Chapter Fourteen
Sydney
He’s not looking at me. He doesn’t even know
I’m not singing the lyrics. I can’t sing them. I’ve listened to him play this song dozens of times
from his balcony, yet it never held emotion or
meaning until this moment.
The fact that he can’t even look at me makes
the song feel way too personal. It feels as if this
song somehow just became his song to me. I turn
the notebook over, not wanting to read the words
anymore. This song is just one more thing that
never should have happened, even though I’m
positive it’s my new favorite.
Me: Do you think Brennan can make a
rough cut of this one? I want to hear it.
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I nudge him with my foot after I send the text,
then nod toward his phone when he looks at me.
He picks it up to read the text and nods. He
doesn’t reply or make eye contact with me,
though. I glance back down to my phone as the
room grows quiet in the absence of the sound of
his guitar. I don’t like how awkward things just
got between us, so I attempt to make small talk to
fill the void. I roll onto my back and type out a
question that’s been on my mind for a while to
break up the stillness around us.
Me: Why don’t you ever practice on your
balcony like you used to?
This question gets me immediate eye contact
from him, but it doesn’t last. His eyes flicker
across my face, down my body, and finally back
to his phone.
Ridge: Why would I? You’re not out there
anymore.
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And just like that, my defenses are down, and
my willpower is shot to hell with his honest
reply. I nervously pull my bottom lip in and chew
on it, then slowly raise my eyes back to his. He’s
looking at me as if he wishes he were a guy like
Hunter who cared only about himself.
He’s not the only one wishing that.
I want to be Tori right now so much it hurts. I
want to be just like her and not give a shit about
my self-respect or about Maggie for just a few
minutes. Long enough to allow him to do
everything his lyrics make clear he wants to do.
His eyes fall to my lips, and my mouth runs
dry.
His eyes fall to my chest, and it begins to
heave deeper than it already was.
His eyes fall to my legs, and I have to cross
them, because the way his gaze penetrates my
body makes it seem as though he can see right
through this dress I’m wearing.
His eyes close tightly, and knowing the effect
I’m having on him makes me feel as if there
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might be a lot more truth to his lyrics than he’d
like there to be.
It’s making me feel like I want to be the only
man that you ever see.
Ridge suddenly stands and drops his phone
onto the bed, then walks straight into the bath-
room and slams the door. I listen as the shower
curtain slides open and the water kicks on.
I roll onto my back and release all my pent-up
breaths. I’m flustered and confused and angry. I
don’t like the situation we’ve put ourselves in,
and I know for a fact that even though we haven’t
acted on it again, nothing about this is innocent.
I sit up on the bed, then quickly stand. I need
to get out of his room before it completely closes
in on me. Just as I’m walking away from the bed,
Ridge’s phone vibrates on the mattress. I look
down at it.
Maggie: I’m missing you extra hard today.
When you’re finished writing with Sydney,
can we video chat? I need to see you. ;)
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I stare at her text.
I hate her text.
I hate that she knows we were just writing
together.
I hate that he tells her everything.
I want these moments to belong to me and
Ridge and no one else.
? ? ?
It’s been two hours since he got out of the
shower, and I can’t bring myself to leave my bed-
room. I’m starving, though, and really want to go
to the kitchen. I just don’t want to see him, be-
cause I hate how we left things. I don’t like that
we both know we almost crossed a line tonight.
Actually, I don’t like that we did cross a line tonight. Although we aren’t verbalizing what
we’re thinking and feeling, writing it in lyrics
isn’t any less harmful.
There’s a knock on my door, and knowing that
it’s more than likely Ridge causes my heart to be-
tray me by dancing rapidly in my chest. I don’t
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bother getting up to open the door, because he
nudges it open right after knocking. He holds up
a set of headphones and his cell phone, indicating
that he has something he wants me to hear. I nod,
and he walks over to the bed and hands them to
me. He hits play but takes a seat on the floor
while I scoot back onto the bed. The song begins
to play, and I spend the next three minutes barely
breathing. Ridge and I never once break our stare
throughout the duration of the song.
