Maybe Someday

Chapter Thirteen

Sydney

Not much has changed in the way we practice to-

gether, other than the fact that we now practice

five feet apart from each other. We’ve completed

a couple of songs since “the kiss,” and although

the first night was a little awkward, we seem to

have found our groove. We haven’t talked about

the kiss, and we haven’t talked about Maggie,

and we haven’t discussed why he plays on the

floor and why I write alone on the bed. There’s

no reason to discuss it, because we’re both very

aware of all of it.

The fact that we’ve admitted our attraction to

each other doesn’t seem to have eliminated it the

way we’d hoped. For me, it’s like a huge ele-

phant in the room. It feels as if it takes up so

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much space when I’m with him that it presses me

against the wall, squeezing the last traces of

breath out of me. I keep telling myself it’ll get

better, but it’s been almost two weeks since the

kiss, and it hasn’t gotten easier at all.

Luckily, I have two interviews next week, and

if I get hired, at least it’ll get me out of the house more. Warren and Bridgette both work and go to

school, so they’re not here a whole lot. Ridge

works from home, so the fact that we’re both

here alone the majority of the day is always at the

front of my mind.

Out of all the hours in the day, though, the

hour I hate the most is when Ridge is in the

shower. Which means I really hate this hour,

since that’s where he is right now. I hate where

my thoughts go when I know he’s one wall away

from me, completely unclothed.

Jesus, Sydney.

I hear the water turn off and the shower curtain

slide open, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying

once again not to picture him. This would

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probably be a good time of day to turn on some

music to drown out my thoughts.

As soon as the door closes between the bath-

room and his bedroom, there’s a knock at the

front door. I gladly jump off the bed and head to-

ward the living room to get my mind off the fact

that I know Ridge is in his room getting dressed

right now.

I don’t even bother looking through the peeph-

ole, which is a very bad oversight on my part. I

swing open the door to find Hunter standing

sheepishly at the top of the stairs. He eyes me, his

expression apologetic and nervous. My heart

drops to my stomach at the mere sight of him.

It’s been weeks since I last laid eyes on him. I

was beginning to forget what he looked like.

His dark hair is longer since I last saw him,

and it reminds me that I’m always the one to

schedule his hair appointments. The fact that he

hasn’t even bothered to make his own appoint-

ment makes him that much more pathetic to me.

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“Should I give Tori the number for your

barber? Your hair looks awful.”

The mention of Tori’s name makes him grim-

ace. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m not jumping

back into his arms that’s causing that regretful

expression on his face.

“You look good,” he says, capping his words

off with a smile.

“I am good,” I say, not sure if I’m lying to him or not.

He runs a free hand over his jaw and turns

away from me, appearing to regret the fact that

he’s here.

How is he here? How does he even know

where I live?

“How did you know where to find me?” I ask,

tilting my head in curiosity.

I see the split-second shift of his eyes as they

glance across the courtyard toward Tori’s apart-

ment. It’s obvious he doesn’t want me to notice

what’s going on in his mind, because it would

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only shed light on the fact that he’s still visiting

Tori on a regular basis.

“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice void of the


confidence I’ve always known him to have.

“If I let you in and convince you it’s over, will

you promise to stop texting me?”

He barely nods his head, so I step aside, and he

walks into the living room. I walk to the dining-

room table and pull out a chair, making it obvi-

ous that he’s not making himself comfortable by

sitting on the couch. He walks toward the table as

his eyes work their way around the room, more

than likely in search of information on who lives

here with me.

He grips the back of the chair and pulls it out

slowly while his eyes focus on a pair of Ridge’s

shoes tucked beside the couch. I like that he no-

ticed them.

“Are you living here now?” he asks, his voice

tight and controlled.

“For now,” I say, my voice even more con-

trolled. I’m proud of myself for keeping calm,

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because I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t

hurt to see him. I gave him two years of my life,

and all the things I felt for him can’t just be cut

off at once. Feelings take time to disappear, so

they’re still here. They’re just mixed and swirled

together with a hell of a lot of hatred now. It’s

confusing to feel this way when I see him, be-

cause I never thought I could dislike the man in

front of me. I never thought he would betray me

the way he did.

“Do you think that’s safe? Just moving in with

some strange guy you barely know?” He’s eyeing

me disapprovingly as he takes his seat, as if he

has the right to judge any part of my life.

