Maybe Someday

Maybe Someday by Colleen Hoover


Prologue

Sydney

I just punched a girl in the face. Not just any girl.

My best friend. My roommate.

Well, as of five minutes ago, I guess I should

call her my ex-roommate.

Her nose began bleeding almost immediately,

and for a second, I felt bad for hitting her. But

then I remembered what a lying, betraying whore

she is, and it made me want to punch her again. I

would have if Hunter hadn’t prevented it by step-

ping between us.

So instead, I punched him. I didn’t do any

damage to him, unfortunately. Not like the dam-

age I’d done to my hand.

Punching someone hurts a lot worse than I

imagined it would. Not that I spend an excessive

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amount of time imagining how it would feel to

punch people. Although I am having that urge

again as I stare down at my phone at the incom-

ing text from Ridge. He’s another one I’d like to

get even with. I know he technically has nothing

to do with my current predicament, but he could

have given me a heads-up a little sooner. There-

fore, I’d like to punch him, too.

Ridge: Are you OK? Do u want to come up

until the rain stops?

Of course, I don’t want to come up. My fist

hurts enough as it is, and if I went up to Ridge’s

apartment, it would hurt a whole lot worse after I

finished with him.

I turn around and look up at his balcony. He’s

leaning against his sliding-glass door; phone in

hand, watching me. It’s almost dark, but the

lights from the courtyard illuminate his face. His

dark eyes lock with mine and the way his mouth

curls up into a soft, regretful smile makes it hard

to remember why I’m even upset with him in the

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first place. He runs a free hand through the hair

hanging loosely over his forehead, revealing even

more of the worry in his expression. Or maybe

that’s a look of regret. As it should be.

I decide not to reply and flip him off instead.

He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, as if

to say, I tried, and then he goes back inside his apartment and slides his door shut.

I put the phone back in my pocket before it

gets wet, and I look around at the courtyard of

the apartment complex where I’ve lived for two

whole months. When we first moved in, the hot

Texas summer was swallowing up the last traces

of spring, but this courtyard seemed to somehow

still cling to life. Vibrant blue and purple hy-

drangeas lined the walkways leading up to the

staircases and the fountain affixed in the center of

the courtyard.

Now that summer has reached its most unat-

tractive peak, the water in the fountain has long

since evaporated. The hydrangeas are a sad, wil-

ted reminder of the excitement I felt when Tori

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and I first moved in here. Looking at the court-

yard now, defeated by the season, is an eerie par-

allel to how I feel at the moment. Defeated and

sad.

I’m sitting on the edge of the now empty ce-

ment fountain, my elbows propped up on the two

suitcases that contain most of my belongings,

waiting for a cab to pick me up. I have no idea

where it’s going to take me, but I know I’d rather

be anywhere except where I am right now.

Which is, well, homeless.

I could call my parents, but that would give

them ammunition to start firing all the We told

you so’s at me.

We told you not to move so far away, Sydney.

We told you not to get serious with that guy.

We told you if you had chosen prelaw over mu-

sic, we would have paid for it.

We told you to punch with your thumb on the

outside of your fist.

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Okay, maybe they never taught me the proper

punching techniques, but if they’re so right all

the damn time, they should have.

I clench my fist, then spread out my fingers,

then clench it again. My hand is surprisingly

sore, and I’m pretty sure I should put ice on it. I

feel sorry for guys. Punching sucks.

Know what else sucks? Rain. It always finds

the most inappropriate time to fall, like right

now, while I’m homeless.

The cab finally pulls up, and I stand and grab

my suitcases. I roll them behind me as the cab

driver gets out and pops open the trunk. Before I

even hand him the first suitcase, my heart sinks

as I suddenly realize that I don’t even have my

purse on me.

Shit.

I look around, back to where I was sitting on

the suitcases, then feel around my body as if my

purse will magically appear across my shoulder.

But I know exactly where my purse is. I pulled it

off my shoulder and dropped it to the floor right

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before I punched Tori in her overpriced, Camer-

on Diaz nose.

I sigh. And I laugh. Of course, I left my purse.

My first day of being homeless would have been

way too easy if I’d had a purse with me.

“I’m sorry,” I say to the cab driver, who is now

loading my second piece of luggage. “I changed

my mind. I don’t need a cab right now.”

I know there’s a hotel about a half-mile from

here. If I can just work up the courage to go back

inside and get my purse, I’ll walk there and get a

room until I figure out what to do. It’s not as if I

can get any wetter.

