Finding Cinderella Maybe Someday

MILES
Six years earlier
ad: “Where are you?”
Me: “Ian’s house.”
ad: “We need to talk.”
Me: “Can it wait until tomorrow? I’ll be home late.”
ad: “No. I need you home now. I’ve been waiting for you since school let
out.”
Me: “Fine. On my way.”
That was the conversation that led to this moment. Me,
sitting in front of my dad on the couch. My dad, telling me
something I don’t care to hear.
“I would have told you sooner, Miles. I just—”
“Felt guilty?” I interrupt. “Like you’re doing something
wrong?”
His eyes meet mine, and I begin to feel bad for saying
what I said, but I push the feeling down and keep going.
“She’s been dead less than a year.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to throw up.
He doesn’t like being judged, especially by me. He’s used
to my supporting his decisions. Hell, 
I’m
used to supporting

---

his decisions. Until now, I always thought he made good
ones.
“Look, I know this is hard for you to accept, but I need
your support. You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to
move on since she died.”
“Hard?” I’m standing. I’m raising my voice. I’m acting like
I give a shit for some reason, when I really don’t. I could
care less that he’s already dating again. He can see
whoever he wants. He can screw whoever he wants.
I think the only reason I’m reacting this way is because
she can’t. It’s hard to defend your marriage when you’re
dead. That’s why I’m doing it for her.
“It’s obviously not very hard for you at all, Dad.”
I walk to the opposite end of the living room.
I walk back.
The house is too damn small to fit all of my frustration and
disappointment.
I look at him again, recognizing that it’s not so much the
fact that he’s seeing someone already. It’s the look he gets
in his eyes when he talks about her that I hate. I never saw
him look at my mother that way, so whoever she is, I know
it’s not a casual thing. She’s about to seep into our lives,
intertwining around and through and between my
relationship with my father like she’s poison ivy. It’ll no
longer be just my father and me. It’ll be me, my father, and
Lisa
. It doesn’t feel right, considering my mother’s presence
is still everywhere in this house.
He’s sitting with his hands folded in front of him, clasped
together. He’s looking down at the floor.
“I don’t know if this will go anywhere, but I want to give it
a shot. Lisa makes me happy. Sometimes moving on is . . .
the only way to move on.”
I open my mouth to respond to him, but my words are cut
off by the doorbell. He looks up at me, hesitantly coming to
a stand. He seems smaller. Less heroic.

---

“I’m not asking you to like her. I’m not asking you to
spend time with her. I just want you to be nice to her.” His
eyes are pleading with me, and it makes me feel guilty for
being so resistant.
I nod. “I will, Dad. You know I will.”
He hugs me, and it feels good 
and
bad. It doesn’t feel like I
just hugged the man I’ve had on a pedestal for seventeen
years. It feels as though I just hugged my peer.
He asks me to get the door while he heads back to the
kitchen to finish dinner, so I do. I close my eyes and let my
mom know that I’m going to be nice to Lisa, but she’ll
always just be 
Lisa
to me, no matter what happens between
her and Dad. I open the door.
“Miles?”
I look at her face, and it’s completely opposite from my
mother’s face. This makes me feel good. She’s a lot shorter
than my mother. She’s not as pretty as my mother, either.
There’s nothing about her that can be compared to my
mother, so I don’t even try. I accept her for what she is: our
dinner guest.
I nod and open the door wider to let her in. “You must be
Lisa. Good to meet you.” I point behind me. “My father is in
the kitchen.”
Lisa leans forward and gives me a hug—one that I
successfully make awkward after it takes me several
seconds to hug her back.
My eyes meet the eyes of the girl standing behind her.
The eyes of the girl standing behind her meet mine.
You’re
gonna
fall
in
love
with
me,

