The Other Side of Someday (30 page)

“Exactly what I said. Just a week ago, you were head over heels in love with this guy. You wanted to be with him and the only thing in your way was this girlfriend of his. And now that you’ve found that’s no longer a problem, you’ve concocted some bullshit excuse.”

“It’s not bullshit!” I shot back, raising my voice slightly, but keeping it at a respectful level since we were in public. “It’s the truth. He kept that information from me, just like Will kept his dick’s propensity to fuck Julie from me. It’s the same thing, and there’s no way in hell I’m putting myself through that again!”

“It’s not even
close
to being the same thing and you know it, Baylee Grace!” Uncle Monty exclaimed, his ears turning red, his nostrils flaring. Taking a breath to calm his Irish temper, he closed his eyes briefly before returning them to me. “I get it. You’re scared.”

“I’m not—”

He held his hand up, silencing me. “I’ve been where you are. You feel such a strong connection to someone that you’re worried you’ll never survive if things don’t work out, so you never take that leap. Regret can be a bitch, Baylee Grace. Believe me about that. Your mother wanted to live with no regrets. That’s why she started that bucket list. Sure, she didn’t get to check off everything, but at least she made the effort. She didn’t let her fears stop her. You shouldn’t, either,” he finished, his voice low with a subtle tremble. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and I couldn’t help but think I was letting my mother down.

~~~~~~~~~~

A
FTER
I
HAD
SAID
goodbye to my uncle and he left for the airport to catch his flight, his words still haunted me. Was I just blowing the situation out of proportion because of some subconscious fear? Was I willing to walk away from one of the best relationships I’d ever had because of what, according to my uncle, was an insignificant lie of omission? Would I be able to live with the regret of what could have been?

I knew the answer to all those questions. I needed to swallow my pride and talk to Sebby, apologize for overreacting, and beg for a second chance. I had already wasted so much time, I just hoped it wasn’t too late.
 

Dashing through the lobby of my building, I pressed the elevator button, tapping my foot nervously as I waited for a car to arrive. Seconds seemed to stretch into hours, but no elevator came. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest. I had absolutely no idea what I was even going to say to Sebby. For someone who wanted to make a career out of words, I had writer’s block when it came to my own life.

The elevator finally dinged and I rushed in, repeatedly hammering the button for the top floor. I bit my lower lip, watching the numbers above the elevator doors ascend higher and higher. Stopping on the top floor, the doors opened and I exited, rubbing my sweaty hands on my skirt. I paused in the vestibule, taking in my appearance in the large gold-framed mirror directly across from me. At least I looked somewhat presentable…the upside of having just gotten back from brunch in Beverly Hills. Smoothing the lines of my blouse, I reached into my purse and popped a mint in my mouth, trying to mask the smell of tomato juice, pepper, and Worcestershire sauce. Oh, and vodka.

Drawing in a long breath, I steeled myself for what I was about to do. It needed to happen now. If I walked past his condo and into mine, I didn’t know if I’d ever have the nerve to knock on Sebby’s door and confess my true feelings.

So, with determined but timid steps, I strode down the hallway and knocked on his door. I expected to hear Gidget barking. Instead, silence greeted me. When I didn’t hear the drumming of his footsteps toward the door, I knocked again.
 

Still nothing.

I rang the doorbell.

At last, from somewhere within, light feet echoed, the sound growing louder as they approached the door. I rubbed my clammy hands on my skirt once more and braced myself for the conversation I was about to have. When the door opened, I started to speak, only to be dumbstruck by the tall blonde staring back at me, dressed in a Mets jersey and not much else. Her hair was disheveled, the complete opposite of her appearance during our previous encounters. She had that just rolled out of bed look, and my nostrils flared as I bit my lip.