The driver takes the suitcases back out of the

cab, sets them on the curb in front of me, and

walks back to the driver’s side without ever mak-

ing eye contact. He just gets into his car and

drives away, as if my canceling is a relief.

Do I look that pathetic?

I take my suitcases and walk back to where I

was seated before I realized I was purseless. I

glance up to my apartment and wonder what

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would happen if I went back there to get my wal-

let. I sort of left things in a mess when I walked

out the door. I guess I’d rather be homeless in the

rain than go back up there.

I take a seat on my luggage again and contem-

plate my situation. I could pay someone to go up-

stairs for me. But who? No one’s outside, and

who’s to say Hunter or Tori would even give the

person my purse?

This really sucks. I know I’m going to have to

end up calling one of my friends, but right now,

I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone how clueless

I’ve been for the last two years. I’ve been com-

pletely blindsided.

I already hate being twenty-two, and I still

have 364 more days to go.

It sucks so bad that I’m . . . crying?

Great. I’m crying now. I’m a purseless, crying,

violent, homeless girl. And as much as I don’t

want to admit it, I think I might also be

heartbroken.

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Yep. Sobbing now. Pretty sure this must be

what it feels like to have your heart broken.

“It’s raining. Hurry up.”

I glance up to see a girl hovering over me.

She’s holding an umbrella over her head and

looking down at me with agitation while she hops

from one foot to the other, waiting for me to do

something. “I’m getting soaked. Hurry. ”

Her voice is a little demanding, as if she’s do-

ing me some sort of favor and I’m being ungrate-

ful. I arch an eyebrow as I look up at her, shield-

ing the rain from my eyes with my hand. I don’t

know why she’s complaining about getting wet,

when there isn’t much clothing to get wet. She’s wearing next to nothing. I glance at her shirt,

which is missing its entire bottom half, and real-

ize she’s in a Hooters outfit.

Could this day get any weirder? I’m sitting on

almost everything I own in a torrential downpour,

being bossed around by a bitchy Hooters

waitress.

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I’m still staring at her shirt when she grabs my

hand and pulls me up in a huff. “Ridge said you

would do this. I’ve got to get to work. Follow

me, and I’ll show you where the apartment is.”

She grabs one of my suitcases, pops the handle

out, and shoves it at me. She takes the other and

walks swiftly out of the courtyard. I follow her,

for no other reason than the fact that she’s taken

one of my suitcases with her and I want it back.

She yells over her shoulder as she begins to as-

cend the stairwell. “I don’t know how long you

plan on staying, but I’ve only got one rule. Stay

the hell out of my room.”

She reaches an apartment and opens the door,

never even looking back to see if I’m following

her. Once I reach the top of the stairs, I pause

outside the apartment and look down at the fern

sitting unaffected by the heat in a planter outside

the door. Its leaves are lush and green as if

they’re giving summer the middle finger with

their refusal to succumb to the heat. I smile at the

plant, somewhat proud of it. Then I frown with

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the realization that I’m envious of the resilience

of a plant.

I shake my head, look away, then take a hesit-

ant step inside the unfamiliar apartment. The lay-

out is similar to my own apartment, only this one

is a double split bedroom with four total bed-

rooms. My and Tori’s apartment only had two

bedrooms, but the living rooms are the same size.

The only other noticeable difference is that I

don’t see any lying, backstabbing, bloody-nosed

whores standing in this one. Nor do I see any of

Tori’s dirty dishes or laundry lying around.

The girl sets my suitcase down beside the

door, then steps aside and waits for me to . . .

well, I don’t know what she’s waiting for me to

do.

She rolls her eyes and grabs my arm, pulling

me out of the doorway and further into the apart-

ment. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you

even speak?” She begins to close the door behind

her but pauses and turns around, wide-eyed. She

holds her finger up in the air. “Wait,” she says.

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“You’re not . . .” She rolls her eyes and smacks

herself in the forehead. “Oh, my God, you’re

deaf.”

Huh? What the hell is wrong with this girl? I

shake my head and start to answer her, but she

interrupts me.

“God, Bridgette,” she mumbles to herself. She

rubs her hands down her face and groans, com-

pletely ignoring the fact that I’m shaking my

head. “You’re such an insensitive bitch

sometimes.”

Wow. This girl has some serious issues in the

people-skills department. She’s sort of a bitch,

even though she’s making an effort not to be one.

