Chapter Sixteen
Sydney
Someone is removing my clothes. Who in the
hell is removing my clothes?
I begin slapping away the hand that’s pulling
my shorts down past my knees. I try to remember
where I am, why I’m here, and how I got here.
Party.
Cake.
Pine-Sol.
Spilling Pine-Sol on my dress.
Changing.
Drinking more Pine-Sol.
Lots of Pine-Sol.
Watching Ridge love Maggie.
God, he loves her so much. I saw it in the way
he watches her from across the room. I saw it in
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the way he touches her. In the way he communic-
ates with her.
I can still smell the alcohol. I can still taste it
as I slide my tongue over my lips.
I danced . . .
I drank more Pine-Sol . . .
Oh! The drinking game. I invented my own
solitary drinking game, where every time I saw
how much Ridge loved Maggie, I downed a shot.
Unfortunately, that made for a hell of a lot of
shots.
Who in the hell is pulling off my shorts?
I try to open my eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s
working. They feel open, but it’s still dark inside
my head.
Oh, my God. I’m drunk, and someone is un-
dressing me.
I’m about to be raped!
I start kicking at the hands that are yanking the
shorts from my feet.
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“Sydney!” a girl yells. “Stop!” She’s laughing.
I focus for a few seconds and can tell the voice
belongs to Maggie.
“Maggie?”
She comes closer, and a soft hand brushes
back my hair as the bed dips down next to me. I
squeeze my eyes shut, then force them wide open
several times, until I finally begin to adjust to the dark. She puts her hands on my shirt and attempts
to unbutton it.
Why in the hell is she still taking off my
clothes?
Oh, my God! Maggie wants to rape me!
I slap at her hand, and she grips my wrist.
“Sydney!” She laughs. “You’re covered in puke.
I’m trying to help you.”
Puke? Covered in it?
That explains the massive headache. But . . . it
doesn’t explain why I’m laughing. Why am I
laughing? Am I still drunk? “What time is it?” I
ask her.
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“I don’t know. Tonight, I think. Like,
midnight?”
“That’s it?”
She nods, then starts laughing with me. “You
threw up on Brennan.”
Brennan? I met Brennan?
It looks as if her eyes are trying hard to focus
on my face. “Can I tell you a secret?” she says.
I nod. “Okay, but I probably won’t remember
it, because I think I’m still drunk.”
She smiles and leans forward. She’s so pretty.
Maggie is really, really pretty. “I can’t stand
Bridgette,” she says quietly.
I laugh.
Maggie starts laughing again, too, and tries to
pull my shirt off, but she’s laughing too hard and
keeps having to pause for deep breaths.
“Are you drunk, too?” I ask her.
She inhales again, attempting to pause her
laughter, and then she exhales. “So drunk. I
thought I took your shirt off already, but your
shirt keeps coming back on, and I don’t know
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how many shirts you have, but”—she lifts the
edge of my shirt sleeve, which is still on my arm,
and looks at it in confusion—“oh, my God, I
really thought I took it off already, and here it is
again.”
I lift myself up on the bed, then help her pull
my shirt off. “Why am I already in bed if it’s
only midnight?”
She shrugs. “I have no idea what you just
said.”
She’s funny. I reach to the nightstand and turn
on the lamp. Maggie scoots off the bed and
lowers herself to the floor. She lies flat on her
stomach with a sigh and begins moving her arms,
making snow angels against the carpet.
“I don’t want to go to bed yet,” I tell her.
She flips over onto her back and looks up at
me. “Then don’t. I told Ridge to let you stay up
and play because we were having so much fun,
but you threw up in Brennan’s lap, so he made
you go to bed.” She sits up. “Let’s go play some
more. I want more cake.” She pushes up on her
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hands and stands, then reaches for my hands and
pulls me off the bed.
I look down at myself. “But you took off my
clothes,” I say, pouting.
She looks at my bra and underwear. “Where’d
you get that bra? It’s so cute.”
“JCPenney.”
“Oh. Ridge likes the kind that clasp in the
front, but yours is really cute. I want one.”