---

Rachel.
“Miles?” she says in a broken whisper.
Rachel sounds a little bit like her mother, but sadder.
Lisa looks back and forth between us. “You know each
other?”
Rachel doesn’t nod.
Neither do I.
Our disappointment melts to the floor and combines in a
puddle of premature tears at our feet.
“He, um, . . . he . . .”
Rachel is stuttering, so I help her finish her words. “I go to
school with Rachel,” I blurt out. I regret saying that, because
what I really want to say is, 
Rachel is the next girl I’m gonna
fall
in love with.
I can’t say that, though, because it’s obvious what’s bound
to happen. Rachel isn’t the next girl I’ll fall in love with,
because Rachel is the girl who will more than likely become
my new stepsister.
For the second time tonight, I feel sick.
Lisa smiles and clasps her hands together. “That’s great,”
she says. “I’m so relieved.”
My father walks into the room. He hugs Lisa. He says hi to
Rachel and tells her it’s good to see her again.
My father already knows Rachel.
Rachel already knows my father.
My father is Lisa’s new boyfriend.
My father visits Phoenix a lot.
My father has been visiting Phoenix a lot since before my
mother died.
My father is a bastard.
“Rachel and Miles already know each other,” Lisa says to
my father.
He smiles, and relief floods his face. “Good. Good,” he says,
repeating the word twice as if it could make things better.
No.

---

Bad. Bad.
“That’ll make tonight a lot less awkward,” he says with a
laugh.
I look back at Rachel.
Rachel looks at me.
I can’t fall in love with you, Rachel.
Her eyes are sad.
My thoughts are sadder.
And you can’t fall in love with me.
She slowly walks inside, avoiding my gaze as she watches
her feet with each step. They’re the saddest steps I’ve ever
seen taken.
I close the door.
It’s the saddest door I’ve ever had to close.

---

chapter five
TATE
“Are you off for Thanksgiving?” my mother asks.
I switch my cell to my other ear and pull the apartment
key out of my purse. “Yeah, but not Christmas. I only work
weekends for now.”
“Good. Tell Corbin we’re not dead yet if he ever gets the
urge to call us.”
I laugh. “I’ll tell him. Love you.”
I hang up and put my cell phone into the pocket of my
scrub top. It’s only a part-time job, but it gets my foot in the
door. Tonight was my last night of training before I start
weekend rotations tomorrow night.
I like the job so far, and I was honestly shocked to land it
after my first interview. It works out with my school
schedule, too. I’m in school every weekday, doing either
clinical or classroom hours, then I work second shift on the
weekends over at the hospital. It’s been a seamless
transition up to this point.
I also like San Francisco. I know it’s only been two weeks,
but I could see myself staying here after graduation next
spring rather than going back to San Diego.

---

Corbin and I have even been getting along, although he’s
gone more than he’s home, so I’m sure that has everything
to do with it.
I smile, finally feeling like I’ve found my place, and I open
the door to the apartment. My smile fades as soon as it
meets the eyes of three other guys—only two of whom I
recognize. Miles is standing in the kitchen, and the married
asshole from the elevator is sitting on the couch.
Why the hell is Miles here?
Why the hell are 
any
of them here?
I glare at Miles as I kick off my shoes and drop my purse
on the counter. Corbin isn’t due back for two more days, and
I was looking forward to the peace and quiet tonight so I
could get some studying done.
“It’s Thursday,” Miles says when he sees the scowl on my
face, like the day of the week is supposed to be some sort of
explanation. He’s watching me from his position in the
kitchen. He can see I’m not happy.
“So it is,” I reply. “And tomorrow is Friday.” I turn to the
other two guys sitting on Corbin’s couch. “Why are you all in
my apartment?”
The blond, lanky guy immediately stands up and walks
over to me. He extends his hand. “Tate?” he asks. “I’m Ian. I
grew up with Miles. I’m a friend of your brother’s.” He points
to the elevator guy, who is still seated on the couch. “This is
Dillon.”
Dillon gives me a nod but doesn’t bother speaking. He
doesn’t have to. His shit-eating grin says enough about
what he’s thinking right now.
Miles walks back into the living room and points to the
television. “This is kind of a thing we do some Thursdays if
either of us is home. Game night.”
I don’t care if it’s their 
thing
. I have homework.
“Corbin isn’t even home tonight. Can’t you do this at your
apartment? I need to study.”