“Oh, good morning, Becky,” Mercedes said. “Hope you weren’t waiting out here long. We were still sleeping. Late night last night.” She smirked.

“My name is
Baylee
,” I hissed through a clenched jaw. “And it’s two in the afternoon.”

“Right. So what can I do for you?”

“I came to see Sebby.”

“I assumed as much. He’s still asleep.”

I paused, glaring. “Well, have him stop by my condo when he gets up.” I gestured with my head to my door. “It’s important.”

“I will, but he has a meeting with the executive producers of a sitcom he’ll be producing soon, then we have to catch the red-eye back to New York.”

We
? I thought. Did I miss my window of opportunity? When I told Sebby there would never be an “us”, did he go running back to Mercedes the same night?

“When will he be back?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll come back to finish packing up here.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my heart in my throat.

“You don’t think he’s going to live out here if he’s producing that sitcom, do you? It’s based out of New York. It’s about time he smartened up.” Her cell phone chimed in her hand and she peered down at the screen before returning her attention to me. “Busy day. I’ll tell Sebby you stopped by. Goodbye, Becky.” She closed the door in my face, leaving me more confused than I was a week ago. I couldn’t believe he was moving to New York without so much as a goodbye.

Tearing across the hall, I shoved my key into the door of my condo and flung it open. I paced the living room, Sport on my heels every step of the way, unable to shake the feeling that something didn’t seem right, especially after our last conversation. I pulled my phone out of my purse and dialed Sebby’s number, my heartbeat echoing in my ears as I listened to it ring once. Then twice. When the voicemail picked up, I knew he had sent my call there, not wanting to talk to me. In a last-ditch effort, I composed a short text.

Sebby, I need to talk to you. Please call before you leave for New York. I still believe in magic.

I slipped out of my shoes and flopped onto my couch, remaining there the rest of the day, staring at my phone, hoping Sebby would call. But he never did. As the clock neared nine in the evening, I tried to call him one more time, but it went straight to voicemail. I knew he was probably at 35,000 feet on his way to New York and his new life with Mercedes.

I stared at the television directly in front of me, trying to summon tears, but they wouldn’t fall. I had done this to myself. It was times like these I wished my mother were alive so I could pick up the phone and ask for advice. My father had always insisted she was watching over me and all I had to do was look for a sign. Whenever he was at a crossroads in his life, he would look up at the sky and say, “Show me the way, Gracie May.” Up until the day he died, he swore my mother never truly left him, that she was always looking down on us, guiding us.

Now, as I stared at the television in front of me, I started to think perhaps my father was onto something. Maybe there was such a thing as fate, as universal signs. Maybe my mother was sending me a sign that Sebby wasn’t my someday. Maybe my someday was a tall, dark, handsome man with a sexy Irish brogue. I had never had one of those “a-ha” moments, but as I stared at a commercial promoting Irish tourism, the lush green hillsides of the Irish isles calming the heartache for a moment, I wondered whether this was one of those signs, too. Maybe my mom was trying to tell me I had it all wrong, that all my random chance encounters with Sebby were just that. Maybe fate had a different agenda.

Reaching for my cell and making a call that was out of pure desperation, as opposed to desire, I dialed Owen’s number, remembering he had just returned from his trip overseas earlier in the day. I prayed he answered. I didn’t know if I could handle yet another rejection today. I had never been one of those girls who needed to be in a relationship to know her self-worth, but at that moment, I needed
someone
to make me feel what I had been missing most of my life. I needed to feel magic.

