Maybe Someday

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.

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