Maybe Someday

Chapter Nine

Sydney

I have no idea where we’re going, but I’m doing

my best to appear engaged. I’m in the backseat

with Warren, and he’s talking to me about the

band, explaining his involvement in it. I ask the

appropriate questions and nod at the appropriate

moments, but my mind isn’t here at all.

I know I can’t expect the hurt and heartache to

go away this quickly, but today has been the

worst day so far since my actual birthday. I real-

ize that all the pain I’ve been feeling hasn’t been

quite as bad because I’ve had Ridge this week. I

don’t know if it’s the way he brings comedic re-

lief when he’s around or if it’s because I really

was developing a crush on him, but the times I’ve

spent with him were the only times I felt

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remotely happy. They were the only times I

wasn’t thinking about what Hunter and Tori did

to me.

But now, watching him in the front seat with

his hand clasping Maggie’s . . . I don’t like it. I

don’t like how his thumb occasionally sweeps

back and forth. I don’t like the way she looks at

him. I especially don’t like the way he looks at

her. I didn’t like how he slipped his fingers

through hers when we reached the bottom of the

apartment stairs. I didn’t like how he opened her

door, then placed his hand on her lower back

while she climbed inside the car. I didn’t like

how they had a silent conversation while he was

putting the car in reverse. I didn’t like how he

laughed at whatever she said and then pulled her

to him so he could kiss her forehead. I don’t like

how all of these things make me feel as though

the only good moments I’ve had since last week

are now over.

Nothing has changed. Nothing significant

happened between the two of us, and I know

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we’ll continue with the way things have been.

We’ll still write lyrics together. He might still

listen to me sing. We’ll still continue to interact

the way we’ve done since I met him, so this situ-

ation shouldn’t be bothering me.

I know in my heart that I didn’t want anything

to happen with him, especially at this point in my

life. I know I need to be on my own. I want to be on my own. But I also know that the reason I’m

feeling so conflicted by this entire situation is

that I did have a little hope. Although I wasn’t

ready for anything right now, I thought the pos-

sibility would be there. I assumed that maybe

someday, when I was ready, things could have

developed between us.

However, now that Maggie is in the picture, I

realize there can’t be a maybe someday between us. There will never be a maybe someday. He

loves her, and she obviously loves him, and I

can’t blame them, because whatever they have is

beautiful. The way they look at each other and in-

teract and obviously care about each other is

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something I didn’t realize was missing between

Hunter and me.

Maybe someday I’ll have that, but it won’t be

with Ridge, and knowing that diminishes

whatever ray of hope shone through the storm of

my week.

Jesus, I’m so depressed.

I hate Hunter.

I really hate Tori.

And right now, I’m so pathetically miserable, I

even hate myself.

“Are you crying?” Warren asks.

“No.”

He nods. “Yes, you are. You’re crying.” I

shake my head. “I am not.”

“You were about to,” he says, looking at me

sympathetically. He puts his arm around my

shoulder and pulls me against him. “Chin up,

little girl. Maybe tonight we can find someone

who will screw the thought of that jerkoff ex

right out of that pretty little head of yours.”

I laugh and slap him in the chest.

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“I would volunteer to do it, but Bridgette

doesn’t like to share,” he says. “She’s kind of a

bitch like that, if you haven’t noticed.”

I laugh again, but when my eyes meet Ridge’s

in the rearview mirror, my smile fades. His jaw is

firm, and his eyes lock with mine for a few

seconds before he refocuses on the road in front

of him.

He’s unreadable most of the time, but I could

swear I saw a small flash of jealousy behind

those eyes. And I don’t like how seeing him jeal-

ous that I’m leaning against Warren actually feels

good.

Turning twenty-two has rotted my soul. Who

am I, and why am I having these awful reactions?

We pull into the parking lot of a club. I’ve

been here a few times with Tori, so I’m relieved

that it won’t be completely unfamiliar. Warren

takes my hand and helps me out of the car, then

puts an arm around my shoulders and walks with

me toward the entrance.

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“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll keep my

hands off you tonight so guys won’t assume

you’re madly in love with me. I hate cock block-

ers, and I refuse to be one. But if anyone makes

you uncomfortable, just look at me and give me a

signal so I can swoop in and pull you out of the

situation.”

I nod. “Sounds like a plan. What kind of signal

do I give you?”