“You and Tori didn’t leave me much choice,

did you? I found myself screwed over and home-

less on my birthday. If anything, I would think

you should be congratulating me for handling it

all so well. You sure as hell can’t sit here and

judge me.”

He huffs, then leans forward over the table and

closes his eyes, pressing the palms of his hands

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against his forehead. “Sydney, please. I didn’t

come here to fight or make excuses. I came here

to tell you how sorry I am.”

If there’s one thing I’d like to hear from him,

it’s an apology. If there are two things I’d like to hear, it’s an apology followed by a good-bye.

“Well, you’re here now,” I say quietly. “Have

at it. Tell me how sorry you are.” My voice isn’t

confident anymore. In fact, I want to punch my-

self, because it sounds really sad and heart-

broken, and that’s the last thing I want him to

think I feel.

“I’m sorry, Sydney,” he says, spitting the

words out fast and desperately. “I’m so, so sorry.

I know it won’t make it better, but things have al-

ways been different between Tori and me. We’ve

known each other for years, and I know it’s not

an excuse, but our relationship was sexual before

you even met us. But that’s all it was. It was just

sex, and once you were in the picture, neither of

us could figure out how to just put a stop to

something that had been going on between us for

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years. I know this doesn’t make sense, but what I

had with her was completely separate from what

I had with you. I love you. If you’ll just give me

one more chance to prove myself, I’ll never

speak to Tori again.”

My heart is pounding as hard as it was the mo-

ment I found out they were sleeping together. I’m

inhaling controlled breaths in an effort not to

climb across the table and beat the shit out of

him. I’m also clenching my fists in an effort not

to climb across the table and kiss him. I would

never take him back, but my head is so damned

confused right now, because I miss what we had

so much. It was simple and good, and my heart

never ached the way it’s been aching these past

few weeks.

What’s confusing me the most is the fact that

my heart hasn’t been aching like this because I

can’t be with Hunter. It’s aching because I can’t

be with Ridge.

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I realize as I’m sitting here that I’m more upset

that Ridge came into my life than I am that

Hunter left it. How screwed up is that?

Before I can respond, Ridge’s bedroom door

opens, and he walks out. He’s in jeans and noth-

ing else, and I tense from the way my body re-

sponds to his presence. However, I love the fact

that Hunter is about to turn around and witness

Ridge looking like this.

Ridge pauses just feet from the table when he

sees Hunter sitting across from me. He glances

from Hunter to me, just as Hunter turns to see

who I’m looking at. I can see the concern wash

over Ridge’s face, along with a flash of anger. He

eyes me hard, and I know exactly what’s going

through his head right now. He’s wondering what

the hell Hunter is doing here, just as I am. I nod

in reassurance, letting Ridge know I’m fine. I

shift my eyes to his bedroom and silently tell him

that Hunter and I need privacy.

Ridge doesn’t move. He doesn’t like that I just

told him to go back to his bedroom. From the

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looks of it, he doesn’t really trust Hunter alone

with me. Maybe it’s the fact that he wouldn’t be

able to hear me if I needed him to return for any

reason. Whatever it is, I just made him com-

pletely uncomfortable with my request. Regard-

less, he nods and turns back toward his room, but

not before eyeing Hunter with a warning shot.

Hunter faces me again, but his expression is no

longer apologetic.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, his voice

dripping in jealousy.

“That was Ridge,” I reply firmly. “I believe the

two of you have already met.”

“Are the two of you . . . like . . . ?”

Before I answer him, Ridge walks back into

the room with his laptop and heads straight to the

couch. He drops down onto the sofa, eyeing

Hunter the entire time while he opens his laptop

and props his feet up on the coffee table in front

of him.

The fact that Ridge refuses to leave me alone

with Hunter pleases me way too much.

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“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, “but

no, we aren’t dating. He has a girlfriend.”

Hunter returns his attention to me and laughs

under his breath. I have no idea what he just

found funny, but it pisses me off. I fold my arms

while I glare at him and lean back against my

seat.

Hunter leans forward and looks straight into

my eyes. “Please tell me you see the irony in this,

Sydney.”

I shake my head, absolutely not seeing any

irony in this situation.

