Someday Maybe Read online

  A combination of joy and dread hit me.

  Home.

  I had to stand still and just breathe while other passengers rushed past to hug their waiting friends and families. San Francisco hadn’t been my home for two years. And even then, I’d only attended college here. Could returning to a place I’d lived for a mere four years really be considered a “homecoming?”

  “Rach!” Meghan flung her sign skyward like it was Mary Tyler Moore’s knitted cap, broke into a run, then crashed into me at full speed. After we stumbled and my bags went flying, she grabbed the tops of my shoulders and shook me like I was being punished. “I can’t believe you’re finally here, Rachel!” We’d been best friends since third grade, so she was allowed to yell at me and shake me to show she was happy.

  “Yee-haw!” Giovanna called. Instead of a southern twang, it was laced with her French-Canadian accent.

  My two closest friends in the world had no idea that, behind my huge smile, I was majorly freaked at being back in San Fran. But why should they suspect anything? I’d never told a soul about what happened six years ago. The fruity smell of Meghan’s hairspray and Gio’s cackling laugh…being with them again made me almost giddy with relief. The fist of dread that had been clenching my insides since touchdown started to loosen.

  We loaded the car and by the time we made it up the Bayshore Freeway, across Sixteenth Street and into the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, I had tears in my eyes from laughing. The more we squealed and caught up, the more I felt a nervous/happy flutter in my stomach at the adventure lying ahead.

  So what if San Francisco harbored unhappy memories? The real reason I was back was for my fabulous new job. I’d actually been headhunted, for damn’s sake! NRG Interactive saw a special talent in me—or whatever that email had said—and I’d be embarking on a career I had no idea I could do a year ago, something I…I didn’t have a ton of professional training at.

  Suddenly, the nervous flutter overtook the happy one.

  Meghan double-parked on the hilly street and the girls helped me haul my bags up the stairs to my brother’s second-story apartment.

  “Wanna grab some takeout?” Meghan asked.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I have four morbidly obese suitcases, five boxes, one tiny closet, no idea where I packed my favorite yoga pants, and I should attempt to look presentable for work Monday morning before they discover I have no talent at copywriting.”

  “We’ll leave you then.” Megs hovered at the front door. “So…” She rushed forward, pulling me into a surprisingly tight hug. “Welcome home, bestie. I’m so happy you’re here.”

  I hugged her back just as tightly, feeling hot tears at the back of my throat. “So am I.” I so wanted to mean it.

  The apartment felt empty and quiet after I bolted the door, except for the sounds of foot traffic, gridlock, and the surprisingly comforting clang-clang of cable cars. It would feel empty pretty often with Roger out of town so much. I’d have to get used to that with all the time he’d be overseas for work.

  That was one of the reasons he suggested I take up residence in his second bedroom. Another reason was to be stepmother to Sydney, his black-and-white beagle who’d stumbled bleary-eyed out of Rog’s bedroom when we’d arrived. She was now nudging my leg, a red ball between her teeth.

  “Hey, Syd.” I knelt down, scratching her behind the ears. She yapped happily then rolled over so I could get to her tummy.

  I jumped when Roger’s landline rang. I let it roll to voicemail, though it could have been my sister, Kristine. We’d only talked six times today, but after my long flight, I wasn’t in the proper mood to hear about Krikit’s latest domestic catastrophe, or to have her ask me again why I’d bothered moving all the way to California but not back home to Santa Barbara, and how soon was I coming for an extra-long visit?

  The phone continued to ring. It might’ve been someone from my new office. They had Rog’s home number but I’d returned my work Blackberry a few days ago, so now I was going old school with a pay-as-you-go disposable.

  Currently, I did not have an official home address, phone number, or residential state driver’s license. That fist clenched in my stomach again.

  The phone call was a telemarketer. I picked up the handset and erased the message. Good little sister, am I. Another voicemail immediately started to play. Even through the crackling of the bad connection, I knew it was Rog leaving a message for me. Though I could only catch every third word. I was about to delete that message, too, when something he said made my finger freeze, hovering over the delete button.

