Roger nodded. “But you got back on track. You’ve always been a planner.”
“Yeah. My romantic downfall.” I shook my head. “I knew it would come to a head the night you two met, when we had dinner.”
“I was an asshole, way too overprotective. Sorry. I didn’t dislike him, but you were nineteen.”
“I know. Believe me, there wasn’t a single worry you had that I hadn’t already obsessed over. But yeah, I was nineteen and I loved him and ninety percent of me wanted to be with him, but it was the nagging ten percent that made the decision.”
“You didn’t tell him why?”
“No.” I rubbed my nose. “Instead, I kind of threw you under the bus.”
“Me?”
“It was easier to say you wouldn’t allow me to date him, so I lied about the whole thing, blamed you for it—right to his face like a damn coward.” I broke off when my throat grew thick.
Roger stared at the floor for a moment, scratched his head, and laughed. “No wonder. That night I ran into him at the party, I got the impression he didn’t trust me, kinda hated me.”
“I’m sorry. Oliver’s got a long memory, too.”
“I kept catching him staring at me. When I finally realized who he was, I went up to him.”
“You didn’t.” The back of my scalp shivered. “What did he say?”
He shrugged and rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know. We just talked for a minute.”
“Again, Rog, it would’ve been nice if you’d told your sister.”
“Guys don’t share every nuance of information like women do.” He shrugged again. “It was no big deal. We talked it out.”
“Talked it out?” I repeated. “What did you say? How did he look? Did my name come up?” I jumped when there was a knock on the front door. Nick. Shit.
No, no, I should not have allowed my thoughts to stray down the Oliver road. Nick was here. Yes, good. Nick with the great hair, who paid attention to me and liked me and had a job he loved. I was happy to see him—I was ready to see him. So ready.
“I’m glad things are cool with you guys now.” I rose to my feet, dabbed vanilla oil along my collarbones, and grabbed my jacket. “But Oliver’s not who flew four hundred miles to spend the weekend with me.”
When I pulled open the door, a rush of relief hit. Nick looked better than ever. Very Brad Pitt a la A River Runs Through It. I quickly introduced him to Roger at the door, but didn’t want to linger. I couldn’t erase the picture of my brother and my ex “talking it out.”
The moment we were outside the closed door, Nick spun around and wrapped me up in a hug. “I have to imagine this every time we talk on the phone.”
I hugged him back. It felt nice.
He spoke into my hair. “How’ve you been?”
“Good.” His body was warm and he smelled of aftershave I couldn’t place. “You?”
“I’m happy I’m here, Rachel.” He gave me a squeeze then let go.
“Me, too. You look hungry.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You are the queen of subtext.” He kissed the corner of my mouth, keeping his cheek pressed to mine for a moment after. “I’m very hungry, but not for food.” Butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and I couldn’t help exhaling a silly giggle. “Well, you asked.” He drew back and looked into my eyes.
We were healthy adults, obviously attracted to one another, and we’d been chatting on the phone for two months. What would have happened right then if Roger hadn’t been on the other side of the door?
“We should, um…” I nodded toward the street. “Reservations in twenty.”
Nick lifted a grin. “Okay. I’m pretty jet lagged, anyway.”
…
Beside the overnight sporting events for his job, Nick hadn’t visited San Francisco since he was a kid. The next day, he wanted to see Fisherman’s Wharf—a place I’d described to him many times over the phone. We walked around all day, in and out of cafés and shops and bookstores, even Ghirardelli Chocolate Company, Meghan’s favorite, a sort of a fond aide-memoire to our friend.
The pear trees and dogwoods were beginning to bloom after a long winter of bare branches and crunchy leaves. At the start of the day, Nick scooped up my hand in his, which felt strange at first, but as the day progressed into evening, it was as easy as our conversation.
But conversation could take a girl only so far.
