More Than A Maybe by Clarissa Monte Page A

well — a few light cotton T-shirts, and some of the ubiquitous blue jeans my mother always made me buy on sale.
    I even include the most impractical and girly thing I was able to sneak past my mother’s watchful eye: a white floral-pattern dress that I got for a classmate’s birthday party ages ago. It’s the closest I have to the jaw-dropping gowns worn by my Goddesses.
    Besides the Book, Turner Classic Movies, and the secret stash of Hershey’s Miniatures I kept hidden in my desk drawer, the white dress was one of the few things that helped keep me sane. I’d put it on, open the door to my room, and sweep myself over to the bedroom mirror, doing my best imitation of the opening beats of the Loretta Young Show. Its cheerful airy color is a far cry from the provocative slink of the dress from Xavier, to be sure, but for some reason it just makes me think of California. Besides, I love it. In it goes.
    The coat Xavier lent me is the very last thing I pack. I fold it once down the middle, tuck it next to my dress, and zip the overnight bag shut. Done.
    My bag attended to, the next fifteen minutes I spend fretting about my hair and face. I’m at a complete loss, though. Is Xavier even going to recognize me after last night? The elaborate splash of eyeliner and lip gloss I wore at Mirages won’t work, and I don’t have the time to recreate it anyway. Instead, I make do with a quick touch-up of what I’ve already got on, hoping I’ll be able to do better on my way to the airport.
    The last minute I just spend quietly in the living room of my apartment . . . turning, slowly, trying to get a clear picture of it burned into my mind. It already seems somehow distant. Faded.
    The door to my mother’s bedroom is still open slightly, I notice. I breath a sigh, remembering the days after the funeral spent packing her things into cardboard boxes. I still haven’t been able to decide what to do with them.
    I reach out my hand for her bedroom door, and then pull it firmly closed.
    There’s a knock at the hallway entrance, and I look out to see a smartly-dressed gentleman in black livery. It’s the driver. My driver.
    There’s no hesitating now . . . no apprehension, no fear.
    I check my bag one last time and allow myself a final deep breath . . . and then realize that I’m smiling.
    I’m ready.

Chapter 5
    The trip to Los Angeles is a fast-forward leap of faith into another world.
    I do my best to adjust myself — and the first thing I find myself adjusting to is saying the word Yes . Fortunately, when you’re a mile above the ground in first class, that always seems to be the right answer to any question you might be asked.
    Yes, you can put my bag in the overhead for me. Yes, I would like a hot towel. Yes, I would like another glass of wine — and do you have any more of those warm fudge-chunk cookies by any chance? Thank you so much.
    I could get used to this.
    The only thing I decide to say no to is my iPhone — I might have a million different demands waiting for me, but I’ve earned a break from them. I’d sent Jayla a quick mail explaining the situation, just so she wouldn’t worry. Then I’d switched it off. A symbolic gesture, maybe, but one I’d wanted to make. I’m not sure when I’ll turn it on again.
    Part of me keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. By the time we land in Los Angeles, I’ve managed to make myself nervous again. By the time I find the limo Xavier’s sent for my arrival, I’m bordering on terrified. Why, exactly, is this man being so nice to me? What could he be expecting from me tonight?
    The leather back seat of the limousine is spacious and cool, however, and it’s impossible not to be completely relaxed and totally excited at the same time. There’s a surprisingly huge television, wireless internet, and a refrigerator full of sodas and Pellegrino water . . . along with a fully-stocked bar, of course.
    “Help yourself,” says the kindly-faced and genial driver over the