I’M IN TROUBLE
Why don’t we keep
Keep it simple
You talk to your friends
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
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That I can see
The way that your eyes
Seem to follow me
And I must confess
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
Whoa oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble, trouble
Whoa oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble, trouble
Whoa oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble now
I see you some places
from time to time
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You keep to your business
and I keep to mine
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
And I must confess
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
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Whoa oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble, trouble
Whoa oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble, trouble
Whoa oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble now
Ridge
Maggie: Guess who gets to see me
tomorrow?
Me: Kurt Vonnegut?
Maggie: Guess again.
Me: Anderson Cooper?
Maggie: No, but close.
Me: Amanda Bynes?
Maggie: You’re so random. YOU get to see
me tomorrow, and you get to spend a
whole two days with me, and I know I’m
trying to save money, but I bought you
two new bras.
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Me: How did I ever get so lucky to find
the one and only girl who supports and
encourages my transvestite tendencies?
Maggie: I ask myself that same question
every day.
Me: What time do I get to see you?
Maggie: Well, it all depends on the
dreaded T word again.
Me: Ah. Yes. Well, we shall discuss it no
further. Try to be here by six, at least.
Warren’s birthday party is tomorrow
night, and I want to spend time with you
before all his crazy friends get here.
Maggie: Thank you for reminding me!
What should I get him?
Me: Nothing. Sydney and I are pulling the
ultimate prank. We told everyone to
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donate to charity in lieu of gifts. He’ll be
pissed when people start handing him all
the donation cards in his honor.
Maggie: You two are evil. Should I bring
something? A cake, maybe?
Me: Nope, we got it. We felt bad for the
“no gifts” prank, so we’re about to bake
him five different flavored cakes to make
up for it.
Maggie: Make sure one of them is German
chocolate.
Me: Already got you covered, babe. I love
you.
Maggie: Love you, too.
I close out our texts and open up the unread
one I have from Sydney.
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Sydney: You forgot vanilla extract, dum-
bass. It was on the list. Item 5. Now you
have to go back to the store.
Me: Maybe next time you should write
more legibly and return my texts when
I’m at the grocery store, attempting to
decipher item 5. I’ll be back in 20. Preheat
the oven, and text me if you think of any-
thing else.
I laugh, put my phone into my pocket, grab my
keys, and head to the store. Again.
? ? ?
We’re on cake number three. I’m beginning to
believe that those who are musically gifted seri-
ously lack talent in the kitchen-skills department.
Sydney and I work really well together when it
comes to writing music, but our lack of finesse
and knowledge when it comes to mixing a few
ingredients together is a little pathetic.
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She insisted that we bake the cakes from
scratch, whereas I would have grabbed the boxed
mixes. But it’s been kind of fun, so I’m not
complaining.
She places the third cake in the oven and sets
the timer. She turns around and mouths “thirty
minutes,” then pushes herself up onto the
counter.
Sydney: Is your little brother coming
tomorrow?
Me: They’re gonna try. They open for a
band in San Antonio at seven tomorrow
night, so as long as they get loaded up on
time, they should be here by ten.
Sydney: The whole band? I get to meet
the whole band?
Me: Yep. And I bet they’ll even sign your
boobs.
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Sydney: SQUEEEE!
Me: If those letters really make up a
sound, I am so, so glad I can’t hear it.
She laughs.
Sydney: How did y’all come up with the
band name Sounds of Cedar?
Any time anyone’s asked how I came up with
the name of the band, I just say I thought it soun-
ded cool. But I can’t lie to Sydney. There’s
something about her that pulls stories about my
childhood out of me that I’ve never told anyone.
Not even Maggie.
Maggie has asked in the past why I never
speak out loud and where I came up with the
name of the band, but I don’t like to bring up
anything negative that might cause her even the
smallest amount of concern. She’s got enough to
deal with in her own life. She doesn’t need to add
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my childhood issues to that. They’re in the past
and there’s no need to bring them up.
However, Sydney’s a different story. She
seems so curious about me, about life, about
people in general. It’s easy to tell her things.