“I don’t know. You can lick your lips seduct-

ively. Maybe squeeze your breasts together.”

I elbow him in the side. “Or maybe I can just

scratch my nose?”

He shrugs. “That works, too, I guess.” He

opens the door, and we all make our way inside.

The music is overwhelming, and the second the

doors close behind us, Warren leans in to shout

into my ear. “There are usually booths open on

the balcony level. Let’s go there!” He tightens his

grip on my hand, then turns to Ridge and Maggie

and motions for them to follow.

? ? ?

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I haven’t had to use the secret code Warren and I

agreed on, and we’ve been here more than two

hours now. I’ve danced with several people, but

as soon as the song ends, I make it a point to

smile politely and head back to the booth. War-

ren and Maggie seem to have made a nice dent in

the liquor stock, but Ridge hasn’t had a drop.

Other than a shot Warren persuaded me to take

when we first arrived, I haven’t had anything to

drink, either.

“My feet hurt,” I say.

Maggie and Ridge have danced a couple of

times but that was to slow songs, so I made it a

point not to watch them.

“No!” Warren says, attempting to pull me back

up. “I want to dance!”

I shake my head. He’s drunk and loud, and

every time I try to dance with him, he ends up

butchering my feet almost as badly as he butchers

the moves.

“I’ll dance with you,” Maggie says to him. She

climbs over Ridge in the booth, and Warren takes

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her hand. They head down to the lower level to

dance, and it’s the first time Ridge and I have

been alone in the booth.

I don’t like it.

I like it.

I don’t.

I do.

See? Rotten soul. Corrupted, rotten soul.

Ridge: Having fun?

I’m not really, but I nod, because I don’t want

to be that annoying, brokenhearted girl who

wants everyone around her to feel how miserable

she is.

Ridge: I need to say something, and I

may be way off base here, but I’m at-

tempting to improve on how I uninten-

tionally omit things from you.

I look up at him and nod again.

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Ridge: Warren is in love with Bridgette.

I read his text twice. Why would he need to

say that to me? Unless he thinks I like Warren.

Ridge: He’s always been a flirt, so I just

wanted to clear that up. I don’t want to

see you get hurt again. That’s all.

Me: Appreciate your concern, but it’s un-

necessary. Really. Have no interest there.

He smiles.

Me: You were right. I like Maggie.

Ridge: I knew you would. Everyone likes

Maggie. She’s very likable.

I lift my eyes and look around when a Sounds

of Cedar song begins to play. I scoot to the back

of the booth and look over the railing. Warren

and Maggie are standing by the DJ’s table, and

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Warren is interacting with the DJ while Maggie

dances around next to him.

Me: They’re playing one of your songs.

Ridge: Yeah? That always happens when

Warren’s

around.

Are

they

playing

“Getaway”?

Me: Yeah. How’d you know?

Ridge presses a flat palm to his chest and

smiles.

Me: Wow. You can differentiate your

songs like that?

He nods.

Me: What’s Maggie’s story? She commu-

nicates really well. She seems to dance

really well. Does she have a different level

of hearing loss from yours?

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Ridge: Yes, she has mild hearing loss. She

hears most things with hearing aids,

which is why she also speaks so well. And

she does dance well. I stick to slow songs

when she wants me to dance with her,

since I can’t hear them.

Me: Is that why Maggie speaks out loud

and you don’t? Because she can hear?

His eyes swing up to mine for a few seconds,

and then he looks back at his phone.

Ridge: No. I could speak if I wanted to.

I should stop. I know he’s probably annoyed

by these questions, but I’m too curious.

Me: Why don’t you, then?

He shrugs but doesn’t text me back.

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Me: No, I want to know. There has to be a

reason. It seems like it would make things

a lot easier for you.

Ridge: I just don’t. I get along fine with

how I do things now.

Me: Yes, especially when Maggie and War-

ren are around. Why would you need to

talk when they can do it for you?

I hit send before I realize I probably shouldn’t

have said that. I have noticed Maggie and Warren

do a lot of his talking for him, though. They’ve

ordered for him every time the waitress has come

by the booth, and I’ve noticed Warren do it sev-

eral times this week in different situations.

Ridge reads my text, then looks back up at me.

It seems I made him uncomfortable, and I imme-

diately regret saying what I did.

Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to

come out how it probably sounded. I just

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meant you seem to let them do things for

you that they wouldn’t necessarily have to

do if you would speak for yourself.

My explanation seems to bother him even

more than the initial text. I feel as if I’m digging

myself a hole.

Me: Sorry. I’ll stop. It’s not my place to

judge your situation, because I obviously

can’t put myself in your shoes. I was just

trying to understand.

He looks at me and pulls the corner of his bot-

tom lip into his mouth. I’ve noticed he does this

when he’s thinking hard about something. The

way he continues to stare at me makes my throat

go dry. I break his gaze, pull the straw into my

mouth, and take a sip of my soda. When I look

back at him, he’s texting again.

Ridge: I was nine when I stopped

verbalizing.

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His text does more to my stomach than his

stare did. I don’t know why.

Me: You used to talk? Why did you stop?

Ridge: It might take me a while to text

the explanation.

Me: It’s fine. You can tell me about it at

home when we have our laptops.

He scoots to the edge of the booth and peers

over the balcony. I follow his gaze down to Mag-

gie and Warren, who are still both hovering

around the DJ booth. When he sees that they’re

still occupied, he moves away from the railing

and leans forward across the table, resting his el-

bows in front of him as he begins to text.

Ridge: They don’t look like they’re ready

to leave, so I guess we have time now.

Brennan and I didn’t luck out in the par-

ent department. They both had issues

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with addiction. They might still have

them, but we wouldn’t know, because we

haven’t spoken to either of them in years.

My mother spent most of our childhood in

bed, doped up on pain pills. Our father

spent most of our childhood in bars. When

I was five, I was enrolled in a school for

the deaf. That’s where I learned sign lan-

guage. I would come home and teach

Brennan, because neither of my parents

knew ASL. I taught him because I was

five years old and had never had a con-

versation with anyone before. I was so

desperate to communicate I was forcing

my two-year-old brother to learn signs

like “cookie” and “window” just so I would

have someone to talk to.

My heart sinks to my stomach. I look up at

him, but he’s still texting.

Ridge: Imagine walking into your first day

of school to the realization that there is

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actually a way to communicate. When I

saw kids having conversations with their

hands, I was amazed. I lived the first five

years of my life never knowing what it

was like to communicate. The school

began teaching me how to form words us-

ing my voice, how to read, how to sign. I

spent the next few years practicing

everything I learned on Brennan. He be-

came just as fluent in ASL as I was. I

wanted him to know it, but I also didn’t

want to use him as my way to communic-

ate with my parents. So when I would talk

to them, I would always speak my words.

I couldn’t hear my own voice, of course,

and I know it sounds different when deaf

people speak, but I wanted a way to com-

municate with them since they didn’t

know ASL. One day, when I was talking to

my father, he told Brennan to tell me to

shut up, then had Brennan speak for me.

I didn’t understand why, but he was

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angry. Every time I would try to talk to

my father after that, the same thing

would happen, and he would tell Brennan

to tell me to stop voicing my words. Bren-

nan would translate what my father

wanted him to say back to me. I finally

realized my father didn’t want me to talk

because he didn’t like the way my voice

sounded. It embarrassed him that I

couldn’t hear. He didn’t like for me to

speak when we were in public, because

people would know I was deaf, so he

would tell me to shut up every time I did

it. One day at home, he became so angry

that I was still doing it that he started

yelling at Brennan. He assumed that since

I continued speaking my words, Brennan

wasn’t relaying the fact that he didn’t

want me to speak. He was really drunk

that day and took his anger too far, which

wasn’t uncommon. But he hit Brennan so

hard upside the head it knocked him out.

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Tears begin to well in my eyes, and I have to

inhale a calming breath.

Ridge: He was only six years old, Sydney.

Six. I never wanted to give my father an-

other reason to hit him, so that was the

last day I ever spoke out loud. I guess it

just became habit after that.

He lays his phone on the table and folds his

arms in front of him. He doesn’t seem to be wait-

ing for a response from me. He may not even

want one. He watches me, and I know he sees the

tears falling down my cheeks, but he doesn’t re-

act to them. I take a deep breath, then reach over

and pick up a napkin and wipe my eyes. I wish he

wouldn’t see me responding like this but I can’t

hold it back. He smiles softly and begins to reach

across the table for my hand, and then Warren

and Maggie reappear at the booth.