  “Rach, we need to talk.”

  In and of itself, the comment was benign, but my insides instantly turned heavy and cold, a block of ice. The last time Roger had said that exact phrase to me—six years ago—was the day he’d found out about Oliver.

  I stared at the face of the phone, listening to the automated voice ask if I wanted to save the message, delete, or replay. My hand remained frozen in place while my mind whirred like a top.

  I flinched when the robot voice asked the question again. “I don’t know,” I hissed at the phone. “Give me two damn seconds.”

  I debated replaying the message, but instead made a tight fist and extended my index finger. The tip of said finger turned white as I pressed hard on the proper key, deleting the cryptic message forever. I dropped the phone on the kitchen counter, determined to forget the whole thing.

  To clear my head, I grabbed Sydney’s leash and the two of us padded downstairs. The square of grass a few streets from the more popular Golden Gate Park was bathed in light from street lamps. We played a few games of fetch, then Syd did what doggies do and we trudged back up the hill.

  I entered my dark bedroom, weaving around boxes and suitcases. Rog left a blanket on the foot of the bed. I spread it out and crawled on top, inhaling faint fumes from the pipe store across the street. I rolled over and smiled sleepily, thinking about Meghan and that over-the-top “Welcome Home Rachel” sign that was now leaning against my closet door. My best friend was one of the reasons I could return to San Fran.

  Chapter Three

  October, Freshman Year

  The moment Oliver spotted me from across the diner, his face lit up and he waved me over. It was startling how his simple acknowledgement caused my heart to thump up my throat, and my stupid, giddy grin was right on cue.

  “Hey, you,” he said, closing his black notebook. “You look pretty.”

  “Aw.” I grinned all dopily¸ my heart gooing at the compliment as I slid into the booth, bumping his side. “You’re early.”

  “Seeing you is the best part of my day. I couldn’t wait.” When he leaned over to kiss me, my heart did an excited little jump. But then I froze out of habit and peered past his shoulder.

  He exhaled and removed his arm from around my shoulders. “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” I patted his leg and scooted away a few inches. “Everything’s cool. How are you? How was English Lit?”

  He frowned and pressed a fist over his mouth. “Rach, I haven’t said anything before, but now…whenever we’re out in public, I don’t know, I feel like you’re hiding.”

  “What?” I squeaked.

  His gaze slid from mine and down to the Formica table, where he played with the saltshaker, not speaking for a moment. “Are you seeing another guy? We never said we were exclusive—officially, but I need to know.”

  “Oliver.” I couldn’t remember when it happened, but we’d been exclusive in my head for a while. “I swear, there’s no one else.”

  “Okay.” He nodded, his gaze finally lifting to mine. “But you’re hiding from someone, aren’t you?”

  Hmm. You mean, other than my lab partner who I was ditching to have lunch with the hottest boy on the peninsula?

  I rubbed my nose. That wasn’t the answer he was looking for.

  “Or, are you hiding me from someone?”

  “No! No, no, I…” I grabbed his water and too
k a drink, my throat dry and scratchy. His gray eyes watched, a little notch forming between them. Seeing his concern made me like him even more.

  It wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to meet someone like him. Then he’d planted that kiss on me outside my dorm, turning my bones, brains, and resolve into a puddle of love goo. I’d never recovered.

  “Who are you dodging?” he asked, looking straight into my eyes. “You can tell me.”

  “My brother.” I blew out a breath, part of me relieved to finally get the subject out in the open. “He’s kind of a big deal around here.” Deep down, I knew if my family found out my grades were slipping because of a boy, their knee-jerk reaction would be to blame Oliver, when it was my own damn fault that I couldn’t manage to say no to him—even if all he wanted was to meet for lunch when I should’ve been at lab.

  “Rach.” Oliver chuckled, pushing a hand through his dark hair. “I know who your brother is. His picture’s on the home page of the school’s website.”

