More Than A Maybe (17 page)

I’m worried that we’re going to fuck, and then I’m going to leave.

And then those words come back to haunt me.

I’d tried to soothe myself with the fiction that it was just another challenge, or bit of rough pillow talk on Xavier’s part . . . but as the days speed by I learn how much those words have chilled me. It was a strange, terrible thing to say. Perhaps it was just the most honest way for him to express his fears about commitment. Still, thinking about it makes me feel incredibly sad.

We’re eating breakfast one morning in the lobby of the hotel — scones and coffee, jam and clotted cream. When we’re done, Xavier takes a quick glance at his phone.

“Gotta run, I’m afraid. Headhunter’s sending some possible recruits to our new office space, and then I’ve got another patent party with Randall,” he says, making a face. “I’d rather shoot myself, but what are you gonna do . . . ”

“I could shoot you,” I say, smiling helpfully.

He grins. “Maybe later.” A kiss on my cheek and a cheerful wave later, and he’s out the front door of the hotel.

I sigh.
This can’t go on,
I realize.

It can’t. Not really. Though it’s still a dream on the face of it, I can already see a pattern beginning to emerge, and I’m not at all sure that I like it.

We’ve plateaued.

What exactly does he expect me to do with myself? Is this it — tour the city on Xavier’s credit card, wait for him to show up from work, make moon eyes at him through an amazing gourmet dinner, have a night of passionate sex in one of the city’s most beautiful hotels, and then . . .

. . . hm.

It really doesn’t sound too bad when I think about it like
that,
but I can’t just wave away all the feelings I know are perfectly valid. The entire thing seems too controlled. Too tidy. Too . . .
temporary.
I need to talk this out. Before I know it, my fingers are finding my iPhone and calling Jayla.

She picks up. The sound of her sleepy voice puts me at ease immediately.

“How’s my California girl?” she says, yawning just pointedly enough to remind me that I’ve woken her.

“Still good. Still sunny. How’s class?”

“Aw, you know, same old thing. Dr. Laredo’s sick — he’s been sending his TA to teach. He’s nice and all, kind of cute . . . but shit, is that boy ever
dumb
. He assigns us like 10 pages from the wrong chapter, and then he tries to give us a quiz on all the stuff he forgot to make us read. Guy just stands there turning red for like five minutes, then puts on some old DVD about how to set up an IV line. Then he just leaves.”

“Ha! That sucks,” I say. “Oh, by the way — did everything go okay with my apartment?”

“All taken care of,” Jayla says. “Landlord put your stuff in storage, just like you wanted.”

I sigh in relief. Xavier had insisted on taking care of my back rent and other bills, and I’d told my landlord that I was moving out — it was time to move on. There had still been the problem of all the stuff I’d left in my apartment, though.

“I’ve got the key to the storage. You need?” Jayla asks, stifling another yawn.

“No . . . if you can keep it for me, that would be awesome. Thanks,” I say, my voice suddenly slipping into a whisper.

Those words come floating back to me:
We can never throw away what hurts us most.

Jayla can obviously hear the weight of my emotions in my voice. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Xavier treating you okay out there?”

“Well . . . yeah. I mean, it’s kind of perfect,” I say.

“Hey girl, perfect is good. Don’t try to argue with perfect.”

I let out a long sigh, trying to find the right way to explain how I feel. “Good things are
real,
Jayla. Perfect is
perfect.
”

She listens as I vent about the past few weeks. She lets me do most of the talking. Nothing is resolved, really, but saying everything out loud helps me process my thoughts — helps me get the questions swirling around my head into sharper focus.

It is perfect . . . but for how long?

How much longer is Xavier going to continue to find me interesting?

How much longer is he going to want this same endless date to continue?

Darker thoughts creep up in my mind — the ones I’ve been trying to push away.

What am I to Xavier? A girlfriend? A temporary convenience like his hotel room? Like the bed or the furniture? And if that’s how it is . . . if that’s how he sees me . . . when does it end?

Jayla waits for me to finish unpacking it all . . . and then she’s quiet for a few long seconds.