Ridge pulls his hand back and looks up at

them. Maggie’s arms are draped across Warren’s

shoulders, and she’s laughing at nothing in

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particular. Warren keeps trying to grab the back

of the booth—it looks as if he’s about to need

support, too, but he can’t seem to grasp anything.

Ridge and I both stand up and assist them. Ridge

pulls Maggie off Warren, and I wrap Warren’s

arm around my shoulders. He presses his fore-

head to mine.

“Syd, I’m so happy you got cheated on. I’m so

happy you moved in.”

I laugh and push his face away from mine.

Ridge nods his head toward the exit, and I nod in

agreement. Another drink, and we would prob-

ably have to carry these two out.

“I like that dress you wear, Syd. That blue

one? But please don’t wear it again.” Warren is

leaning his head against mine as we make our

way toward the stairs. “I don’t like your ass in it,

because I think I might love Bridgette, and your

dress makes me love your ass.”

Wow. He’s really drunk if he’s admitting that

he might love Bridgette.

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“I already told you I was burning that dress,” I

say, laughing.

“Good,” he says with a sigh.

We reach the exit, and I notice Ridge is carry-

ing Maggie now. Her arms are draped around his

neck, and her eyes are closed. Once we reach the

car, she opens her eyes as Ridge tries to stand her

up. She attempts to take a step but ends up stum-

bling. Ridge opens the back door, and she prac-

tically falls inside. He scoots her to the other side of the seat, and she falls against the door, closing

her eyes again. Ridge steps out of the way and

motions for Warren to climb in. Warren steps

forward and reaches up to Ridge’s face. He pats

Ridge’s cheek and says, “I feel bad for you,

buddy. I bet it’s really hard not to kiss Sydney,

cuz it’s hard for me, and I don’t even like her like

you do.”

Warren climbs inside the car and falls against

Maggie. I’m thankful that he was too drunk to

sign any of that, because I know that Ridge didn’t

understand what he said. I can tell by the

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confused look Ridge is giving me. He laughs and

bends down, lifting Warren’s leg, which is still

hanging out of the car. He pushes it inside the car

and closes the door, and my mind is still stuck on

Warren’s words.

Ridge reaches in front of me and pulls on the

handle of the front passenger door, then opens it.

I step forward, but the second Ridge’s hand rests

against my lower back, I pause.

I glance up at him, and he’s looking straight

down at me. His hand remains on my lower back

as I force myself to slowly close the gap between

myself and the car. The second I begin to lower

myself into the seat, his hand slips away, and he

waits until I’m all the way inside the car, then

closes the door.

I lean my head back into the seat and close my

eyes, terrified of what that simple gesture just did

to me.

I hear him take his position behind the wheel,

and the car cranks, but I continue to keep my

eyes closed. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t

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want to feel what I feel when I look at him. I

don’t like how every minute I spend with him, I

feel more and more like a Tori.

My phone receives a text, so I’m forced to

open my eyes. Ridge is holding his phone, watch-

ing me.

Ridge: She doesn’t do this a lot. Probably

not even three times a year. She’s been

under a lot of stress lately, and she likes

to go out. It helps.

Me: I wasn’t judging her.

Ridge: I know. I just wanted you to know

she’s not a raging alcoholic like I am.

He winks at me, and I laugh. I glance into the

backseat, where Warren is draped across Maggie.

They’re both out cold. I turn back around in my

seat and text him again.

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Me: Thank you for telling me all that earli-

er. You didn’t have to, and I know you

probably didn’t want to, but thank you.

He gives me a sideways glance, then returns

his attention to his phone.

Ridge: I’ve never told anyone that story.

Not even Brennan. He was probably too

young to even remember it.

He sets his phone down and puts the car in re-

verse, then begins to back out.

Why is it that the only question I wish I could

ask him right now is the most inappropriate one?

I want to ask him if he’s ever told Maggie, but

his answer shouldn’t matter to me. It shouldn’t

matter at all, but it does.

He begins to drive, and he reaches down and

turns on the radio, which confuses me. He can’t

hear it, so I don’t understand why he would care

if it was on or off.

But then I realize he didn’t do it for himself.

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He turned it on for me.

Ridge

After stopping at a drive-thru for food, we pull up

to the apartment complex. I put the car in park.

Me: Take the food up and unlock the door

while I wake them up.