---

Miles hands Dillon a beer and then looks back at me. “I
don’t have cable.” 
Of course you don’t.
“And Dillon’s wife
doesn’t let us use his place.” 
Of course she doesn’t.
I roll my eyes and walk to my bedroom, slamming the
door unintentionally.
I change out of my scrubs and pull on a pair of jeans. I
grab the shirt I slept in last night and just get it over my
head when someone knocks on the door. I swing it open
almost as dramatically as I slammed it earlier.
He’s so 
tall.
I didn’t realize how tall he was, but now that he’s standing
in my doorway—filling it—he seems really tall. If he were to
wrap his arms around me right now, my ear would press
against his heart. Then his cheek would rest comfortably on
top of my head.
If he were to kiss me, I’d have to tilt my face up to meet
his, but it would be nice, because he would probably wrap
his arms around my lower back and pull me to him so that
our mouths would come together like two pieces of a puzzle.
Only they wouldn’t fit very well, because they are most
definitely not two pieces from the 
same
puzzle.
Something strange is going on in my chest. A 
flutter,
flutter
kind of thing. I hate it, because I know what it means.
It means my body is really starting to like Miles.
I just hope my brain never catches up.
“If you need quiet, you can go to my place,” he says.
I cringe at the way his offer works knots into my stomach.
I shouldn’t be excited about the possibility of being inside
his apartment, but I am.
“We’ll probably be here another two hours,” he adds.
There’s regret in his voice somewhere. It would more than
likely take a search party to locate it, but it’s buried there
somewhere, beneath all the sultriness.
I expel a quick, relinquishing breath. I’m being a bitch.
This isn’t even my apartment. This is their 
thing
that they

---

obviously do on a regular basis, and who am I to think I can
just move in and put a stop to it?
“I’m just tired,” I say to him. “It’s fine. I’m sorry if I was
rude to your friends.”
“
Friend
,” he says as clarification. “Dillon is 
not
my friend.”
I don’t ask him what he means by that. He glances into
the living room, then looks back at me. He leans against the
frame of the door, an indication that my relinquishing the
apartment for their game wasn’t the end of our
conversation. He swings his eyes to the scrubs strewn
across my mattress. “You got a job?”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering why he’s suddenly up for
conversation. “Registered nurse in an ER.”
A crease appears on his forehead, and I can’t tell if it’s a
result of confusion or fascination. “Aren’t you still in nursing
school? How can you already work as an RN?”
“I’m getting my master’s in nursing so I can work as a
CRNA. I already have my RN license.”
His expression is obstinate, so I clarify.
“It allows me to administer anesthesia.”
He stares at me for a few seconds before standing up
straight and pushing off the doorframe. “Good for you,” he
says.
There’s no smile, though.
Why doesn’t he ever smile?
He walks back to the living room. I step out of the
doorway and watch him. Miles takes his seat on the couch
and gives the TV his full attention.
Dillon is giving 
me
his full attention, but I look away and
head to the kitchen to find something to eat. There isn’t
much, considering I haven’t cooked all week, so I grab all
the stuff I need from the refrigerator in order to make a
sandwich. When I turn around, Dillon is still staring. Only
now he’s staring from about a foot away, instead of all the
way from the living room.

---

He smiles, then steps forward and reaches into the
refrigerator, coming inches from my face. “So you’re
Corbin’s little sis?”
I think I’m with Miles on this one. I don’t much like Dillon,
either.
Dillon’s eyes aren’t anything like Miles’s eyes. When Miles
looks at me, his eyes hide everything. Dillon’s eyes don’t
hide 
anything
, and right now, they’re clearly undressing me.
“Yes,” I say simply as I make my way around him. I walk to
the pantry and open it to look for the bread. Once I find it, I
set it on the bar and begin making my sandwich. I lay out
bread for an extra sandwich to take to Cap. He’s kind of
grown on me in the little time I’ve lived here. I found out he
works up to fourteen hours a day sometimes but only
because he lives in the building alone and doesn’t have
anything better to do. He seems to appreciate my company
and especially gifts in the form of food, so until I make more
friends here, I guess I’ll be spending my downtime with an
eighty-year-old.
Dillon casually leans against the counter. “You a nurse or
something?” He opens his beer and brings it to his mouth
but pauses before taking a drink. He wants me to answer
him first.
“Yep,” I say with a clipped voice.
He smiles and takes a swig of his beer. I continue making
my sandwiches, intentionally trying to appear closed off, but
Dillon doesn’t seem to take the hint. He just continues to
stare at me until my sandwiches are made.
I’m not offering to make him a damn sandwich if that’s
why he’s still here.
“I’m a pilot,” he says. He doesn’t say it in a smug way, but
when no one’s asking you what your occupation is,
voluntarily contributing it to the conversation naturally
comes off as smug. “I work at the same airline as Corbin.”
He’s staring at me, waiting for me to be impressed by the
fact that he’s a pilot. What he doesn’t realize is that all the