I was restless and stirred up, and I’d been stirred up for weeks—since Pasadena. Nick had barely touched me when he’d dropped me off last night. My body felt like a genie’s lamp, needing a good rubdown, or like a cat’s scratching post. And Nick was right there.
“Do you know what I like about you?” he asked when we stopped to lean over a stony footbridge, twinkle lights reflecting in the water.
“My sparkling wit?”
His hand slid to the small of my back, his shoulder against mine. He smiled at my reflection in the water below. “I can read everything on your face.”
“Yeah?” I faced the real Nick, more than ready for him to relieve my restlessness. “Whatcha reading now?” I lowered my gaze to his mouth then cocked an eyebrow.
Some bad line, Rachel. But it worked.
Finally, a real kiss. Though at first, I didn’t know what I was doing, like kissing a hottie was a secret procedure reserved for lucky people. I hadn’t been lucky in years. But there I was, enfolded in the arms of a strong, sexy guy who cared about me, someone I trusted and liked. Yes, I liked him.
“You’re shaking.”
I lowered my chin and giggled softly, not remembering the subtleties of how to chitchat after a first kiss. Chitchat was overrated.
“Do you want my coat?”
“I’d rather you warm me up this way.” I kissed him this time. It was soft and romantic and made my heart beat fast and my palms tingle. It was everything off the checklist of what you’d read in a romance novel: the two of us under the moonlight, forcing people to walk around us, the taste of chocolate on both our tongues. Before I knew it, the shops were closing for the night, and we were the last to retrieve our car at the valet stand.
Nick double-parked on the hill outside my apartment. “Roger’s home.” I peered at the glowing light of my living room.
“We better say good night, then.”
I grabbed his rental car keys and hid them behind my back. “How can you?”
“Am I going to have to wrestle you for those?” He tucked a piece of my hair behind an ear. “I think I might like that. Or we can always”—he fingered a lock of my hair—“take a drive.”
Take a drive. That was code for “find a deserted parking lot and tear each other’s clothes off in the backseat like oversexed teenagers.”
The thought was certainly tempting, and when he kissed me again, pressing me against the car, it was very hard not to start the process right there on the sidewalk. But a voice inside my head wouldn’t let me. No, it wasn’t in my head…it was the voice from my dream telling me it wasn’t Nick.
For such a tiny voice, it rang louder than the fog horns on Golden Gate Bridge.
“It’s late.” I handed over the keys, my breaths jagged and loud—not matching my action of pushing him away. “You want to check out Bodega Bay in the morning?”
Nick exhaled a soft, frustrated moan. “Sure. But you’re driving this time.”
“Fun.” I smiled at the prospect. “I’ve got a convertible.”
He opened his car door. “You’ll pick me up at Rad’s place?”
The happy little campfire in my chest was suddenly dowsed. “Right, s-sure,” I said with a big smile that gave me a sudden headache. I hoped against hope that things would not be awkward, like Roger implied, even though there was no way in hell they wouldn’t.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I had to knock three times. I wasn’t thrilled to have to be there in the first place, climb those fourteen stairs. But since I didn’t see Oliver’s car anywhere on the street, I was fairly certain he wasn’t home.
The door finally swung open. Nick had a phone to his ear.
“I tried to catch you on your cell.”
“Oh.” I pulled my phone from the outside pocket of my purse. “I must have turned it off.”
“I need to finish this conference call.” He looked properly apologetic as he stepped back and waved me in. “It’s work. Is that cool?”
I glanced past him. The place appeared otherwise empty. “No problem.”
Nick promptly disappeared down the hall and I leaned against the couch, taking an uninhibited examination of Oliver’s living room. The smell of fresh paint from the only other time I’d been there had faded. It now smelled like pinecones and—I sniffed—cinnamon? Or more specifically, Cinnamon Bliss essential oil. But that was insane.
The walls were bare except for five framed pieces of artwork. Paintings and drawings. The signature “S. Wentworth” was scribbled across the bottom of the first painting. Huh. All the pieces were Sarah’s. I knew she was an artist, but she’d never shown me her work. If she was self-conscious about her talent, she didn’t need to be. Her paintings were beautiful.
