found some of that oil you were out of.”

  “Cinnamon Bliss? Wait, you don’t even like Dawson’s Creek.”

  “But you love it.” He sat on the foot of the bed, cradling me on his lap like a baby. “I know you’ve been going since l
ast night, so what would you like first? We can eat, or you can crash out—I don’t mind.” He placed a hand on my cheek and eased me against his chest. “I’ll rub oil into your feet if you want.”

  It was overwhelming. Without him doing a thing, I’d never felt so taken care of. It was then that I realized it wasn’t just a freshman fling. Oliver loved me, like real love, like when no one is looking and when you have nothing to gain but you give and you love and you sacrifice and cherish. That’s what he was offering me as he held me against his beating heart.

  “I want to do all those things.” I stroked the back of his neck. “But first I want to kiss you.”

  He dipped his chin so I could press my lips to his. “Done, sweet pea. Now what? Food? Yoga pants?”

  “I want you to kiss me.”

  He smiled and met my mouth, sending pulses of heat through me.

  “Next?”

  “What if I asked you to kiss me all day and all night?” I rotated around so I was on my knees, my skirt sliding up as my legs straddled him.

  “Then I would never stop.” As he kissed me, his hands rested at the sides of my neck then moved down, landing on my thighs. They slid under my skirt, cupping my butt, hoisting me closer. Heat burned through the layers of cotton between our skin. “All day and all night?” he whispered over my mouth.

  “That’s all I want.”

  “I’ll kiss you here.” He pressed his lips to mine. “And here.” They moved to my jaw, down my neck. “Here.” He moved his hands to my sides, boosting me higher, pressing his lips between my collarbones.

  I smelled his hair, the blinding endorphins that made me never want to breathe in any other scent that wasn’t him. I sucked in a gasp as his hands slid inside my shirt, holding me right below the ribcage.

  “Here.” He kissed the top of my shoulder, then as he rotated me around to lie back, he deftly pulled my shirt over my head. “Here.” He knelt over me, resting his palms flat over my bare stomach, then touched his mouth between them, planting kisses all over my skin. “Beautiful,” he whispered as he moved.

  “Oliver.” I held the back of his head, torn between letting him take his time with me or climbing on top of him.

  After one more kiss, he lifted his head. “So beautiful.” We locked eyes in a way that made something deep inside me break apart. “Whatever you want, Rachel. Whatever you need, you know I’m here. Always.”

  My heart banged in my chest, and more love than I’d ever known I had inside sang through my blood. “Come here.” I pulled him to me. “I’ll always remember this moment, always.” I moved him over me, feeling the firmness of his love, the solidness of his body. “I love you,” I whispered. “No matter what I do or say. Never forget.”

  …

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Oliver’s silvery eyes locked on me, though the vision of us together all those years ago had dissolved.

  “Neither have I.” Was everyone in the restaurant witnessing this? I almost didn’t care.

  He placed a hand on the table, an inch from mine. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  “Me, too.” Though there was no way we were referring to the same thing. How could we be?

  “When we get home?” Before I could answer, he smiled—at me, only me. And I’d never seen anything more beautiful in all my life. “Rach.” He brushed his finger over mine.

  “Who’s ready for dessert?” The glasses and dishes rattled when Meghan returned to the table, all smiles.

  I blinked and my lungs sucked in a gulp of air. Oliver did the same, shooting me one more look before sitting back in his chair. I pulled my hand off the table and wiped my palms on my jeans. Oliver did the exact same thing.

  “I was talking to the hostess,” Meghan continued. “She said their baked flan is major killer.” She elbowed Ryan. “No caffeine or trans fat, slugger.” She fluttered her fake seventies eyelashes at him. “Rad, scoot over here so we can share. Come on.”

  Our entire table began chattering about dessert. I glanced at Oliver, he glanced back at me. What were we supposed to do now? To break the tension, I grimaced at him, showing my bottom teeth. “You like flan,” I whispered.

  He chuckled under his breath and put a fist over the exposed side of his mouth to shield it from the rest of the table. “You know I hate it, Rachel. You also know I prefer the taste of Fruity Pebbles over everything.”

