Maybe Someday

Chapter Eleven

Sydney

Oh, God. He’s doing that thing again. The mes-

merizing thing.

When I’ve seen him play his guitar like this in

the past, it was before I knew he couldn’t hear

himself play. I thought maybe he just played this

way to get a different angle on the strings, but

now I know he does it so he can feel the music

better. I don’t know why, but knowing this makes

me love watching him even more.

I should probably be working on the lyrics, but

I watch him play the entire song without once

opening his eyes. When he finishes, I quickly

glance down to my notebook, because I know

he’s about to open his eyes and look up at me. I

pretend I’m writing, and he flips his guitar

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around the correct way, then leans back against

my dresser and begins playing the song again.

I focus on the lyrics and think about what he

said. Ridge was right. I wasn’t thinking about the

fact that a guy would be singing them. I was fo-

cused on pouring my feelings onto paper. I close

my eyes and try to picture Ridge singing the

song.

I try to imagine what it would be like to be

honest about what I’m feeling for him and use

that to take the lyrics a little further. I open my

eyes and cross out the first line of the song, then

begin rewriting the first verse.

Watching him from here

Seeing something from so far away

Get a little closer every day

Thinking that I want to make it mine

I think the real reason I’m not able to write to-

night is that every line that ends up on paper is

about Ridge, and I know Ridge will be able to

see through it. He pulled the lyrics out of the

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trash and already read through them, so he has to

have an idea. Still . . . he’s here, wanting me to

finish the song. I focus on the second verse and

try to keep his advice in mind.

I’d run for him you if I could stand

But I can’t make that demand

What I want I can’t demand

’Cause what I want is you

I continue to go through the lyrics on the page,

crossing out the old lines and changing them up

as Ridge plays the song several times.

If I could be his, I would wait

And if I can’t be yours now

I’ll wait here on this ground

Till you come, till you take me away

Maybe someday

Maybe someday

The page becomes messy and hard to read, so I

set it aside and open my notebook to rewrite

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everything. Ridge stops playing for a few

minutes while I transfer everything onto the new

page. When I look up at him, he points to the

page, wanting to read what I’ve written. I nod.

He walks to the bed and sits next to me, lean-

ing in toward me to read what I’ve got so far.

I’m extremely aware that he might see right

through the lyrics and know they have more to do

with him than with Hunter, which causes panic to

course through my veins. He pulls the notebook

closer to him, but it’s still on my lap. His

shoulder is pressed to mine, and his face is so

close he could probably feel my breath against

his cheek . . . if I were breathing. I force my eyes

to fall where his have, onto the lyrics rewritten

across the page on my lap.

I try to ignore what you say

You turn to me

I turn away

Ridge picks up the pen and marks through the

last line, then tilts his head to face me. He points

the pen at himself and makes a writing motion in

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the air, indicating that he wants to change

something.

I nod, full of nerves and fear that he doesn’t

like it. He presses his pen to the paper, next to the lyrics he crossed out. He pauses for a few

seconds before writing and slowly turns to face

me again. His expression is full of trepidation,

and I’m curious about what’s causing it. His eyes

fall from mine, slowly grazing over me until his

attention is back on the page. He inhales and

carefully exhales, then begins writing the new

lyrics. I watch him write out the lyrics to the en-

tire song as I follow closely along, deciphering

the new lyrics he adds in himself.

MAYBE SOMEDAY

Seeing something from so far away

Get a little closer every day

Thinking that I want to make it mine

I’d run for you if I could stand

But what I want I can’t demand

’Cause what I want is you

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Chorus:

And if I can’t be yours now

I’ll wait here on this ground

Till you come

Till you take me away

Maybe Someday

Maybe Someday

I try to ignore what you say

You turn to me, I turn away

But Cupid must have shot me twice

I smell your perfume on my bed

Thoughts of you invade my head

Truths are written, never said

Repeat Chorus

You say it’s wrong, but it feels right

You cut me loose, then hold on tight

Words unfinished, like our song

Nothing good can come this way

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Lines are drawn, but then they fade

For her I bend, for you I break

Repeat Chorus

When he’s finished writing, he sets the pen down

across the paper. His eyes turn to mine again, and

I don’t know if he’s expecting me to respond to

what he just wrote, but I can’t. I’m trying not to

allow myself to feel as if there’s any truth behind

his lyrics, but his words from the first night we

wrote together flash through my head.

“They’re your words, Sydney. Words that

came from you.”