Undaunted Courage and a recent biography of Steve Jobs were opened and dog-eared on Oliver’s coffee table. Beside them sat a black spiral notebook. I ran a finger across its cover, wondering if it was one of the great-great decedents of that notebook Oliver used to carry around with him back at USF. He was always writing in that thing. I was tempted to accidently push it off the table at the exact angle to make it fall open so I could get a peek inside, but I swiveled on my heel and walked away.
An acoustic guitar without a case leaned against the wall in the corner. I hadn’t played for years but something drew me to the instrument. I picked it up and strummed a few chords. It was in perfect tune, meaning Oliver—or whoever’s it was, Nick’s? Sarah’s?—had played it recently. My wandering fingers doodled up and down the strings, not playing anything specific. The doodles took shape, morphing into a song, the catchy, upbeat Motown classic turned melancholy under my fingers.
The floorboards of the vestibule creaked. I looked up to see Oliver standing at his open front door.
“You play. Why didn’t I know that?” It didn’t sound like a question. He shut the door with his foot.
I set the guitar against the wall. “Nick’s on the phone, so I’m waiting for him.”
“Lucky Nick.” He cleared his throat, and slowly, almost cautiously, entered his own living room. He tossed his jacket over a chair. “It’s been a while, Rachel. Two months.”
“Yeah.” I pulled at my ear. Where the hell was Nick?
“Last time we talked, you were angry.”
Very observant. And he could hardly say what we did at the end of the color run was “talk.” If he really wanted to talk to me, he could have. Okay, maybe he’d tried once, but—gah! It didn’t matter now.
I hadn’t seen him since Pasadena and noticed he wasn’t shaving his head anymore. His chestnut hair had been growing back for two months. Maybe he decided it was time for a change. Women did that all the time. He also looked slightly more tired since the last time I’d seen him. Maybe he was dating someone and out late every night, or up even later right here playing her love songs on his stupid guitar. Well, good for him.
“Was I angry?” I eyed the couch to sit, but didn’t move. “I don’t remember.”
“I do. You asked if I’d quit my job, and I asked if you were going to Dallas with…” He jerked his head toward the back of the house. “But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Did you quit your job?”
“What?” He looked baffled, just like he had when I’d asked him the first time. “I still don’t have a firm plan about—” My scoff cut him off. Oliver crossed his arms, confusion turning to annoyance. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I glanced at the couch again, then down the hall. “It’s just…you’re exactly the same. You don’t plan for the future.”
It was Oliver’s turn to scoff. “Don’t I?”
“Obviously not. And some people need that. Some people need to feel secure in what’s coming.”
“Life doesn’t come with a crystal ball.”
“There’re ways to take some of the risk out of the equation.” I shrugged, tired of dancing around the subject. “Though I guess some people don’t give that a second thought, even if it affects someone else.”
He pointed at his chest. “Are you talking about me?”
“You—” I lowered my voice when it echoed off the hardwood floors. “You have a good, steady job and you’re willing to throw it away.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but you have no idea what you’re saying.” He took a step toward me. “There’s always risk in life, especially when it comes to careers. Yes, I’m starting my own business, if that’s what you’re referring to, but I’m being smart about it. And believe me, this is nothing like before, Rachel. You of all people should realize that I learn from my mistakes. All of them.”
Then why didn’t he realize what he was doing was reckless? These things could take years to plan and organize. Not preparing for the future killed relationships, hurt even the strongest ones. I was living, breathing evidence. Oliver was smart, I knew this, but I didn’t understand why he couldn’t see he wasn’t being smart now.
“I…don’t know what else to say.” I blew out a breath, frustrated, trying not to be frustrated. Being frustrated showed I cared. And I didn’t care. I couldn’t. “We shouldn’t be talking about this, anyway.”