  He pushed back from the table and took the spot next to Meghan. It might’ve been exactly like the Chinese restaurant after he’d helped me with my allergy attack and then left me without a word or even a look. But this time, every few seconds, I could feel Oliver’s eyes on me. And every time I met his gaze, he smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Meghan?” My voice sounds like it is underwater. “I can’t see you, are you all right?” The clinging mist surrounding me begins to lift. I am back at the stone wall that I’ve yet to scale, though this time, I am finally atop. My breath catches when I see Meghan on the other side, lying on a rock, limbs contorted, not stirring. I spring from the wall. My legs cannot move me fast enough through the tall grass. “Wake up!” I’m screaming but afraid to touch her blue, bloodless face. “Meghan, please. Please don’t!”

  “Don’t what?” The living and breathing Meghan hissed from the other bed. “You’re dreaming again, Rachel. Roll over and go back to sleep before Sarah gags you like we’ve been plotting for the last half hour.”

  “It’s okay, Rach,” Sarah’s soft and sleepy voice lilted over. “Nightmare.”

  “I know.” I listened to each bang of my heart as I stared at the ceiling until the sun shone through the hotel blinds.

  “Here comes—”

  Nick was about to say yellow, but he was cut off when a guy stepped from the sidelines of the designated running path and tossed a bucket of yellow-dyed cornstarch in his face.

  “Bah-ha-ha.” I snorted, having to slow my jogging pace so I could double over. Blue, pink, green, and purple powder fell out of my hair like rainbow dust. We had one more kilometer to go and my once-white tank top and shorts were well on their way to being a spectacular kaleidoscope of colors.

  Oliver jogged up to my side. He wore mirrored sunglasses and was completely coated in color. As he was about to pass, a cloud of yellow exploded over his head.

  “Ooh, nailed.” I laughed.

  He turned to me and, noticing my conspicuously-yellow-free ensemble, hooked an arm around my waist and swung me toward the sideline, directly in front of a guy with a full bucket of yellow.

  I squealed, ready to block my face, but the whole idea of this 5K was to end the race without a speck of skin or clothing showing white. So I lifted my chin, extended my arms, and pranced through the cloud of yellow like it was a finish line.

  Oliver’s arm stayed around me, so I both heard and felt him break into laughter. “There’s the good sport I know.”

  I snorted a laugh, inhaling a nose full of cornstarch.

  “You all right?”

  “Do I have anything on my face?” I rotated inside his arm.

  He brushed my cheek with his free hand.” Maybe one spot right here.”

  At some point, we’d stopped jogging, and were face-to-face, with me held to his chest. It didn’t feel like my feet were touching the ground.

  “You’re falling behind, yo.” Ryan trotted in place at our side.

  “Dude, for the last time, there’s no falling behind,” Oliver replied. “This isn’t a timed race.” He still didn’t release his grip on me, even when we started to run again. If I could’ve seen behind his mirrored shades, I was sure I would’ve caught an expression of defiance.

  Now was not the time to have our little talk, however, so I forced myself to step out of his arms. He kept a hand on my elbow for a second, then dropped it.

  “How’s the new business going?” Ryan asked him, taking the spot between us.

  “Good.” Oliver didn’t even sound winded. “Coming together, slowly.”


  I thought Oliver worked for a big software company. “What new business?” I asked, trying to jog around Ryan. I couldn’t see Oliver’s eyes, and then I couldn’t see him at all when a huge group of women in pink tutus trotted between us singing “Breaking Up is Hard to Do” in four-part harmony.

  “What’s he talking about?” I asked Ryan.

  “He’s quitting his job.”

  My footing stumbled. “What? Why?”

  “So he can branch out on his own with this software idea—website support.” He wiped his forehead with his sweatband. “I was helping him at the beginning, getting started with a business plan.” He chuckled under his breath. “If you can call it a plan. He was kind of all over the place, still nailing down projections, marketing, branding—simple things like product names. Starting a new tech business in this economy, though. Pretty risky, if you ask me.”

  I searched for Oliver in the crowd beside me, in front of me, but he was nowhere. “Why would he leave his job if it’s such a risk?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Guy never seems content with what’s he’s doing, always looking for something better or what’s next. I think he has like one investor, but that’s it.”

  “Can you start a business with only one investor?”

  “No way, not with what he says he wants to do.”

  “Does he have any other capital?”

  “Dunno. Not that I know of.”

  “Well…” I knew I was badgering Ryan with questions, but I wanted to understand. “Why then…why is he doing this without a business plan or financial backing?”

  Ryan shrugged again and panted; he looked winded. “Have to ask him.”

  I jumped over a crack in the sidewalk. “Yeah,” I muttered, not liking the sound of any of this.

  We had a bit of catching up to do to reach the rest of the group, which was difficult enough with my heart pounding like I’d already crested Lombard Street.