Sydney: Uh-oh. Looks like I need to pre-
pare myself for a good story, because you
look like you don’t want to answer that.
I turn around until my back is pressed against
the counter-top she’s sitting on, and I lean against
it.
Me: You just love the heart-wrenching
stuff, huh?
Sydney: Yep. Give it to me.
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.
I often find myself repeating Maggie’s name
when I’m with Sydney. Especially when Sydney
says things like “Give it to me.”
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The last couple of weeks have been okay since
our talk. We’ve definitely had our moments, but
one of us is usually quick to begin pointing out
flaws and repulsive personality traits to get us
back on track.
Aside from a couple of weeks ago, when our
writing session ended with me having to take a
cold shower, two nights ago was probably the
hardest time of all for me. I don’t know what it is
about the way she sings. I can simply be watch-
ing her, and I get the same feeling I get when I
press my ear to her chest or rest my hand against
her throat. She closes her eyes and starts singing
the words, and the passion and feelings that pour
from her are so powerful I sometimes forget I
can’t even hear her.
This particular night, we were writing a song
from scratch, and we couldn’t communicate well
enough to understand it. I needed to hear her, and
although we were both reluctant, it ended with
my head pressed to her chest and my hand resting
against her throat. While she was singing, she
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casually brought her hand to my hair and was
twirling her fingers around.
I could have stayed in that position with her all
night.
I would have, if every touch of her hand didn’t
make me crave a little bit more. I finally had to
tear myself away from her, but just being on the
floor wasn’t enough separation. I wanted her so
bad; it was all I could think about. I ended up
asking her to tell me one of her flaws, and instead
of giving me one, she stood up and left my
bedroom.
The way she had been touching my hair was a
very natural thing for her to do, considering the
way we were positioned. It’s what a guy would
do to his girlfriend if he were holding her against
his chest, and it’s what a girl would do to her
boyfriend if he were wrapped around her. But we
aren’t those things.
The relationship we have is different from any-
thing I’ve experienced. Mostly because we do
have a lot of physical closeness based on the
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nature of writing music together and the fact that
I have to use my sense of touch to replace my
sense of hearing in some situations. So while
we’re in those situations, the lines become
muddy, and reactions become unintentional.
As much as I wish I could admit we’ve moved
past our attraction for each other, I can’t deny
that I feel mine growing with each day that
passes. Being around her isn’t necessarily hard
all the time, though. Just most of the time.
Whatever is going on between us, I know
Maggie wouldn’t approve, and I try to do right by
my relationship with her. However, since I can’t
really define where the line is drawn between in-
appropriate and appropriate, it makes it hard to
stay on the right side sometimes.
Like right now.
I’m staring down at my phone, about to text
her, and she’s leaning behind me, both of her
hands kneading the tension out of my shoulders.
With as much writing as we’ve been doing and
the fact that I sit on the floor now instead of the
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bed, I’ve had a few issues with my back. It’s be-
come natural for her to rub it when she knows it’s
hurting.
Would I let her do this when Maggie was in
the room? Hell, no. Do I stop her? No. Should I?
Absolutely.
I know without a doubt that I don’t want to
cheat on Maggie. I’ve never been that type of
guy, and I don’t ever want to be that type of guy.
The problem is, I’m not thinking about Maggie
when I’m with Sydney. The times I spend with
Sydney are spent with Sydney, and nothing else
crosses my mind. But the times I spend with
Maggie are spent with Maggie. I don’t think
about Sydney.
It’s as though times with Maggie and times
with Sydney occur on two different planets. Plan-
ets that don’t intersect and in time zones that
don’t overlap.
Until tomorrow, anyway.
We’ve all spent time together in the past, but
not since I’ve been honest with myself about how
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I feel for Sydney. And although I would never
want Maggie to know I’ve developed feelings for
someone else, I’m worried she’ll be able to tell.
I tell myself that with enough effort, I can
learn to control my feelings. But then Sydney
will do or say something or give me a look, and I
can literally feel the part of my heart that belongs
to her getting fuller. As much as I want it to
empty. I’m worried that feelings are the one thing
in our lives that we have absolutely no control
over.