Now that she thinks I’m deaf. I don’t even know

how to respond. She shakes her head as if she’s

disappointed in herself, then looks straight at me.

“I . . . HAVE . . . TO . . . GO . . . TO . . .

WORK . . . NOW!” she yells very loudly and

painfully slowly. I grimace and step back, which

should be a huge clue that I can hear her practic-

ally yelling, but she doesn’t notice. She points to

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a door at the end of the hallway. “RIDGE . . . IS .

. . IN . . . HIS . . . ROOM!”

Before I have a chance to tell her she can stop

yelling, she leaves the apartment and closes the

door behind her.

I have no idea what to think. Or what to do

now. I’m standing, soaking wet, in the middle of

an unfamiliar apartment, and the only person be-

sides Hunter and Tori whom I feel like punching

is now just a few feet away in another room. And

speaking of Ridge, why the hell did he send his

psycho Hooters girlfriend to get me? I take out

my phone and have begun to text him when his

bedroom door opens.

He walks out into the hallway with an armful

of blankets and a pillow. As soon as he makes

eye contact with me, I gasp. I hope it’s not a no-

ticeable gasp. It’s just that I’ve never actually

seen him up close before, and he’s even better-

looking from just a few feet away than he is from

across an apartment courtyard.

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I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that can actu-

ally speak. I’m not sure what I mean by that. It

just seems as if he could shoot me the tiniest

glance with those dark eyes of his, and I’d know

exactly what they needed me to do. They’re pier-

cing and intense and—oh, my God, I’m staring.

The corner of his mouth tilts up in a knowing

smile as he passes me and heads straight for the

couch.

Despite his appealing and slightly innocent-

looking face, I want to yell at him for being so

deceitful. He shouldn’t have waited more than

two weeks to tell me. I would have had a chance

to plan all this out a little better. I don’t under-

stand how we could have had two weeks’ worth

of conversations without his feeling the need to

tell me that my boyfriend and my best friend

were screwing.

Ridge throws the blankets and the pillow onto

the couch.

“I’m not staying here, Ridge,” I say, attempt-

ing to stop him from wasting time with his

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hospitality. I know he feels bad for me, but I

hardly know him, and I’d feel a lot more com-

fortable in a hotel room than sleeping on a

strange couch.

Then again, hotel rooms require money.

Something I don’t have on me at the moment.

Something that’s inside my purse, across the

courtyard, in an apartment with the only two

people in the world I don’t want to see right now.

Maybe a couch isn’t such a bad idea after all.

He gets the couch made up and turns around,

dropping his eyes to my soaking-wet clothes. I

look down at the puddle of water I’m creating in

the middle of his floor.

“Oh, sorry,” I mutter. My hair is matted to my

face; my shirt is now a see-through pathetic ex-

cuse for a barrier between the outside world and

my very pink, very noticeable bra. “Where’s your

bathroom?”

He nods his head toward the bathroom door.

I turn around, unzip a suitcase, and begin to

rummage through it while Ridge walks back into

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his bedroom. I’m glad he doesn’t ask me ques-

tions about what happened after our conversation

earlier. I’m not in the mood to talk about it.

I select a pair of yoga pants and a tank top,

then grab my bag of toiletries and head to the

bathroom. It disturbs me that everything about

this apartment reminds me of my own, with just a

few subtle differences. This is the same bathroom

with the Jack-and-Jill doors on the left and right,

leading to the two bedrooms that adjoin it. One is

Ridge’s, obviously. I’m curious about who the

other bedroom belongs to but not curious enough

to open it. The Hooters girl’s one rule was to stay

the hell out of her room, and she doesn’t seem

like the type to kid around.

I shut the door that leads to the living room

and lock it, then check the locks on both doors to

the bedrooms to make sure no one can walk in. I

have no idea if anyone lives in this apartment

other than Ridge and the Hooters girl, but I don’t

want to chance it.

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I pull off my sopping clothes and throw them

into the sink to avoid soaking the floor. I turn on

the shower and wait until the water gets warm,

then step in. I stand under the stream of water

and close my eyes, thankful that I’m not still sit-

ting outside in the rain. At the same time, I’m not

really happy to be where I am, either.

I never expected my twenty-second birthday to

end with me showering in a strange apartment

and sleeping on a couch that belongs to a guy

I’ve barely known for two weeks, all at the hands

of the two people I cared about and trusted the

most.

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