“Look,” she says finally. “This Xavier guy seems like he’s got his work taking up most of his mind. If he’s the kind of man you say he is, then money isn’t the most valuable thing to him. It’s
time
. So every minute he’s spending with you is a minute he’s not spending on building all of his new digital futuristic bullshit.”

“I know,” I say.

“I don’t know what Xavier wants out of his relationships, exactly. Maybe he wants love. Maybe he wants distraction. But whatever it is, he saw a little of it that night you fell ass-first into his lap.”

I can feel my eyes rolling at that. “So he wants a stripper? One that can’t stay on a stage?”

Jayla laughs. “I don’t think so. Or if I understand what you’re telling me, anyway, that’s not exactly what he wants. It sounds like he’s into you for what you
want
to become. That stripper he saw wanted to try something new, no matter whether it would work out or not. I think he saw this little bitty seed of confidence growing in you, and wanted to see what it would turn into.”

I think about that first big reaction I’d gotten from Xavier — how he’d looked at me when I’d shown up for dinner in that dress I’d gotten with Baby.
Xavier is a hard man to surprise, no doubt about it.
It was great to see him looking pleasantly shocked like that.

And then in a flash the pieces come together in my head, and I know what I’m going to do.

The excitement in my voice shoots right through the phone. “I’ve got it! Oh, Jayla — you are the absolute BEST.”

I can almost hear her smiling on the other end of the line. “Of course am, bitch! And don’t you forget it.”

I say my goodbyes to Jayla. My heart is pounding. I’ve already made the decision.

I’m going to do it.
Maybe Xavier would like it. Maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe I’m kind a mess . . . some patchwork of half-formed identities and Goddess aspirations, flailing around for some definition of who and what I am.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. I don’t have the energy to keep justifying my desires to myself anymore. But I do know what I want . . . and I’m ready to get it.

Another few minutes later, and I’m sweeping out the door of the hotel lobby.

My Book goes with me.

* * *

There are two stops on my schedule today.

The first one is at a place called Bettie’s Retro on Hollywood Boulevard.

It’s a place I’d been wanting to visit since I got to LA, but I’d kept chickening out. Part of me had been terrified that I would fall in love with something there, only to have it fail to fit due to lack of boobage. The other part of me was worried that I’d fall in love with simply
everything,
and I’d end up turning Xavier’s credit card into a melted slab.

The second worry ends up being the more likely; it’s all I can do to restrain myself. Bettie’s Retro is the closet of my dreams. There are more beautiful clothes there than I can even count. I’m stunned by all the color — I’d spent so many hours watching my Goddesses on my little black-and-white screen that I’d sometimes forgotten just how vivid their world had been.

It takes nearly three hours, but I finally settle on two pieces I can’t live without: an aquamarine button-down circle frock with white pearl buttons, and a slinky red silk cocktail dress with a black lace bolero. I manage to make both of them work with the padded strapless brassiere I’ve brought along with me.

I wear the aquamarine out of the shop. Beauty World is my next stop, and I’ve decided to show up unannounced. I want to be the one to take Baby by surprise this time — and I don’t mind a wait if it comes right down to it. It’s not like I have anything else to do today.

The limo drops me in front of a charming little salon. It’s set into a modern-looking brick building that blends solid architectural traditions with California chic. The exterior has been designed with a subtle flair — tasteful yet decidedly current, with a tiny floral wonderland blooming in neatly landscaped rows along either side of the entrance. The front edifice is curved slightly, like a bubble; the windows here reflect the noon sun against my face. It looks almost like a greenhouse for people.

As I walk in I see a nicely golden man with a bald head, a neatly-trimmed beard, and a laconic grin on his face. I hazard a guess: “Rosco?”

The man springs to life. “Uh-oh — we’ve got a walk-in!” he shouts over his shoulder. “Rosco, that’s me. Welcome to Beauty World! No appointment today?”

“No — sorry. Actually,” I say with a smile, “is your
oiran
around here anywhere?”

Rosco throws his head back and lets out a booming laugh at the sound of the word. “Oh, you want the
boss lady,
” he says. “Sure thing. Baby, love — you got a visitor!”

Baby’s head pops around a mirror at the far side of the salon and gives me a big smile. “Veronica! Do you think you could maybe just have a seat for me? I’ll be just a sec.”