My lack of comprehension makes him laugh

again. “I’m trying to explain to you that what

happened between Tori and me was strictly phys-

ical. It meant nothing to either of us, but you

won’t even try to understand my side of it. Yet

you’re practically eye-f*cking your roommate

who happens to be in love with another woman,

and you don’t see the hypocrisy in your actions?

You can’t tell me you haven’t slept with him in

the two months you’ve been here. How can you

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not see that what the two of you are doing isn’t

any different from what Tori and I did? You

can’t justify your own actions without forgiving

mine.”

I’m trying to keep my jaw off the floor. I’m

trying to keep my anger subdued. I’m trying to

keep myself from reaching across this table and

punching him square between his accusing eyes,

but I’ve learned the hard way that punching isn’t

all it’s cracked up to be.

I allow myself several moments to calm down

before I respond. I glance at Ridge, who is still

eyeing me. He knows by the look on my face that

Hunter just crossed the line. Ridge’s hands are

gripping the screen of his laptop, prepared to

shove it aside if I need him.

I don’t need him. I’ve got this.

I square up with Hunter, pulling my gaze off

Ridge and focusing on the eyes I so desperately

want to rip out of Hunter’s head.

“Ridge has an amazing girlfriend who doesn’t

deserve to be cheated on, and luckily for her, he’s

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the type of guy who realizes her worth. With that

said, you’re wrong about the fact that I’m sleep-

ing with him, because I’m not. We both know

how unfair it would be to his girlfriend, so we

don’t act on our attraction. You should take note

that simply because a girl makes your dick hard,

that doesn’t mean you have to go shove it inside

her!”

I push myself away from the table at the same

time as Ridge sets his laptop aside and stands.

“Go, Hunter. Just go,” I say, unable to look at

him for another second. The simple fact that he

thought he had Ridge pegged as being anything

like him pisses me off, and he’d be smart to

leave.

He stands up and walks straight to the door. He

opens it and leaves without even looking back.

I’m not sure if his exit was so simple because he

finally understands that I’m not willing to take

him back or if it’s because Ridge looked as if he

was about to kick his ass.

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I have a good feeling I won’t be hearing from

Hunter anymore.

I’m still staring at the door when my phone

sounds off. I take it out of my pocket and turn to

Ridge. He’s holding his phone, looking at me

with concern.

Ridge: Why was he here?

Me: He wanted to talk.

Ridge: Did you know he was coming over?

I look up at Ridge after reading his text, and

for the first time, I notice his jaw is tense and he

doesn’t look very happy. I’d almost label his re-

action as slightly jealous, but I don’t want to ad-

mit that.

Me: No.

Ridge: Why did you let him in?

Me: I wanted to hear him apologize.

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Ridge: Did he?

Me: Yes.

Ridge: Don’t let him in here again.

Me: I wasn’t planning on it. BTW, you’re

kind of being a jerk right now.

He glances up at me and shrugs.

Ridge: It’s my apartment, and I don’t

want him here. Don’t let him in again.

I don’t like his attitude right now, and to be

honest, the fact that he just referred to this as his apartment doesn’t sit right with me. It feels like a

low blow to remind me that I’m at his mercy. I

don’t bother responding. In fact, I toss the phone

onto the couch so he can’t text me, and I head to-

ward my room.

When I reach my bedroom door, my emotions

catch up with me. I’m not sure if it’s seeing

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Hunter again and having all of those hurtful feel-

ings resurface or if it’s the fact that Ridge is be-

ing an a*shole. Whatever it is, the tears begin to

well in my eyes, and I hate that I’m letting either

of them get to me in the first place.

Ridge grabs my shoulder and turns me around

to face him, but I keep my eyes trained on the

wall behind him. I don’t even want to look him in

the eye. He puts my phone back in my hand,

wanting me to read whatever he just texted, but I

still don’t want to. I throw the phone toward the

couch again, but he intercepts it, then tries to

force it back into my hand. I take it this time, but

I press the power button down until the phone

shuts off, and then I toss it onto the couch again.

I look him in the eye now, and his expression is

angry. He takes two steps toward the coffee table,

grabs a pen out of the drawer, and walks back to

me. He takes my hand, but I pull it from him, still

not wanting to know what he has to say to me.

I’ve had enough apologies for tonight. I try to

turn away from him, but he grabs my arm and

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presses it against the door, holding it forcefully

while he writes on it. When he’s finished writing,

I pull my arm away and watch as he tosses his

pen onto the couch, then walks back to his bed-

room. I look down at my arm.