  “I know.”

  When the door of the café opened, I jumped and hid my face behind a menu. “This is bullshit,” Oliver muttered, then scooted out of the booth. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “A study room in the library?” he suggested, dropping a few bills on the table, even though we hadn’t ordered. “Or my place. Pretty much anywhere but here, right?”

  My face felt hot, a blush of shame at being caught. I hung my head and nodded as I followed him out the door. He didn’t seem angry, though I was sure the scene hadn’t thrilled him. We walked in silence for a while, then he turned a corner and we were in an alley behind two restaurants. He stopped and looked at me, waiting for me to explain.

  This was our first relationship snag—that he knew of. Even so, I’d been waiting for it, the sign that it was time for me to get back on track, back to the plan that I had control over: classes, tests, graduation, career. Complete stability. Maybe we should end this thing before I failed one more pop quiz.

  Was that what I wanted? A sharp pain stabbed at the back of my throat.

  “Oliver.” I wrung my hands, not knowing how to continue. I was temporarily reprieved when he bent forward and kissed me, both hands cupping my face. Within seconds, my body and my worries melted, all cares dissolved, like they always did. I never freaked out about quizzes or essays or whatever when I was kissing Oliver. My fingers splayed across his chest, his muscles flexing as he held me close. Our hearts beating together.

  “Feel better?” he whispered over my mouth.

  “You always make me feel better.” My whole body was lighter than air, held to earth by his arms around me. “Can we just go to your apartment for a while before class?”

  “Sure.” He laced his fingers between mine as we continued to walk. “By the way, that was meant to distract me”—he nodded back at where we’d been making out—“not you. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s pretty simple: Rog can’t know I’m spending my free time with you.” There, that was easy to say, too.

  “Why does your brother care who you date? Do you have an arranged marriage?”

  “No.” I laughed and leaned into his side, forming what I’d say next. But then I hesitated.

  I’d seen the looks people gave me when I’d lay out my ten-year plan for them. The kinder ones said I was maybe a little too detail-oriented about the future, while others called me a rabid perfectionist.

  If Oliver saw that side of me, would he stop liking me?

  “No, no.” I added, “It’s nothing like that. I just promised him and my parents, everyone, I guess, that I’d ace my classes this year.” Well, that was one way of putting it.

  “Why?”

  I opened my mouth, but then closed it.

  Why was it so hard for me to tell him about my family? How my father had lost all our savings because he’d gambled with our future by not planning for it. I loved my dad like crazy. He was my first example of what it meant to have a strong work ethic, but even I knew he’d made bad, risky financial choices. When we finally did get back on our feet, those years of struggling and fear stayed with me, changed me into someone who needed a fail-proof plan. I needed steps of progress to control in order to feel safe, because I never wanted to be that scared again.

  If I told Oliver about that, would he think I was too difficult? If I didn’t tell him, would it affect our relationship right now? Oliver was the furthest thing from a control freak. He was more like Roger than me, in fact. Rog didn’t understand why I had to carry eighteen credits this semester, and nineteen next semester, and double up on the general ed. Oliver wouldn’t understand, either, so why tell him anything about it? But he was looking at me, patiently. I needed to tell him something.

  We waited for two cable cars and a double-decker tourist bus to pass before we crossed the street toward his apartment. “Did you know I’m here on a scholarship?”

  “That’s not uncommon,” he said.

  I pressed a fist to my head, massaging my left temple. “I guess not, but…”

  “Do you have a headache?”

  “A little one.”

  He reached for my purse. “Where’s your peppermint oil? That always helps.”

  “At home.” I sighed, loving that he did know so many other things about me, like how I used essential oils to feel better and alter my mood, and that I hated country music and was allergic to sesame seeds. He carried extra Benadryl and an EpiPen in his backpack, just in case I ever forgot mine.

  “So, because you’re on a scholarship,” he said, “your family doesn’t approve of you having a boyfriend?”