He was telling me then that lyrics have truth

behind them, because they come from some-

where inside the person who wrote them. I look

back down at the page.

For her I bend, for you I break

Oh, my God, I can’t. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t

want this.

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But it feels so good. His words feel good, his

closeness feels good, his eyes searching mine

make my heart go haywire, and for the life of me,

I can’t figure out how something that feels like

this can be so wrong.

I’m not a bad person.

Ridge isn’t a bad person.

How can two good people who both have such

good intentions end up with feelings, derived

from all the goodness, that are so incredibly bad?

Ridge’s expression grows more concerned, and

he pulls his gaze away from mine and picks up

his phone.

Ridge: Are you okay?

Ha. Am I okay? Yeah. That’s why my palms

are sweating and my chest is heaving and I’m

clenching the sheet beside me on the bed so I

don’t do something to him with these hands that

I’ll never forgive myself for.

I nod, then gently push him aside as I stand up

and walk to the bathroom. I shut the door behind

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me and lean against it, closing my eyes and si-

lently repeating the mantra in my head that I’ve

been repeating for weeks now.

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.

Ridge

After several minutes, she finally walks back into

her bedroom. She smiles at me, walks to the bed,

and picks up her phone.

Sydney: Sorry. I felt sick.

Me: You okay?

Sydney: Yeah. Just needed water, I

guess. I love the lyrics, Ridge. They’re

perfect. Do we need to run through them

again, or can we call it a night?

I really would like to run through them again,

but she looks tired. I’d also give anything to feel

her sing them again, but I’m not sure that’s a

good idea. I already beat up my conscience

enough while I was writing the rest of the lyrics

down. However, the fact that I was more than

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likely writing about her didn’t seem to stop me,

because the only thing on my mind was the

simple fact that I was actually writing. I haven’t been able to write lyrics in months, and in just a

matter of minutes, it was as if a fog lifted and the

words began to flow effortlessly. I would have

kept going if I didn’t feel I’d already gone way

too far.

Me: We’ll call it a night. I’m really happy

with this one, Syd.

She smiles, and I pick up my guitar and head

to my room.

I spend the next several minutes transferring

her lyrics into the music program on my laptop,

and filling in the guitar chords. Once it’s all

entered, I hit send, close it out, and text Brennan.

Me: Just sent you a very rough draft with

lyrics. I really want Sydney to hear this

one, so if you have time this week to work

up a rough acoustic, send it over. I think

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it’ll be good for her to finally be able to

hear something she created come to life.

Brennan: Looking at it now. I hate to ad-

mit this, but I think you were right about

her. She really was sent to earth just for

us.

Me: Starting to seem that way.

Brennan: Give me an hour. Not busy, so

I’ll see what we can work up.

An hour? He’s sending it tonight? I immedi-

ately text Sydney.

Me: Try not to fall asleep. I might have a

little surprise for you after a while.

Sydney: Um, . . . okay?

? ? ?

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Forty-five minutes later, I get an e-mail with an

attachment from Brennan that says, Rough cut,

Maybe Someday. I open it on my phone, find a set of earbuds in the kitchen drawer, and head to

Sydney’s room. She opens the door after I knock

and lets me into her room. I walk over to sit on

her bed and motion to the spot on the mattress

beside me. She looks at me questioningly but

walks to the bed. I hand her the earbuds and pat

her pillow, so she lies down and places them in

her ears. She continues to watch me warily, as if

I’m about to pull an elaborate prank on her.

I scoot down next to her and prop myself up on

my elbow, then hit play. I set the phone down

between us and watch her.

A few seconds pass, and her head swings in

my direction. An “Oh, my God” passes her lips,

and she’s looking at me as if I’ve just given her

the world.

And it feels pretty damn good.

She smiles and puts her hand over her mouth

as her eyes fill with tears. She tilts her face back

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up to the ceiling, more than likely because she’s

embarrassed by her emotional reaction. She

shouldn’t be. It’s exactly what I was hoping to

see.

I continue to watch her as she listens, and her

face conveys a mixture of emotions. She smiles,

then exhales, then closes her eyes. When the song

ends, she looks at me and mouths, “Again.”

I smile and hit play on my phone again. I con-

tinue to watch her, but the second her lips begin

moving and I realize she’s singing along to the

song, my smile is washed away by a sudden emo-

tion I didn’t expect to feel at all.

Jealousy.