She picks up our two drinks and the bag of

food. She heads up to the apartment, and I walk

to the back door and open it. I shake Warren

awake and help him out of the car. Then I wake

Maggie up and help her out. She’s still too out of

it to walk, so I pick her up and shut the door be-

hind me. I make sure Warren walks ahead of me

up the stairs, because I’m not positive he won’t

fall down them.

When we make it inside, Warren stumbles to

his bedroom, and I walk Maggie into my room. I

lay her on the bed and take off her shoes, then her

clothes. I pull the covers over her, then head back

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into the dining room, where Sydney has laid out

our food. It’s almost midnight, and we haven’t

eaten since lunch. I take a seat in front of her.

Me: So now that you know one of my

deep, dark secrets, I want to know one of

yours.

We both have our phones out on the table

while we eat. She smiles and begins to text me

back.

Sydney: You have more than one deep,

dark secret?

Me: We’re talking about you right now. If

we’re going to be working together, I

need to know what I’m getting myself in-

to. Tell me about your family. Any raging

alcoholics?

Sydney: No, just raging a*sholes. My

father is a lawyer, and he hates that I’m

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not going to law school. My mother stays

home. She’s never worked a day in her

life. She’s a great mom, but she’s also

one of those perfect moms, you know?

Think Leave It to Beaver meets Stepford

Wives.

Me: Siblings?

Sydney: Nope. Only child.

Me: I wouldn’t have pegged you as an

only child. Nor would I have guessed you

were a lawyer’s daughter.

Sydney: Why? Because I’m not preten-

tious and spoiled?

I smile at her and nod.

Sydney: Well, thanks. I try.

Me: I don’t mean for this to come off as

insensitive, but if your father is a lawyer

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and you still have a relationship with your

parents, why did you not call them last

week? When you had nowhere to go?

Sydney: The primary thing my mother in-

stilled in me was the fact that she didn’t

want me to be her. She had no education

and has always been completely depend-

ent on my father. She raised me to be

very independent and financially respons-

ible, so I’ve always taken pride in not ask-

ing for their help. It’s hard sometimes, es-

pecially when I really need their help, but

I always get by. I also don’t ask for their

help because my father would point out in

a not-so-nice way that if I were in law

school, he’d be paying for it.

Me: Wait. You’re paying for school on your

own? But if you changed your major to

prelaw, your father would pay for it?

She nods.

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Me: That’s not really fair.

Sydney: Like I said, my father is an as-

shole. But I don’t go around blaming my

parents for everything. I have a lot to be

thankful for. I’ve grown up in a relatively

normal household, both of my parents are

alive and well, and they support me to an

extent. They’re better than most, just

worse than some. I hate it when people

spend their entire lives blaming their par-

ents for every bad thing that happens to

them.

Me: Yeah. I completely agree, which is

why I was emancipated at sixteen. De-

cided to take my life into my own hands.

Sydney: Really? What about Brennan?

Me: I took him with me. The courts

thought he stayed with my parents, but

he moved in with me. Well, with Warren.

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We’ve been friends since we were four-

teen. Both of his parents are deaf, which

is how he knows ASL. Once I became

emancipated, they allowed me and Bren-

nan to stay with them. My parents still

had guardianship over Brennan, but as far

as they were concerned, I did them a

huge favor by taking him off their hands.

Sydney: Well, that was incredibly consid-

erate of Warren’s parents.

Me: Yes, they’re great people. Not sure

why Warren turned out the way he did,

though.

She laughs.

Sydney: Did they continue to raise Bren-

nan after you left for college?

Me: No, we actually only stayed with them

for

seven

months.

When

I

turned

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seventeen, I moved us into an apartment.

I dropped out of school and got a GED so

I could start college sooner.

Sydney:

Wow.

So

you

raised

your

brother?

Me: Hardly. Brennan lived with me, but he

was never the type who could be raised.

He was fourteen when we got our own

place. I was only seventeen. As much as

I’d like to say I was the responsible, ma-

ture adult, I was quite the opposite. Our

apartment became the hangout for every-

one who knew us, and Brennan partied

just as hard as I did.

Sydney: That shocks me. You seem so

responsible.

