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Maybe
Here I rest, you guys.
R. I. Mother-flapjacking P. to me.
And now, I’m coming to you live from what I believe is the afterlife.
Just think of this as that morning show with Kelly Ripa and Ryan Seacrest, Live with Kelly and Ryan.
Only, change the name to DEAD with Maybe, take away the celebrity guests, and fill the audience with people who don’t mind witnessing a full-on embarrassment-fueled emotional breakdown.
Good God, if I would’ve known I was going to kick the bucket right before I reached twenty-five, I sure as shit wouldn’t have spent the last six years of my life slaving away at Stanford for a bachelor’s and master’s degree in English Lit.
I would’ve partied in college rather than studying until my eyeballs bled.
I would’ve danced on bars. Flashed some nip for beads at Mardi Gras. Actually gone to Mardi Gras.
I would have indulged in unlimited pasta night at the Olive Garden instead of counting carbs, and I wouldn’t have stopped binge-watching Game of Thrones on season flipping six.
I would have tongue-kissed loads of guys and spread my legs like a contortionist for any of them who seemed reasonably adept.
You know, a little bam-bam in my ham-ham.
Some not-too-big, but not-too-small P in my V.
A good old-fashioned pants-off dance-off…
Sex, you guys. I’m talking about sex. And if you haven’t picked up what I’m putting down from my delirious ramble, I’ll lay it out for you.
I’ve yet to be sexed up by anyone.
That’s right. I have officially bought myself a one-way ticket to the afterlife as a virgin for-freaking-eternity.
And now, I guess I’ll never know how it feels to have an actual penis rub up against my G-spot because, you know, I’m dead. And I’m pretty certain God probably frowns upon people flashing their boobs at the angels and public displays of leg-spreading and definitely the unchaste actions of a desperate-to-bone but unwed woman. No way. Heaven’s strictly G-rated.
I put it all off. I figured I had time. I mean, I thought I’d at least get to see The Office do a reunion special before I went lights out for good.
Although, my parents’ flower shop feels more like purgatory than heaven, and I thought for sure I’d be wearing something other than jean shorts and Converse when I headed to meet the Big Guy upstairs.
Honestly, the afterlife feels eerily like real life, and I’m not one to be dramatic, but I have to be dead, you guys. Seriously. Because no one could live through what I did.
I’m talking a 10.0 on the Richter Scale of embarrassing and awkward.
A Category 5 hurricane of humiliation.
A twisting, catastrophic EF5 tornado of comedic disaster.
No freaking way I survived that…right?
Okay. Fine. So, I can be a little dramatic sometimes…
And maybe, just maybe, I’m exaggerating things a bit here, but I’m doing it in the name of self-preservation.
Because, trust me, if you did what I did, you’d let yourself mentally pretend to be dead for a little bit too.
Because if I’m not dead, I’m going to have to face the consequences of my awful, humiliating, cringeworthy actions.
I’m going to have to face him.
Milo Ives—a tall, handsome, unbelievably sexy drink of water.
A man I’ve known since I was a prepubescent girl.
A man I’ve basically been crushing on my whole damn life.
A billion-dollar-empire kind of successful man who just so happens to be my brother’s best friend.
I’ll say it again for the folks in the back.
Milo Ives is my brother’s billionaire best friend.
And I’m in way over my head.
Maybe
“Yoo-hoo, Betty! Where is Maybe? I thought she was going to man the front for a few hours?” my dad shouts, his voice filtering with ease into the back room of the floral shop.
Just the sound of it makes a deep, cavernous sigh escape my lungs.
And the fact that he’s asking about my whereabouts? Now that’s worthy of a tight chest.
“I think she just needed a minute to—” my mom starts to reply, but she’s cut off before she can convey any real information. Bruce the super-sniffing shark only needs a trace of blood in the water to attack.
“Needed a minute?” He guffaws. “I’ve needed a minute for the past thirty years, but you don’t see me dillydallying around.”
“Bruce,” my mom chastises. “Stop being such a grumpy bastard.”
My dad’s been on the warpath since he found out our shipment of Gerbera daisies is running behind schedule, but his behavior really isn’t the slow delivery’s fault. Today, when it comes to Bruce, isn’t any different from any other day.
He always has zany criticism for me and my mother—what we call Bruce-isms—and an overabundance of dad jokes locked and loaded and ready for use.
Deep breaths, I coach myself as I finish up an email to a potential publishing house. This is only temporary.
Too bad it doesn’t feel that way.
I’ve only been back in New York for two weeks, but it may as well have been an eternity.
