Someday Maybe by Ophelia London Page B

I tossed and turned all night with intense, stormy dreams. There was thunder and rain, earthquakes, and I woke up sweating bullets, my covers kicked to the floor.
    The sun had barely risen when a knock sounded at my door. I scrambled out of bed, expecting to see Oliver. But it was Roger, holding two cups from Starbucks.
    “Rach.” He extended a cup. “We need to talk.”

Chapter Eight
    Hearing Roger’s chipper voice through my cell made me smile.
    “Hi, Double.”
    “Hey, Trouble.” I leaned back in my office chair, also happy for his crystal-clear voice after only emails and fuzzy phone connections. “When’s your flight home?”
    “Tonight. I’m so tired of traveling. How’s my dog?”
    Rog would be a great daddy someday. He’d been out of town for less than two weeks, but Sydney’s well-being was always one of the first things he asked about.
    “After a run through the mud last night, I let her roll around in your bed, then we had a marathon petting session. You missed all the fun.” My brother laughed as I gave him a blow-by-blow account of Sydney’s actions, while I stared at my blank computer screen, needing to come up with a brilliant idea to sell some odd-tasting table crackers from Romania before Claire came at me with a hatchet.
    Roger and I caught up, chatted next about the Golden State Warriors basketball game we’d both watched an ocean apart a few days ago. I also told him I’d gone to the wharf with Meghan and stocked up on sourdough bread bowls.
    “She invited us to some party on Friday.” I toyed with a mini bottle of peppermint oil, the one I carried around with me like old-fashioned smelling salt. “Not this Friday but next.”
    “Is it at Tim’s house?”
    “Yep. If I go, I’ll probably stay here at the office then meet you guys since I’m already halfway to his place.” I ran my hand across my desk, temporarily relieved that I didn’t have any overdue project cluttering the smooth surface. “But can I tell you, I’m getting pretty sick of going up to North Beach. I work close by, we do dinner up there, the best theaters are up there, and so far every happening social gathering worth attending has been in North Beach.”
    “Was there a party up there last weekend?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you go?”
    “No, and Meghan almost stroked out, but is it not my right as an American to boycott North Beach for one weekend?”
    Roger didn’t reply. Had our overseas signal died out? I was ready to start in with the old “can you hear me now?” back-and-forth when he spoke again.
    “That’s good, Rach, because it’s actually the reason I called. You should definitely stay away from those parties at North Beach, okay?” His voice sounded weird, overly-protective, reminding me of that first year at USF.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Nothing, nothing,” he said after another silent moment. “I guess you don’t know—or you do know.” He sighed, and I could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose in concentration. Right as I was about to worry about his level of stress, he broke the tension by chuckling. “You know what, it’s not a big deal. I just wanted to tell you—”
    “Rog, hold on a sec.” I hated cutting him off, but Bruce was barking at me from around the corner about how I needed to edit the copy on the Shreveport Slow Boat poster STAT!
    STAT? Really? Who talked like that outside an ER?
    “Sorry, Rog. The world’s about to come crashing down if I don’t save it with my mad editing skills. See you tomorrow?”
    “Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow.”
    After I cut our call short, I reached for my computer tablet. Some days, the only notion that kept me going was that if I got my act together and hung on, I would probably have Bruce’s job in a few years, then the career possibilities were endless. My plan was on track. That was all that mattered.
    “Move it, Ray-Ray.”
    I scooted out my chair, and with a roll of my eyes rounded the corner toward his