~~~~~~~~~~

“O
WEN
.” I
STOOD
UP
from the stool in a trendy bar down the street from my condo. Thankfully, Owen had answered when I called, agreeing to meet me for a drink. I would have been lying if the thought of getting drunk enough to invite him back to my place didn’t cross my mind. It felt wrong, so I prayed the numbing effect of the alcohol would work its magic.

“Hey, Baylee,” he responded in that adorable Irish brogue that was like a key to a virgin’s chastity belt. He leaned in toward me and I closed my eyes, expecting to feel his lips on mine. Instead, he turned at the last second, placing a friendly kiss on my cheek.

I stiffened at his brush-off, but hid my unease. Smiling, I retook my seat and signaled for the bartender, wanting to appear confident and fearless.

“How was your trip?” I asked after he took a sip of the dark ale he had ordered.

“Good, but it’s always nice to be back home, especially after that long flight.”

I nodded, taking a drink of my own beer. There was a stalemate between us that hadn’t existed during our two previous dates. There was no chemistry. No spark.

No magic.

This whole sign stuff is a bunch of shit
.

“I can imagine.” I turned my eyes forward, watching some football game on the large overhead screen. I acted like I was invested in the outcome of the matchup when, in all reality, I didn’t care who won. I couldn’t even tell you which teams were playing. I just needed something to take my attention away from the heavy silence that settled between us.

“You got back in this morning, right?”

“Sure did. Still fighting jet-lag, but at least the beer will help me sleep tonight. It always takes me a few days to get set right again.”

I laughed politely, glancing at him briefly before turning my eyes forward again. I ran my finger across the condensation on the pilsner glass, but it didn’t take my mind off feeling as if there were an ocean between us.
 

“Thanks for meeting me tonight,” I said finally. “I mean, with your jet-lag and everything, you could have just stayed home and slept it off—”

“And I thought about doing that,” he interrupted. “Hell, when your number popped up on my caller ID, I almost didn’t answer.”

“But you did.” My voice was steady with a twinge of hope. I met his eyes, trying to force my heart to beat a little faster, my lungs to breathe a little heavier, but I couldn’t.

“I did.”

“Why?” I wanted him to say how much he missed me, how he just couldn’t stop thinking about me while he was gone.

“Did Cora tell you how old I am?” he asked. I shook my head. “Do you want to guess?”

“Not really. That’s always a losing battle.”

“Right you are.” He trained his eyes on his half-full beer. “Well, I’m older than you by probably more than fifteen years, Baylee.”

My eyes grew wide. I had estimated him to be in his thirties. He looked damn good for being in his forties.

“And when you reach a certain age, you stop wasting your time on relationships you know aren’t going anywhere.”

“What do you—?”

“I like you, Baylee.” He grabbed my hand in his, his thumb caressing my knuckles. Our eyes met and we shared a look. In that instant, I knew he knew. “A lot, which is strange for me, considering we’ve only been out a few times. You’re spunky, a breath of fresh air. I couldn’t stop thinking about you when I was gone last week.”

“I like you, too, Owen,” I admitted, although I didn’t mean it the way he probably did.

He held his hand up. “Do you?”

“What do you mean by that?” I scrunched my eyebrows.

“Like I’ve said, part of being a good photographer is seeing things most people can’t. That’s how you get those one-of-a-kind photographs no one else can come close to capturing. And I wish I had my camera during our last date so I could capture the look on your face when you left with me instead of your neighbor…”

I opened my mouth, trying to come up with a response, but I couldn’t.

“It’s okay, Baylee. I just don’t think it’s fair to either one of us to continue seeing each other when it’s obvious you’re not into me.”

I tore my eyes from his. “I’m sorry. I guess I was hoping the more time I spent with you, the more I’d want to be with you, but—”

“It doesn’t work that way,” he interrupted.

“I know,” I agreed. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“You didn’t.” Throwing enough cash on the bar to cover our drinks, he stood up. “I wish you all the luck, no matter where life takes you.” He planted a kiss on my forehead, then turned and left me.

Alone again
, I thought to myself.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
IVE

T
HE
WEEKS
LEADING
UP
to Christmas always seemed to fly by, but it was particularly true this year. It was my first Christmas in California and I thought how strange it was to see a palm tree decorated with hundreds of twinkling lights. It made me a little homesick.
 

After Sebby’s unexpected departure from LA and Owen’s rejection, I kept to myself, telling everyone who called or visited that I was on a deadline to finish writing my book. It wasn’t true, but it gave me a plausible excuse to be alone. Every day, I would write several thousand words, then delete them that evening. My mood affected everything I did. What was once a light romance had taken on a dark and melancholy vibe. One of the most important elements of a romance novel was that there be a happily ever after. I didn’t know how I could write about something I struggled to find myself.
 

One Friday afternoon a week before Christmas, my cell buzzed with a new text. Seeing it was from Marcel, I scowled, tossing my phone to the other side of the couch, ignoring his message. But something about that moment made me rethink my recent behavior. Maybe my mother’s spirit was close by, finally slapping me upside the head and smacking some sense into me. Maybe I was tired of always feeling sorry for myself. Maybe it was from watching the Grinch’s heart on my television grow three sizes. I didn’t know precisely what caused it, but I suppressed the heartache I had allowed to consume me. I had moved out to California to finally live again. Remaining on my couch all day long wasn’t living.