Someday Maybe

by Ophelia London

  “Is that Jerry Springer?” I sat beside him. “I thought he went off the air.”

  “No way. He’s a legend.”

  “I didn’t know you watched daytime talk shows.”

  “I don’t.” He glanced at me, a little smile tugging at a corner of his mouth. “Well, sometimes.” He leaned back and toward me so our heads were almost touching. “See, that guy”—he pointed at the TV—“he just found out his sister is really his mother.”

  “That story’s been done.”

  “Right, but he also just found out that his other sister is really a dude.”

  “Is that why he’s hitting him over the head with a chair?”

  “Yeah.” Oliver’s eyes twinkled adorably. How could I have ever thought anyone’s eyes were as adorable? “And see that couple on the other couch, the ones not beating each other over the heads? One of them has a secret.” He looked at me. “But we don’t know what it is. Ah, damn. Commercial break.”

  I laughed at his disappointment. “It’ll be a little while for the dentist to send over my prescription. We can wait for the show to come back on if you want.”

  “Naw.” He ran a hand over his chin, but his eyes flashed toward the TV.

  “No, it’s fine. My afternoon plans of eating an entire bag of apples just went down in flames.”

  He swiveled around to me, head tilted as if noticing me for the first time. “Are you okay now? Your mouth.”

  “No taffy for a while, but they say I’ll live.”

  “Good.” He flipped his cell in his hands. “Sarah’s been calling.”

  “I’ll text her.” After sending a quick “all clear” message to both Sarah and Meghan, I put down my phone.

  “I’m glad you’re so close. Your friendship means the world to my sister.” His gaze held on me for a second, and my heart stopped. Please say something. Was I talking to him or me? The music of Springer returning filled the small waiting room, and Oliver’s silvery eyes left me for the screen.

  I blew out a slow breath then said, “Secret time,” though my heart still pounded with the need to unload a few secrets of my own.

  Oliver chuckled. “Best part of the show.”

  The camera pulled tight on a woman’s face. It was one of those talking head interviews and she went on to tell her husband (and the rest of the planet) that she was leaving him for another man.

  Ahh. Such beautiful drama. God bless America.

  She was leaving him to be with her childhood sweetheart—the boy next door, the man she loved twenty years ago but never got over. She’d been 100 percent faithful to her husband until running into her ex-flame, and they both realized they were still in love.

  I was glued to my seat, afraid to even breathe. Oliver wasn’t moving, either.

  The husband on the screen huffed and puffed but finally left the stage when the new/old boyfriend came on. I was transfixed as I watched them kiss in front of everyone.

  “Do you think it’s true?”

  I flinched at his voice. “W-what’s true?”

  He turned to me but kept his gaze on the floor. “That she loved him all that time, Rachel? Even when she was married to another man?”

  “No way.”

  We turned to see a guy, another patient, in the waiting room. I thought we’d been alone.

  “No way, what?” Oliver said.

  The guy pointed at the TV. “No woman holds a torch for that long. She’s either lying or they’ve been hooking up the whole time.”

  “Not necessarily.” This came from the receptionist who’d poked her head out her little window. “Women stay faithful way longer than men. It’s in our genetic code.”

  “So is cheating,” the guy shot back. It was like watching a tennis match.

  “Women’s senses are tied to emotions, feelings. We’re more sentimental. Men are usually way more visual.”

  Wow. She was certainly opinionated. I’d heard that philosophy before, though I didn’t necessarily agree with it.

  “A woman can hold the memory of love way longer than a man,” she continued. “Most guys have to be in the presence of who they love to get that really strong stimulation. But women…” She paused, looking a little choked up. “We never forget.”

  “Wanna grab a drink later?” the guy asked.

  She smiled. “I’m off at six. Now come on back, the doctor’s ready.”

  I stared after them, about ready to make a joke to Oliver about how we’ll see them on Springer in a year.

  “Let’s go,” he said gruffly, standing and walking to the door. “I’ll drop you off at Sarah’s.”