Nick was in the next room, I was wearing sexy new underwear, I was armed with both latex and latex-free, and it shouldn’t matter to me what Oliver was doing about his job.
“Then what should we be talking about, Rachel?” He took another step toward me. “The weather? Politics? Or that weekend with me in your dorm that you swore you would never forget?”
Heat flooded my chest. Painful, exquisite. Reeeeally unhelpful.
“I…I noticed Sarah’s paintings.” I pointed to one. “They’re excellent.”
Oliver stared at me with arched eyebrows, then he exhaled and ran a hand over the top of his head. “She doesn’t think so.”
I blew out my own slow breath. At least he was willing to drop the subject before it got any more heated.
He slid his hands in the pockets of his black suit pants. “I had to steal these from her portfolio. She hates that I hung them up, but I told her it’s therapy, preparation for when she’s in all the Soho galleries.”
I laughed under my breath and moved to another piece. Art was a safe subject. “I especially like this one. The greens and blues remind me of a dream I had the other night. All swirling and nonsensical, like a storm, disaster over the horizon, fear of the unknown, but in a good way.”
“Here’s where we differ again. I see a pattern in the chaos, a path leading out.” His voice drew quiet. “Life after the storm, in a very good way.”
I peeked at him from the corners of my eyes, then back at the painting. “I could analyze all day. Roger tells me I’m too literal, but Meghan claims I’m blind about what’s right in front of my face.”
Oliver placed a hand on the mantel, placing himself between me and the painting. “What’s in front of your face now?”
Before I could answer, we both turned in the direction of Nick’s voice rising to a laugh down the hallway. I felt Oliver’s eyes on me, but I glanced toward the front door out of there.
“In my opinion, things for you look clear.” He dropped his hand and stepped back.
I had a pretty good idea that he was referring to Nick, and I felt the strangest urge to explain myself, explain why I was with another guy—a guy who wasn’t him. That’s absurd, Rachel. Unproductive. Still, I couldn’t help asking, “What things?”
The conversation derailed when Nick entered the room. He was whistling and grinning like he’d landed a golden stock tip. “Hey you.” He rested a hand on my shoulder, giving it
a little massage. “Hope you haven’t been bored.”
I looked at Oliver, waiting for him to say something, anything, to finish a damn thought for once in his damn life.
When he didn’t, I filled the silence with, “We were talking about Sarah’s paintings.”
Nick examined one. “Kid’s got an eye.”
“Rachel and I don’t agree on what this one symbolizes.” Oliver gestured at the swirls of green and blue.
“Huh.” Nick tilted his head as his gaze swept over the painting. “No clue.”
“I think it represents chaos and disorder.” I pointed at the painting but glanced at Oliver.
“And I see optimism,” he said, at the exact instant Nick planted a kiss on my cheek. “But I’m probably wrong.”
I couldn’t look at either guy. Why did it feel like all my options were suddenly gone? Was I marrying Nick? Were we even an official couple? No! Just because Oliver said he thought my future with Nick looked clear shouldn’t mean crap.
It was my life, I could do anything I wanted, be who I wanted, be with who I wanted, choose if I stayed at NRG Interactive until I rotted and became the next Scary Claire, or tear up my stupid ten-year plan and start over. It was up to me. I had to make the choices, or suffocate.
…
I gripped the steering wheel after shutting off the radio. Would San Francisco stations ever stop playing “Time of Your Life” by Green Day? The real title, “Good Riddance” felt more fitting, anyway.
“My head’s not in a good place right now.”
Nick actually chuckled. “Pretty cliché line for a writer, Rach.”
“Sorry.” I decelerated behind a logging truck on the way back from our touristy day in Bodega Bay that had been cut short due to my unexpected announcement. “I know it’s bad timing. I mean, you came all the way here.”
He put a hand over mine, the same hand I’d clung to last night that had slid through my hair and down my back. Its touch did nothing for me today.
Someday Maybe Page 16