Rosco shows me to a chair. I flip absently through a magazine. A few minutes later, an elegant-looking older woman appears from behind the mirror. She settles up with Rosco, then slips past me out the door.

The shop is now free from customers; a couple of Beauty World employees straighten up a multicolor rainbow of moisturizers, nail polish, and miniature aromatherapy bottles. I’m amazed at the variety. It seems like Beauty World is set up to do everything from hair extensions to nail art to relaxation treatments.

Rosco points at me and looks at Baby. “This is her? The Chicago girl you told me about?” he asks, all smiles. “You told me she was cute, but you didn’t tell me she dressed to kill, too.
Ouch.
Anyway, nice to meet you — I’m Rosco. Recovering midwesterner.”

I blush at the compliments as I shake his hand. “Veronica Kane. Look, I’m sorry I don’t have an appointment . . . is this a bad time?”

Baby shoos away the suggestion with a flutter of her fingers. “No way! It’s fine — we had a cancellation. Our next appointment isn’t for hours.” Her eyes fall on my dress; the whites of her baby blues get big. “Did you just get that today? I love it! Very you. But anyway, what’s up? Are you just here to make me jealous? Or to watch Rosco try and drink me under the table?”

“Impossible,” says Rosco, taking that moment to hand me a glass of wine. “But who knows, maybe if we both gang up on her . . .”

I take a big breath and a big sip of wine to go with it. I want to come right out with it, tell them why I’m there. But now that the moment of truth has arrived, I find myself hesitating. The Book in my bag . . . it’s a link to my deepest desires about the person I hope to become. To show it to someone else, to risk their laughter . . . it’s a huge step.

I look at Baby, and the sight of her smiling face is comforting. She was once a little girl with big dreams herself — dressing up Barbie for nights out with Ken; sneaking lipstick from her mother’s makeup drawer for midnight makeover disasters. And now, here in this city . . .

She’s become her dream. She’s stepped into a reality of her own making.

She’s made herself her own.

And so I take out my Book, and I show them. It’s a washed-out relic of my past, a sharp contrast to the new and hyper-bright interior of the salon. Still, the Book is like a roadmap. It’s the clearest expression of what I want, who I want to be. I’ve got the pages all marked. I know where I’m going.

As I flip the Book open, a sudden charge of newfound determination courses through me — and when I speak the words, it’s like I’m casting a magic spell:

“Can you give me a makeover?”

* * *

On my way to the restaurant I say a silent prayer that I’ll make it there before Xavier.

I do, fortunately. The waiter shows me to an isolated, candlelit table, and I order an apple pie martini to keep me company as I wait.

I’m wearing an oversized pair of sunglasses. It’s a little ridiculous to be wearing them indoors, of course, but I don’t want to run the risk of Xavier recognizing me and spoiling the surprise I’ve got planned.

I hear a low murmur drift over from the patrons at the nearby tables . . . I can’t make out precisely what they’re saying, but I manage to catch snippets here and there:

Who is she?
someone whispers.

I think I know her,
says another.

They’re actually talking about me!
The post-makeover jitters evaporate. I suddenly feel as good as I look.

It’s then that Xavier walks in, handsome as ever. My heart flutters excitedly as his gaze sweeps past me. I feel like I’ve gotten away with something.

He’s seen me, I’m sure of it.
But he doesn’t know.

I see him check his watch, the irritation already beginning to crease his face.
He thinks I’m late.

I want to scream, but I don’t . . . I simply wait until his eyes turn once again toward my table, then I stretch my newly-manicured hand above my head.

He sees it. For a moment he just tilts his head to one side in confusion, as his brain tries to put a name to my face. He takes a few steps toward me, and then I can see that he finally understands.

The look on his face is pure frozen shock. For a half-moment I worry that it’s disappointment as well — but then his mouth breaks into a wide smile.

“Miss . . . Veronica . . .
Kane,
isn’t it?” he asks, as he arrives at the table.

“The very same,” I say, trying to put some breathy sexiness into my voice.

He shakes his head, grinning. “You are full of surprises, aren’t you?” he says. I can tell — he’s impressed. “I mean, just look at you!”