  My chest felt hollow and the heaviness on my shoulders weighed me down as I watched his retreating back. We’d been close to…something, the subtext was written on the wall. One of us just had to say it. But the whole drive back to the dorms, Oliver kept his left elbow propped on the side of the door as his fist scraped back and forth over his frown. He did not want to talk.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I’ve reached the shore. And, not surprisingly, am completely dry and carrying my trusty knapsack. Still panting, I look around, searching for the person who threw out that life ring and pulled me in. I look down. Footprints in the sand. Which I follow. Down a path, up a switchback. Oliver is leaning against a tree. “You made it,” he says. “I didn’t know how long I would have to wait.” He smiles as he approaches. The way he looks at me makes every bone in my body ache to kiss him. “Give me this.” He slides the knapsack off my shoulder. When it hits the dirt, that small, rusty cup rattles. “You don’t need it anymore. You don’t need this, either.” I’m confused when he removes the strap of another knapsack I’ve been carrying. “All this time. How heavy these must have been for you.” When I look over his shoulder, impossibly, we’re in London, standing on the bridge facing Big Ben. The hands of the big clock are moving too fast, making me dizzy. It’s Saturday the fifth; I know this because the date is flashing on a marque. Oliver still smiles. “Let me have this, too.” He removes another bag of my heavy burden. His smile turns crooked. “You’re practically naked now, Rachel.” He is eyeing the front of my body. As he reaches for me, the clock chimes. It’s so loud that the sound feels trapped in my head. I slap my hands over my ears like a little girl. When Oliver’s arms go around me, the pain strikes. He is whispering my name, repeating it over and over. He doesn’t know I’m in pain. When he pulls me up, I see the blood bubbling out from under my skin, seeping across my s`tomach, dripping down my hip…

  I hit the floor. It didn’t take long to realize I’d flung myself out of bed, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. I rolled over and checked myself. No pain, no blood. Just a dream.

  But it was that dream. Again.

  I tried to shake it off while I showered and dried my hair. Why had it hurt when dream-Oliver held me?

  I tried to shake it off at breakfast. After nearly puking up a piece of toast, I tossed the rest and checked my temperature. A tiny fever, but not enough to skip work.

  I tried to shake it off as I sat in my morning meeting, taking notes for Claire who was out of town. Where was the blood coming from? And why didn’t dream-Oliver know I was in pain when he touched me?

  Everyone had projects, freeing me up to pace around my cubical, on the brink of retching up my toast. Five nights in a row, I’d had the dream. Every time, right before the pain would hit, Big Ben would chime the same hour, every night, and the date would flash across the marque: Saturday the fifth.

  Today was Thursday. The third.

  I tried to shake it off when Moron Bruce dropped off a client folder. While staring at the same out-of-focus sentence, I nibbled on my pen. It slipped and stabbed my brand-new crown, making my mouth throb almost as badly as when I’d chipped it in the first place—the day after I’d dreamed that my teeth were falling out.

  After the tooth dream, Meghan had told me to keep careful track of all my dreams. But the only other dream I’d had in a week was the one when I died. In two days.
>
  Without bothering to shut my laptop, I grabbed my purse and rounded the corner toward the elevators. If it hadn’t been for that damn tooth dream and my subsequent trip to the dentist, I wouldn’t have been as freaked. But now…

  Roger was in Japan for another week. Sarah must be on campus or her dorm. Who the hell knew where Gio was, because all the way home, no one was answering their phones. I slammed the front door shut and peeled off my binding work clothes, leaving a trail to my room. Sydney was a loyal dog, but she wasn’t enough to still my racing mind.

  “Meghan,” I gasped into my cell, cold sweating now. “Call me when you get this message. You were right, I-I think I’m… Just call me, please.”

  Call it instinct, the touch, or plain old female intuition, but the knot that wouldn’t leave the pit of my stomach told me I shouldn’t be alone. So I threw on clothes and grabbed my keys. Not until after I’d parked and climbed out of my car did I consider how ludicrous it would sound.

  I froze on the sidewalk outside the pink house and gazed up the steep stairs to his door. So completely ludicrous.