Let him in next time if he’s really what you

want.

My barrier completely breaks. Reading his

angry words depletes me of whatever strength I

had left to hold back my tears. I rush through my

bedroom door and straight into the bathroom. I

turn on the faucet and squirt soap into my hands,

then begin scrubbing his words off my arm while

I cry. I don’t even look up when the door to his

bedroom opens, but I see him out of my peripher-

al vision as he closes the door behind him and

slowly walks toward me. I’m still scrubbing the

ink off my arm and sniffling back the tears when

he reaches across me for the soap.

He dispenses some onto the palm of his hand,

then wraps his fingers around my wrist. The ten-

derness in his touch lashes out and scars my

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heart. He runs the soap up my wrist where the

words begin and lathers my skin as I drop my

other hand away and grip the edge of the sink, al-

lowing him to wash his words away.

He’s apologizing.

He massages his thumbs into the words, rub-

bing them away with the water.

I’m still staring down at my arm, but I can feel

his gaze directly on me. I’m aware of the exag-

gerated breaths I have to take in now that he’s

next to me, so I attempt to slow them down until

there are no longer traces of ink on my skin.

He grabs a hand towel and dries my arm, then

releases me. I bring my arm to my chest and hold

it with my other hand, not knowing what move to

make now. I finally bring my eyes to meet his,

and I instantaneously forget why I’m even upset

with him in the first place.

His expression is reassuring and apologetic

and maybe even a little longing. He turns and

walks out of the bathroom, then returns seconds

later with my phone. He powers it on and hands

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it to me while he leans against the counter, still

looking at me regretfully.

Ridge: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I

said. I thought maybe you were entertain-

ing the thought of accepting his apology,

and it upset me. You deserve better than

him.

Me: He showed up unannounced. I would

never take him back, Ridge. I was just

hoping an apology from him would help

me move on from the betrayal a little

quicker.

Ridge: Did it help at all?

Me: Not really. I feel even more pissed

than before he showed up.

As Ridge reads my text, I notice the tension

ease in his expression. His reaction to my situ-

ation with Hunter borders on jealousy, and I hate

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that this makes me feel good. I hate that every

time something Ridge-related makes me feel

good, it’s immediately followed up with guilt.

Why do things between the two of us have to be

so complicated?

I wish we could keep things simple, but I have

no idea how to do that.

Ridge: Let’s go write an angry song about

him. That might help.

He looks at me with a sly grin, and it makes

my insides swirl and melt. Then I freeze just as

fast from the guilt of those feelings.

For once, it would be nice not to be consumed

with shame.

I nod and follow him to his room.

Ridge

I’m sitting on the floor again. It’s not the most

comfortable place to play, but it’s much better

than being on the bed next to her. I can never

seem to focus on the actual music when I’m in

her personal space and she’s in mine.

She requested that I play one of the songs I

used to play when I sat out on my balcony to

practice, so we’ve been working through it. She’s

lying on her stomach, writing on her notepad.

Erasing and writing, erasing and writing. I’m sit-

ting here on the floor, not even playing. I’ve

played the song enough for her to know the

melody by now, so I’m just waiting while I watch

her.

I love how she focuses so intently on the lyr-

ics, as if she’s in her own world and I’m just a

lucky observer. Every now and then, she’ll tuck

behind her ear the hair that keeps spilling in front

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of her face. My favorite thing to watch her do is

erase her words. Every time the eraser meets the

paper, she pulls her top lip in with her bottom

teeth and chews on it.

I hate that it’s my favorite thing to watch her

do, because it shouldn’t be. It triggers all these

what-ifs in my head, and my mind begins imagining things it shouldn’t be imagining. I begin to

picture myself lying next to her on the bed while

she writes. I imagine her lip being tucked in

while I’m just inches from her, looking down on

the words she’s written. I imagine her glancing

up at me, noticing what she’s doing to me with

her small, innocent gestures. I imagine her rolling

onto her back, welcoming me to create secrets

with her that’ll never leave this room.

I close my eyes, wanting to do whatever I can

to stop the thoughts. They make me feel just as

guilty as if I were to act on them. Sort of similar

to how I felt a couple of hours ago when I

thought there was a chance she was getting back

together with Hunter.

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I was pissed.

I was jealous.