---

men in my life are pilots. My grandfather was a pilot. My
father was a pilot until he retired a few months ago. My
brother is a pilot.
“Dillon, if you’re trying to impress me, you’re going about
it the wrong way. I much prefer a guy with a little more
modesty and a lot less 
wife
.” My eyes flash down to the
wedding ring on his left hand.
“Game just started,” Miles says, walking into the kitchen,
directing his words toward Dillon. His words might be
innocuous, but his eyes are definitely telling Dillon that he
needs to return to the living room.
Dillon sighs as if Miles just stripped away all his fun. “It’s
good to see you again, Tate,” he says, acting as if the
conversation would have come to an end whether Miles
decided it should or not. “You should join us in the living
room.” His eyes scroll over Miles, even though he’s speaking
to me. “Apparently, the game just started.” Dillon
straightens up and shoulders past Miles, heading back into
the living room.
Miles ignores Dillon’s display of annoyance and slides his
hand into his back pocket, pulling out a key. He hands it to
me. “Go study at my place.”
It’s not a request.
It’s a demand.
“I’m fine studying here.” I set the key on the counter and
put the lid back on the mayonnaise, refusing to be displaced
from my own apartment by three boys. I wrap both
sandwiches in a paper towel. “The TV isn’t even that loud.”
He takes a step forward until he’s close enough to
whisper. I’m pretty sure I’m leaving finger indentations on
the bread, considering every single part of me, right down
to my toes, just tensed.
“
I’m
not fine with you studying here. Not until everyone
leaves. Go. Take your sandwiches with you.”
I look down at my sandwiches. I don’t know why I feel like
he just insulted them. “They aren’t both for me,” I say

---

defensively. “I’m taking one to Cap.”
I look back up at him, and he’s doing that unfathomable
staring thing again. With eyes like his, that should be illegal.
I raise my eyebrows expectantly, because he’s making me
feel really awkward. I’m not an exhibit, yet the way he
watches me makes me feel like one.
“You made a sandwich for Cap?”
I nod. “Food makes him happy,” I say with a shrug.
He studies the exhibit a little longer before leaning into
me again. He grabs the key off the bar behind me and slides
it into my front pocket.
I’m not even sure if his fingers touched my jeans, but I
inhale sharply and look down at my pocket as his hand pulls
away, because 
holy hell
, I wasn’t expecting that.
I’m frozen while he’s casually making his way back into
the living room, unaffected. It feels like my pocket is on fire.
I persuade my feet to move, needing some time to
process all of that. After delivering Cap’s sandwich, I do as
Miles says and head over to his apartment. I go on my own
accord, not because he wants me over there and not
because I really 
do
have a lot of homework but because the
thought of being inside his apartment without him there is
sadistically exciting to me. I feel like I’ve just been handed a
free pass to all his secrets.
• • •
I should have known better than to think his apartment
would give me any sort of glimpse into who he is. Not even
his eyes can do that.
Sure, it really is a lot quieter over here, and yeah, I’ve
finished two solid hours of homework, but that’s only
because there aren’t any distractions.
At 
all.
No paintings on the sterile white walls. No decorations. No
color whatsoever. Even the solid oak table dividing the