  “Rachel?” I nearly swallowed my heart. “What are you doing?” Oliver appeared from over my shoulder. It was four in the afternoon, and he must’ve just come from work because he wore a dark suit, white shirt, blue tie, and he held a laptop case in one hand and a few folders under his other arm.

  “Oh, hiiii.” Yes, I was aware that I sounded like a chipper psycho. “You are home.”

  His eyes went wide and a few of the folders he carried slid to the sidewalk. It might have been the demonically cheerful expression on my face, or maybe because I was dressed in inappropriate-for-daytime flannel pajama short-shorts and a men’s ribbed white tank top. Either way, Oliver was staring.

  “Are you…” He cleared his throat, treading over the pile of papers at his feet. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Oh, yeah, I wanted to see…see if you…” What? Wanted to buy some Girl Scout cookies?

  “I just got home.” His eyebrows bent as he studied me, his head tipped to one side. “Why don’t you come inside?”

  “Oh. Okay, thanks.” Why hedge, since I was obviously standing outside his house. Or did he think I was there to visit his upstairs neighbor? Besides, I was starting to feel chilled, despite the seventy degrees of the April afternoon air. I wrapped my arms around myself, relieved that I’d had the presence of mind to keep my bra on, even though it was bright pink.

  Oliver took a cautious step toward me and reached for my arm. When his hand encircled the curve of my elbow, I took in a sharp inhale, making no secret of how his touch caused a jolt to shoot through my body.

  “Don’t you want—” I glanced at his scattered folders on the sidewalk.

  “I’ll get them in a minute,” he said, his hand still on my elbow. “I want you inside.”

  I think he was telling me about his commute or the weather as we climbed the fourteen steps to his front door. He unlocked it, nudged it open with his shoulder, and allowed me to enter first.

  “Sit on the couch. There’s a blanket.”

  I obeyed, shuffling across the creaky floorboards then tossing the blanket over my lap.

  He went outside for a few seconds, then shut the front door, shrugged out of his coat, loosened his tie, and sat on the coffee table across from me. “You’re not okay. You’re shivering.” He pulled the blanket so it covered my back. “Is it your family? Your brother?”

  “It’s me. I had a…” I pinched my eyes closed and just spit it out. “I had a dream.”

  When there was no reply to this revelation, I peeked. Oliver’s brow was only slightly furrowed. “A dream.”

  I nodded, put both hands over my mouth, took in a jagged inhale through my nose, then let my breath out slowly.

  “Your teeth again?”

  “No, it—no!” He was seriously about to laugh, which made me furious. “Not that one. Another one. It’s recurring.”

  “Ah. I have those sometimes. When I’m stressed. Want to tell me about it?”

  “Stressed.” I shook my head. So I did tell him—though not about how he was my dream co-star, but how I’d had the dream a week ago, and several times since. “I die,” I said in a whisper. “Every time.”

  “Right. I got that.” He nodded, but his expression remained blank.

  “Each night, the details are more vivid and there’s more of them.” I stared into the middle distance. “I see my lifeless body, and I’m totally alone. There was pain before, but then there isn’t. It’s dark so I can’t see where I am.” I swallowed, a bit astonished that it was so easy to tell him. “It’s not crystal clear how it’ll happen, but it’s not the how, it’s the when. I know exactly when.”

  “Okay. When?”

  “Two days.” When I looked at him, he was smirking. “This isn’t funny.”

  “A death dream?” He braced his hands behind him and sat back on the coffee table. “Come on, Rachel. Stop listening to Meghan. You’ve got Sarah freaked out because of your tooth.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. That dream came true. And it’s not the only one lately. It’s like my brain is trying to send me subliminal messages.”

  “Like a warning.”

  “Yes.”

  He held a fist over his chuckling mouth.

  “Stop it.” Though I laughed a bit myself. “This is embarrassing enough. I don’t need you teasing me.”

  “Sorry, sorry.” He cleared his throat.

  “It’s irrational, I know.”