I was having thoughts and feelings I knew I

shouldn’t be having, and it was scaring the shit

out of me. I’ve never had an issue with jealousy

until now, and I don’t like the person it’s turning

me into. Especially when the jealousy I’m feeling

has nothing to do with the girl I’m in an actual

relationship with.

I flinch when something hits me on the fore-

head. I immediately open my eyes and look at

Sydney. She’s on the bed, laughing, pointing at

my phone. I pick it up and read her text.

Sydney: Are you falling asleep? We aren’t

finished.

Me: No. Just thinking.

She moves over on the bed to make more room

and pats the spot next to her.

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Sydney: Come think right here so you can

read these. I have most of the lyrics

down, but I’m hung up on the chorus. I’m

not sure what you want.

We haven’t openly discussed the fact that we

don’t write on the bed together anymore. She’s

focused on the lyrics, though, so I need to pull

my shit together and focus on them, too. I set my

guitar down and pull myself up, then walk to the

bed and lie beside her. I take the notebook out of

her hands and pull it in front of me to read what

she’s written so far.

She smells good.

Damn.

I try to block off my senses somehow, but I

know it’s a wasted effort. Instead, I focus on the

words she’s written, quickly impressed at how ef-

fortlessly they come to her.

Why don’t we keep

Keep it simple

You talk to your friends

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And I’ll be here to mingle

But you know that I

I want to be

Right by your side

Where I ought to be

And you know that I

That I can see

The way that your eyes

Seem to follow me

After reading what she’s written, I hand her back

the notebook and pick up my phone. I’m con-

fused about the lyrics, because they aren’t at all

what I was expecting. I’m not sure I like them.

Me: I thought we were writing an angry

song about Hunter.

She shrugs, then begins texting me back.

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Sydney: I tried. The subject of Hunter

doesn’t really inspire me anymore. You

don’t have to use them if you don’t like

them. I can try something different.

I stare at her text, not sure how to respond. I

don’t like the lyrics, but not because they aren’t

good. It’s because the words she’s written down

make me think she’s somehow able to read my

mind.

Me: I love them.

She smiles and says, “Thank you.” She flips

onto her back, and I catch myself appreciating

this moment and this night and her low-cut dress

way more than I probably should. When my eyes

make their way back to hers, she’s watching me,

plainly aware of what’s going through my head.

Eyes don’t lie, unfortunately.

When neither of us breaks our gaze, I’m forced

to swallow the huge lump in my throat.

Don’t get yourself in trouble, Ridge.

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Thank God she sits up when she does.

Sydney: I’m not sure where you want the

chorus to come in. This song is a little

more upbeat than the ones I’m used to.

I’ve written three different ones, but I

don’t like how any of them sound. I’m

stuck.

Me: Let me watch you sing it one more

time.

I roll off the bed and grab the guitar, then take

it back to the bed but sit on the edge this time.

We turn to face each other, and I play while she

sings. When we make it to the chorus, she stops

singing and shrugs, letting me know this is where

she’s stuck. I take her notebook and read the lyr-

ics over a few times. I glance up at her without

being too obvious about it and write the first

thing that comes to mind.

And I must confess

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My interest

The way that you move

When you’re in that dress

It’s making me feel

Like I want to be

The only man

That you ever see

I pause from writing and look up at her again,

feeling every bit of the words in this chorus. I

think we both know the words we write have to

do with each other, but that doesn’t seem to stop

us at all. If we keep having moments like these

with words that are way too honest, we’ll both

end up in trouble. I quickly look back down at

the paper as more lyrics begin to enter my head.

Whoa, oh, oh, oh

I’m in trouble, trouble

Whoa, oh, oh, oh

I’m in trouble now

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I refuse to look up at her again while I write. I

keep my mind focused on the words that some-

how seem to flow from my fingertips every time

we’re together. I don’t question what’s inspiring

me or what they mean.

I don’t question it . . . because it’s obvious.

But it’s art. Art is just an expression. An ex-

pression isn’t the same as an act, as much as it

sometimes feels that way. Writing lyrics isn’t the

same as directly informing someone of your

feelings.

Is it?

I keep my eyes on the paper and continue to

write the words I honestly wish I didn’t feel.

The second I’m finished writing, I’m so

worked up I don’t allow myself to witness her re-

action to the words. I quickly hand her back the

notebook and pull my guitar around and begin

playing so she can work through the chorus.

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