Never in all my life and in all my years of liv-

ing in a world of silence have I wanted to hear

something as much as I want to hear her sing

right now. I want to hear her so bad it physically

hurts. The walls of my chest feel as if they’re

closing in on my heart, and I don’t even realize

that my hand has moved to her chest until she

turns to me, startled. I shake my head, not

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wanting her to stop. She nods slightly, but the

beat of her heart against my hand is increasing by

the second. I can feel the vibration of her voice

against my palm, but the material between my

hand and her skin hinders my ability to feel her

the way I want to. I move my hand upward, until

it’s at the base of her throat, and then I slide it up even farther, until my fingers and palm are flush

against her neck. I scoot closer to her so that my

chest is pressed against her side, because the

overwhelming need to hear her has completely

taken over, and I don’t allow myself to think

about where the invisible lines are drawn.

The vibration of her voice stops, and I feel her

swallow as she looks up at me with the exact

emotions that inspired most of the lines in this

song.

Say it’s wrong, but it feels right.

There’s no other way to describe how I feel. I

know that the way I think about her and feel

about her is wrong, but I struggle so much with

how right it feels when I’m with her.

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She’s no longer singing. My hand is still

wrapped around her throat, and her face is tilted

toward mine. I slide my hand a little higher until

it’s grazing her jaw. I run my finger around the

cord to the earbuds and pull them away from her.

I return my fingers to her jaw, slowly slipping my

hand behind her neck. My palm conforms so per-

fectly to the back of her head it’s as if my hands

were made to hold her like this. I gently pull her

toward me, and she turns her body slightly to-

ward mine. Our chests meet, and it creates a

force so powerful that every other part of me is

demanding to be pressed against every other part

of her.

She reaches her hands up to my neck and

lightly places her palms against my skin, then

slowly eases her fingers up and into my hair.

Having her so close feels as though we’ve cre-

ated our own personal space, and nothing from

outside our world can make its way in, and noth-

ing from inside our world can make its way out.

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Her breaths fall in waves against my lips, and

although I can’t hear them, I imagine they sound

like how a heartbeat feels. I let my forehead fall

against hers, and I feel a rumble from deep within

my chest rise up my throat. The sound I feel pass

my lips causes her mouth to open in a gasp, and

the way her lips are slightly parted causes my

mouth to immediately connect with hers in

search of the relief I desperately need.

Relief is exactly what I find the second our lips

meet. It’s as if every pent-up, denied feeling I’ve

held toward her is suddenly uncaged, and I’m

able to breathe for the first time since I met her.

Her fingers continue to sift through my hair,

and my grip tightens against the back of her head,

pulling her closer. She allows my tongue to slip

inside and find hers. She’s warm and soft, and

the vibrations from her moans begin to leave her

mouth and flow straight into mine.

My lips softly close over hers, and then I part

them, and we do it all over again, but with less

hesitation and more desperation. Her hands are

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now running down my back, and my hand is slip-

ping to her waist, and my tongue is exploring the

incredible way hers dances against mine to a

song only our mouths can hear. The desperation

and speed at which we’re escalating this kiss

make it apparent that we’re both attempting to

get as much out of each other as we can before

the moment ends.

Because we both know it has to end.

I grip her waist tightly as my heart begins to

tear in two, half of it remaining where it’s always

been, with Maggie, and the other half being

pulled to the girl beneath me.

Nothing in my life has ever felt so good yet

hurt so achingly bad.

I tear my mouth away from hers, and we both

gasp for breath as the desperate grip she has on

me keeps me locked against her. I refuse to allow

our mouths to reconnect as I struggle to figure

out which half of my heart I want to save.

I press my forehead to hers and keep my eyes

closed, inhaling and exhaling in rapid succession.

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She doesn’t attempt to kiss me again, but I can

feel her chest as her movements change from

begging for breath to fighting back tears. I pull

back and open my eyes, looking down on her.

Her eyes are shut tightly, but the tears are be-

ginning to fall. She turns her face and covers her

mouth with her hand as she tries to roll onto her

side, away from me. I lift up onto my hands and

look down at what I’ve done to her.

I’ve done the one thing I promised her I would

never do.

I just made her a Tori.

I wince and drop my forehead to the side of

her head and press my lips against her ear. I find

her hand and reach for the pen beside us on the

nightstand. I turn her hand over and press the tip

of the pen to her palm.

I’m so sorry.

I kiss her palm, then crawl off the bed and

back away. She opens her eyes long enough to

look at her hand. She makes a tight fist and pulls

her hand to her chest, then begins to sob into her

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pillow. I take my guitar, my phone, and my

shame . . . and I leave her completely alone.

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