  “If it’s irrational, why are you here?” He leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “Why did you come all this way? And why do you shake when I look at you?”

  I wrapped the blanket tighter around me and pressed a hand to my forehead. “I’m just a little, you know, anxious.”

  “Terrified is a better description.” His voice was softer, like he was talking to himself. “Because of a dream.”

  “This one dream could be defined as a nocturnal mini-series. I’m afraid to dream it again.” I stared down at my lap. “I don’t want to fall asleep. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “You’re not alone,” he said. “And you won’t be. Okay?”

  I lifted my chin. Oliver was pulling at the knot of his tie, gazing past my shoulder into another room.

  He was so unbelievably gorgeous. When I thought of him—of us—my attraction was stronger than I’d expected. More than when we were kids. More than a few months ago. It was a good question: Why did his glances make me tremble? Was it because of what we did in my dream? Or was it simply being here with him?

  “Two days. You think you’re going to die two days from now?”

  If I wanted Oliver to be attracted to me, talking psychotic wasn’t the way to do it. But that was not why I was there. “Yes,” I said. I could only answer with the truth.

  “Easy solution, then. We won’t leave here for two days.”

  “N-no,” I stammered. “I can’t impose. I shouldn’t have come.”

  “Rachel.” He held a hand in the air. “Don’t start with that. It’s cool. See, from my perspective, it’s simple. If you don’t want to sleep, we’ll sit up all night. If you do want to sleep…” He shrugged a shoulder. “This is a big place. You sleep, I’ll keep guard. And if I think you’re starting to lose it”—he paused as a grin touched his lips—“I’ll distract you until it passes. Deal?”

  “Thanks,” I whispered, feeling prickles behind my eyes at his kindness. “Sorry about this. I got freaked out and didn’t know what to do.” This wasn’t true, because when the real panic hit, I knew exactly where to go.

  The smirk dropped when he sighed, his metallic eyes filling with compassion. “I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, but when I saw you standing on the street…” He looked away from me for a moment. “I’ve seen that expression on your face one other time. Something scared you enough to come here. Maybe it is because you think you’re going to die on Satu
rday.” He paused long enough for me to nod. “Well, I don’t think you are. So you’re staying with me so I can prove you wrong.”

  He stood, sliding the tie out from around his collar, then unbuttoning the top of his shirt while keeping his gaze on me. I swallowed hard, tried not to shiver, lost in that look in his eyes, in a memory of us together…forever ago.

  “Play something”—he jerked his chin toward the guitar in the corner—“while I go change.”

  “Okay.” I watched him walk down the hall, relieved that he hadn’t mentioned calling the men in the white coats.

  “Bang out something loud,” he said, the joking back in his voice. “I want to be able to hear you the whole time so I’ll know you haven’t been abducted by aliens.”

  I laughed but it stuck in my throat. I wanted to be with Oliver, talk to him, explain how I felt, apologize for not trusting him with the truth six years ago, six days ago. But that was only the flicker of a thought now as I reached for his guitar. All I knew was he’d stopped his life to help me, and I wasn’t even calm enough to wonder what that meant about his feelings for me.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  There were several well-worn books as well as a three-ring binder of loose sheet music. I flipped through it, curious to see what kind of music Oliver liked to play on his guitar. It was an eclectic collection, classic stuff from Dylan and John Denver, to songs I heard on the radio today. I decided on a song by Muse from a few years ago and settled into a dining room chair.

  The way my fingers plucked the strings felt familiar and calming. I lost myself for a while.

  “I always thought that should be played in the dark, surrounded by candelabras.”

  I stopped strumming. Oliver wore jeans and a blue V-neck tee, no shoes or socks. Sweet hell. “While ensconced in Liberace furs and diamonds?”

  He laughed and leaned against the table. “Exactly.”

  “I’m sure that’s just how Matthew Bellamy envisioned it.” I plucked the E string.

  “You’ve got a nice touch. Most pound this one out, thinking it’s a rock anthem. You play by ear, too. I noticed that the other night when you were waiting for Nick.”