More Than A Maybe by Clarissa Monte

something.
    I pull back the tissue with hesitant fingers, and there it is: a crisp, cream-colored envelope. It’s monogrammed, marked with an elegant X . At last — some mail I actually want. I feel its reassuring weight in my hand for a moment, then eagerly tear it open.
    It’s a letter, written in Xavier’s precise and controlled hand:
Veronica,
    Hello. I hope you have recovered from our shared excitement last evening.
    Enclosed please find a dress of my choosing. While I’ve not the eye for fashions that Mr. Yoshida does, I am quite sure that you will look absolutely radiant in his work. I should very much like to see you wear it myself.
    I’m meeting an associate of mine and his wife for drinks. Your company tonight would make me very happy. For tonight — and longer, if you so desire.
    Do pack light, Veronica. Everything has been arranged.
    X
    I feel my pulse quicken. Everything’s been arranged? Pack light? What could he . . .
    I check the envelope again, and feel a renewed elation at what I find:
One first-class ticket on Virgin Airlines, Chicago to Los Angeles
A confirmed reservation to the Thousand Arms Hotel in Beverly Hills
A laminated schedule
    My heart leaps. The effect is not so unlike the panic attack I’ve just experienced in the kitchen — the thumping in my chest, the trembling hands — but it’s not panic, it’s joy . . . the sheer thrill of anticipation, pure and lovely and exciting.
    I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to force myself to breathe at a more normal pace. My eyes fall on the schedule card. It’s a thin column of neatly-printed items:
11:00AM  -  1:00PM: PACKAGE DELIVERY 1:30PM: TRAVEL PREPARATION 2:00PM: PICKUP, TRAVEL TO AIRPORT 3:00PM: ARRIVAL AT AIRPORT (CHICAGO MIDWAY) 4:35PM: DEPART FOR LOS ANGELES, VIRGIN AIR FLIGHT 432 8:46PM: ARRIVE AT AIRPORT (LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL) 9:30PM: COCKTAILS
    I can only stare blankly at the card as the avalanche of questions tumbles into my mind:
    Is he serious? Drinks in California? Today? Tonight!?
    Just like . . . just like that?
    My eyes fly from the card in my hand to the plastic alarm clock that does its best to wake me up every morning:
    1:27PM.
    My eyes become the size of dinner plates. That’s . . . a half-hour?
    There’s no time.
    There’s simply no time!
    My first reaction is that this is all impossible, and the reasons fill my head:
    There’s that letter on the countertop, for starters. I have to come up with that rent somehow, right away. And then there’s my job at the café of course — my boss said they’re short-handed, it’s definitely going to be another late night. I’d better start resting up or I’m never going to make it through the evening. And anyway, 33 minutes? I have to pack, change . . . there’s no time. There isn’t, there simply isn’t . . .
    I look at the clock again.
    1:48.
    Correction — 32 minutes.
    I stand up and check my reflection in the mirror again. The dress sweeps lightly against my legs, but I look past it, past myself, to the reflection of my bedroom behind me. I realize that the girl wearing this dress doesn’t belong here. Not anymore. The bedroom is full of familiar things, but they seem all at once alien — so terribly out of keeping with the silken fantasy draped over my body.
    This dress . . .
    This is a dress for a person that has to go to Los Angeles. In 31 minutes.
    That person . . . I’m staring at her again, at Miss Veronica Kane. This woman isn’t used to hearing the word no. Or taking it for an answer. And certainly not from herself.
    And so I say Yes.
    * * *
    I spend the next fifteen minutes throwing together a quick overnight bag of whatever necessities I’m able to put my hands to. The Book goes first, of course, my luck and my inspiration, tucked safe and snug at the bottom of my bag. On top I toss my wallet and phone, along with the leftover foundation, powders and lipstick from Jayla’s pre-Mirages makeup lesson. There are a couple of changes of clothes as