---

kitchen from the living room is undecorated. It’s so unlike
the home I grew up in, where the kitchen table was the focal
point of my mother’s entire house, complete with a table
runner, an elaborate overhead chandelier, and plates to
match whatever the current season was.
Miles doesn’t even have a fruit bowl.
The only impressive thing about this apartment is the
bookshelf in the living room. It’s lined with dozens of books,
which is more of a turn-on to me than anything else that
could potentially line his barren walls. I walk over to the
bookshelf to inspect his selection, hoping to get a glimpse of
him based on his choice of literature.
Row after row of aeronautical themed books is all I find.
I’m a little disappointed that after a free inspection of his
apartment, the best I can conclude is that he might be a
workaholic with little to no taste in décor.
I give up on the living room and walk into the kitchen. I
open the refrigerator, but there’s hardly anything in it. There
are a few takeout boxes. Condiments. Orange juice. It
resembles Corbin’s refrigerator—empty and sad and so very
bachelor.
I open a cabinet, grab a cup, then pour myself some juice.
I drink it and rinse the cup out in the sink. There are a few
other dishes piled up on the left side of the sink, so I begin
washing those, too. Even his plates and cups lack
personality—plain and white and sad.
I have the sudden urge to take my credit card straight to
the store and buy him some curtains, a new set of vibrant
dishes, a few paintings, and maybe even a plant or two. This
place needs a little life.
I wonder what his story is. I don’t think he has a girlfriend.
I’ve yet to see him with one up to this point, and the
apartment and obvious lack of a female’s touch make it a
likely assumption. I don’t think a girl could walk into this
apartment without decorating it at least a little bit before

---

she left, so I’m assuming girls just never walk into this
apartment.
It makes me wonder about Corbin, too. All our years
growing up together, he’s never been open about his
relationships, but I’m pretty sure that’s because he’s never
been 
in
a relationship. Every time I’ve ever been introduced
to a girl in his past, she never seems to make it through an
entire week with him. I don’t know if that’s because he
doesn’t like keeping someone around or if it’s a sign that
he’s too difficult to 
be
around. I’m sure it’s the former, based
on the number of random phone calls he receives from
women.
Considering his abundance of one-night stands and lack of
commitment, it confuses me how he could be so protective
of me growing up. I guess he just knew himself too well. He
didn’t want me dating guys like him.
I wonder if Miles is a guy like Corbin.
“Are you washing my dishes?”
His voice catches me completely off guard, making me
jump in my skin. I spin around and catch sight of a looming
Miles, almost dropping the glass in my hands in the process.
It slips, but I somehow manage to catch it before it crashes
to the floor. I take a calming breath and set it down gently in
the sink.
“Finished my homework,” I say, swallowing the thickness
that just swelled in my throat. I look at the dishes that are
now in the strainer. “They were dirty.”
He smiles.
I 
think.
Just as soon as his lips start to curl up, they mash back
into a straight line. 
False alarm.
“Everyone’s gone,” Miles says, giving me the all clear to
vacate his premises. He notices the orange juice still out on
the counter, so he picks it up and puts it back in the
refrigerator.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I was thirsty.”

---

He turns to face me and leans his shoulder into the
refrigerator, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t care if
you drink my juice, Tate.”
Oh, 
wow.
That was an oddly sexy sentence. So was his presence in
delivering it.
Still no smile, though. 
Jesus Christ
, this man. Does he not
realize that facial expressions are supposed to accompany
speech?
I don’t want him to see my disappointment, so I turn back
toward the sink. I use the sprayer to wash the remaining
suds down the drain. I find it quite fitting, considering the
weird vibes floating around his kitchen. “How long have you
lived here?” I ask, attempting to alleviate the awkward
silence as I turn and face him again.
“Four years.”
I don’t know why I laugh, but I do. He raises an eyebrow,
confused about why his answer caused me to laugh.
“It’s just that your apartment . . .” I glance toward the
living room, then back to him. “It’s kind of bland. I thought
maybe you just moved in and haven’t had a chance to
decorate.”
I didn’t mean for that to come out like an insult, but that’s
exactly how it sounded. I’m just trying to make
conversation, but I think I’m only making this awkwardness
worse.
His eyes move slowly around his apartment as he
processes my comment. I wish I could take it back, but I
don’t even try. I’d probably just make it worse.
“I work a lot,” he says. “I never have company, so I guess
it just hasn’t been a priority.”
I want to ask him why he never has company, but certain
questions seem off limits to him. “Speaking of company,
what’s up with Dillon?”
Miles shrugs his shoulders, leaning his back completely
against the refrigerator. “Dillon’s an asshole who has no