  Boyfriend. I tipped my chin to meet his gaze. As our eyes met, tingling warmth spread up the back of my neck.

  This was meant to be a casual thing, a last-minute amendment to the plan, a fling to start my school year in true college fashion. That was something I could wrap my brain around. It fit in the plan. At least, that was how I’d rationalized it at first. But words like “boyfriend” and “exclusive” did not fit.

  “Sort of,” I said. “But there’s more to it.”

  “I’m listening.” We climbed the stairs to his apartment. He let me in first and I knew immediately that it was empty; a rarity with four guys living under one roof.

  I shut the door behind us, wanting nothing more than to feel his arms around me. After thinking back on those years of worry and helplessness, I needed to feel taken care of. “Can’t we keep ‘us’ on the down-low for a while? Just you and me?”

  Oliver exhaled and looked at his shoes. He wasn’t happy by the notion—probably a bruise to the ego—so I stood on my toes, slid my arms around his neck, and kissed him.

  He didn’t respond to my satisfaction, and that worried me. We’d only been together a few weeks, but suddenly, I couldn’t stand the idea of it being over. Despite the bother of hiding our relationship and the guilt of skipping a class here and there, I was happier with him than I’d ever been.

  I moved closer and held the tops of his shoulders. Oliver’s hands clamped around my hips—it was our usual stance, but the usual wasn’t going to cut it, not with how I was feeling: panic mixed with longing, curiosity, and the need to control something about the situation.

  When I parted my lips against his, his fingers dug into my hips. He shifted his body weight like he was about to pull away, so I held a hand at the back of his neck and ran my other down his chest between us. When I got to the hem of his T-shirt, I drew it up a few inches. His stomach muscles tightened at my touch.

  “Rach,” he whispered, a hint of confusion behind his silvery eyes, but there was also an intensity I’d never seen before. “What are you doing?”

  “If you can’t figure it out, maybe I’m doing it wrong.”

  His fingers hooked around my belt loops, pulling my hips against his. “I need to know you’re sure,” he whispered. “Because I’m sure. I’m sure about you.”

  Going off instinct, I pressed the rest
of my body against him and reached up to his mouth, answering his question the only way I knew how. With my next inhale, it was like each of my nerve endings multiplied and I sensed everything: the pressure of his lips, the taste and smell of him, the touch of his fingers as they moved under my shirt, my heart pounding in my chest the higher his fingers crept.

  I didn’t know that day was about to be our first time together. I hadn’t gone through the steps yet, hadn’t weighed the pros and cons, couldn’t even remember if I was wearing pretty underwear. But when Oliver’s fingers slid into my hair and he whispered my name in a tone so sweet, so devoted, then backed me up until I hit his bedroom door, I couldn’t think of a single con worth worrying about.

  Chapter Four

  “Rachel. Rochel. Rachel Bachel…Ray-Ray.”

  “Still funny,” I sing-songed, tapping a pen on the side of my desk, forcing a polite smile.

  Bruce, my new work colleague, was the genius behind my string of office nicknames. He was the first person I met Monday morning. Or rather, he was the loudest. His official title was Assistant Creative Director, meaning he was my immediate supervisor under Claire, the scary Creative Director.

  Bruce gave me a tour of the office and introduced me around. He was a really jokey guy, though I didn’t find his particular brand of humor funny, especially when he made an extremely unfunny joke about me coming from Dallas, even though I’d told him numerous times that I was from Southern California.

  “Hey, you hear why the baby Jesus couldn’t be born in Texas? No? No? It’s ‘cause they couldn’t find three wise men and a virgin. Ha ha ha! Get it?”

  After that, he was your garden-variety jackwad, cussing out coworkers for no apparent reason, sporting those not-so-ironic logo T-shirts, and most importantly, when it was just the two of us in the ad department’s war room, it wasn’t long before I sensed that I knew more about advertising than he did. And most of my game came from Wikipedia and Mad Men.

  “You can call me Rachel,” I said as Bruce was leaving my cubical.