Me: I wasn’t as wild as I probably could

have been, being on my own at that

young an age. Luckily, all our money went

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to bills and rent, so I never got into any

bad habits. We just liked to have fun. Our

band was formed when Brennan was six-

teen and I was nineteen, so that took up a

lot of our time. That’s also the year I star-

ted dating Maggie, and I calmed down a

lot after that.

Sydney: You’ve been with Maggie since

you were nineteen?

I nod but don’t text her back. My food has

hardly been touched from all the texting, so I

pick up my burger. She does the same, and we

eat until both of us are finished. We stand up and

clear off the table. Then she gives me a wave and

heads off to her room. I sit on the couch and turn

on the TV. After about fifteen minutes of channel

surfing, I finally stop on a movie channel. The

captioning has been turned off on the TV, but I

don’t bother turning it back on. I’m too tired to

read and follow along with the movie, anyway.

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The door to Sydney’s bedroom opens, and she

walks out, looking slightly startled when she sees

I’m still awake. She’s in one of her baggy shirts

again, and her hair is wet. She walks back to her

room, then comes out with her phone and sits on

the couch with me.

Sydney: I’m not tired. What are you

watching?

Me: I don’t know, but it just started.

She pulls her feet up and rests her head on the

arm of the couch. Her eyes are on the TV, but my

eyes are on her. I have to admit, the Sydney who

went out tonight is a completely different Sydney

from the one lying here. Her makeup is gone, her

hair is no longer perfect, her clothes even have

holes in them, and I can’t help but laugh just

looking at her. If I were Hunter, I’d be punching

myself in the face right now.

She’s beginning to lean forward for her phone

when she cuts her eyes in my direction. I want to

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look back at the TV and pretend she didn’t just

catch me staring at her, but that would make this

even more awkward. Luckily, she doesn’t seem

to care that I was looking at her, because she

gives her attention to her phone.

Sydney: How are you watching this

without captions?

Me: Too tired to read along right now. So-

metimes I just like to watch movies

without captions and try to guess what

they’re saying.

Sydney: I want to try it. Put it on mute,

and we’ll deaf-watch it together.

I laugh. Deaf-watch? That’s a new one. I point

the remote to the TV and press the mute button.

She turns her attention back to the TV, but once

again, I fail to look away from her.

I don’t understand my sudden obsession with

staring at her, but I can’t seem to stop. She’s

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several feet away. We aren’t touching. We aren’t

speaking. She isn’t even looking at me. Yet the

simple fact that I’m staring at her makes me feel

incredibly guilty, as if I’m doing something

wrong. Staring is harmless, so why do I feel so

guilty?

I attempt to talk myself out of the feelings of

guilt, but deep down, I know exactly what’s

happening.

I don’t feel guilty simply because I’m staring

at her. I feel guilty for how it’s making me feel.

? ? ?

This makes twice in a row I’ve been woken up
like this. I push away the hand that’s slapping me

and open my eyes. Warren is standing over me.

He slaps a piece of paper on my chest, then

whacks his hand against the side of my head. He

walks to the front door and grabs his keys, then

leaves for work.

Why is he going to work this early?

283/692

I pick up my phone, and it says 6:00 A.M. I

guess he’s not leaving early.

I sit up on the couch and see Sydney still

curled up at the other end, sound asleep. I pull the

paper from Warren off my chest and look down

at it.

How about you go to your room and sleep in

the bed with your girlfriend!

I wad up the note and stand, then take it to the

trash can and bury it. I go back to the couch, put

my hand on Sydney’s shoulder, and shake her

awake. She rolls onto her back and rubs her eyes,

then looks up at me.

She smiles when she sees me. That’s it. All she

did just now was smile, but all of a sudden, my

chest is on fire, and it feels as if a wave of heat

just rolled down the entire length of my body. I

recognize this feeling, and it’s not good. It’s not

good at all. I haven’t felt this way since I was

nineteen.

Since I first began developing feelings for

Maggie.

284/692

I point to Sydney’s room to let her know she

should go to bed, then quickly turn around and

head into my bedroom. I pull off my jeans and T-

shirt and softly slide into bed next to Maggie. I

wrap my arms around her, pull her against my

chest, and spend the next half hour falling asleep

to a broken record of reminders.

You’re in love with Maggie.

Maggie’s perfect for you.

You’re perfect for her.

She needs you.

You’re happy when you’re with her.

You’re with the one and only girl you’re meant

to be with.

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Colleen Hoover's books