---

respect for his wife,” he says flatly. He turns around
completely and walks out of the kitchen, heading toward his
bedroom. He pushes his bedroom door closed but leaves it
open just enough so that I can still hear him speak.
“Thought I’d warn you before you fell for his act.”
“I don’t fall for acts,” I say. “Especially acts like Dillon’s.”
“Good,” he says.
Good? Ha. Miles doesn’t want me to like Dillon. I love that
Miles doesn’t want me to like Dillon.
“Corbin wouldn’t like it if you started something up with
him. He hates Dillon.”
Oh. He doesn’t want me to like Dillon for 
Corbin’s
sake.
Why did that just disappoint me?
He walks back out of his bedroom, and he’s no longer in
his jeans and T-shirt. He’s in a familiar pair of slacks and a
crisp, white shirt, unbuttoned and open.
He’s putting on a pilot’s uniform.
“You’re a pilot?” I ask, somewhat perplexed. My voice
makes me sound oddly impressed.
He nods and walks into the laundry room adjacent to the
kitchen. “That’s how I know Corbin,” he says. “We were in
flight school together.” He walks back into his kitchen with a
laundry basket and sets it on the counter. “He’s a good guy.”
His shirt isn’t buttoned.
I’m staring at his stomach.
Stop staring at his stomach.
Oh my word, he has 
the V.
Those beautiful indentations on
men that run the length of their outer abdominal muscles,
disappearing beneath their jeans as if the indentations are
pointing to a secret bull’s-eye.
Jesus Christ, Tate, you’re staring at his damn crotch!
He’s buttoning his shirt now, so I somehow gain
superhuman strength and force my eyes to look back up at
his face.
Thoughts. I should have some of those, but I can’t find
them. Maybe it’s because I just found out he’s an airline

---

pilot.
But why would that impress me?
It doesn’t impress me that Dillon’s a pilot. But then again,
I didn’t find out Dillon was a pilot while he was doing
laundry and flaunting his abs. A guy folding laundry while
flaunting his abs and being a pilot is seriously impressive.
Miles is fully dressed now. He’s putting on his shoes, and
I’m watching him like I’m in a theater and he’s the main
attraction.
“Is that safe?” I ask, finding a coherent thought somehow.
“You’ve been drinking with the guys, and now you’re about
to be at the controls of a commercial jet?”
Miles zips his jacket, then picks up an already packed
duffel bag from the floor. “I’ve only had water tonight,” he
says, right before exiting the kitchen. “I’m not much of a
drinker. And I definitely don’t drink on work nights.”
I laugh and follow him toward the living room. I walk to
the table to grab my things. “I think you’re forgetting how
we met,” I say. “Move-in day? Someone-passed-out-drunk-
in-the-hallway day?”
He opens the front door to let me out. “I have no idea
what you’re talking about, Tate,” he says. “We met on an
elevator. Remember?”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding, because there’s no smile or
gleam in his eyes.
He closes the door behind us. I hand him back his
apartment key, and he locks his door. I walk to mine and
open it.
“Tate?”
I almost pretend I don’t hear him just so he’ll have to say
my name again. Instead, I turn around and face him,
pretending to be completely unaffected by this man.
“That night you found me in the hallway? That was an
exception. A very 
rare
exception.”
There’s something unspoken in his eyes and maybe even
in his voice.

---

He stands paused at his front door, poised to walk toward
the elevators. He’s waiting to see if I have anything to say in
response. I should tell him good-bye. Maybe I should tell him
to have a safe flight. That could be considered bad luck,
though. I should just say good night.
“Was the exception because of what happened with
Rachel?”
Yes. I really just chose to say that instead.
WHY did I just say that?
His posture changes. His expression freezes, as if my
words jolted him with a bolt of lightning. He’s more than
likely confused that I said that, because he obviously
doesn’t remember anything about that night.
Quick, Tate. Recover.
“You thought I was someone named Rachel,” I blurt out,
explaining away the awkwardness as best I can. “I just
thought maybe something happened between the two of
you and that’s why . . . you know.”
Miles inhales a deep breath, but he tries to hide it. I hit a
nerve.
We don’t talk about Rachel, apparently.
“Good night, Tate,” he says, turning away.
I can’t tell what just happened. Did I embarrass him? Piss
him off? Make him sad?
Whatever I did, I hate this thing now. This awkwardness
that’s filling the space between my door and the elevator
he’s now standing in front of.
I walk inside my apartment and close my door, but the
awkwardness is everywhere. It didn’t remain out in the
hallway.

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chapter six