“You should get one,” I say, smiling. “We
could be bra twins.”
She pulls me toward the door. “Let’s go see if
Ridge likes it. I want him to buy me one.”
I smile. I hope he likes it. “Okay.”
Maggie opens the door to my room and pulls
me behind her into the living room. “Ridge!” she
yells. I laugh, because I don’t know why she’s
yelling for him. He can’t hear her.
“Hey, Warren,” I say, grinning when I see him
on the couch. “Happy Birthday.” Bridgette is
seated next to him, glaring at me. She’s looking
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me up and down, probably jealous because my
bra really is cute.
Warren shakes his head and laughs. “That’s
only the fiftieth time you’ve said that tonight, al-
though it’s a little more fitting now that you’re
practically in your birthday suit.”
Ridge is sitting on the other side of Bridgette.
He’s shaking his head like Warren. “Maggie
wants to know if you like my bra,” I say to
Ridge. I pull on Maggie’s hand so she’ll turn
around and sign to him.
“It’s a very nice bra,” Ridge says, staring at it
with a cocked eyebrow.
I smile. Then I frown.
Did he just . . .? I yank my hand out of Mag-
gie’s and turn back toward Ridge. “Did you just
speak? ”
He laughs. “Did you not just ask me a
question?”
I glare at him hard, especially when Warren
bursts out into a fit of laughter.
Oh.
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My.
God.
He’s not deaf?
This whole time, he’s been lying to me? It’s
been a prank?
I instantly want to strangle him. Both of them.
Tears sting at my eyes, and the second I lunge
forward, a strong hand grips my wrist and yanks
my arm back. I turn and look up at . . . Ridge?
I turn back to the couch and look at . . . Ridge?
Warren is doubled over Bridgette’s lap now,
he’s laughing so hard. Ridge Number 1 is laugh-
ing now, too. His whole face doesn’t laugh when
he laughs, like Ridge Number 2’s face does.
And his hair is shorter than Ridge Number 2’s
hair. And darker.
Ridge Number 2 has his arm wrapped around
my waist, and he’s picking me up.
Now I’m upside down.
Not good for my stomach.
My face is toward his back, and my stomach is
slumped over his shoulder as he carries me back
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toward my bedroom. I look at Warren and the
guy I now realize is Brennan, and then I squeeze
my eyes shut, because I think I’m about to throw
up all over Ridge Number 2.
I’m being seated on something cold. A floor.
As soon as my mind comprehends where he’s
put me, my hands reach forward until I grasp the
toilet, and then it suddenly feels as if I’ve eaten
Italian food all over again. He holds my hair back
while the toilet fills with Pine-Sol.
I wish it really were Pine-Sol. I wouldn’t have to clean it.
“Don’t you love her bra?” Maggie says from
behind me, giggling. “I know it’s a back clasp,
but look at how cute the straps are!”
I feel a hand on one of my bra straps. I can feel
Ridge pull her hand away. His arm moves, and I
know he’s signing something.
Maggie huffs. “I don’t want to go to bed yet.”
He signs something else, and then she sighs
and walks into his bedroom.
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When I’m finished, Ridge wipes my face with
a rag. I allow my back to fall against the wall of
the tub, and I look up at him.
He doesn’t look very happy. In fact, he looks a
little angry.
“It’s a party, Ridge,” I mumble, and close my eyes again.
His hands are under my arms, and I’m being
carried again. He makes his way into . . . his
room? He lowers me onto his bed, and I roll over
and open my eyes. Maggie is grinning at me from
the pillow next to me.
“Yay. A sleepover,” she says with a groggy
smile. She grabs my hand and holds it.
“Yay,” I say, smiling.
Covers are pulled over both of us, and I close
my eyes.
Ridge
“How did you get yourself into this mess?”
Warren and I are both standing at the edge of
my bed, staring down at Maggie and Sydney.
They’re asleep. Sydney is spooning Maggie on
the left side of the bed, because the right side of
the bed is now covered in Maggie’s puke.
I sigh. “This has been the longest twelve hours
of my life.”
Warren nods, then pats me heavily on the
back. “Well,” he signs, “I wish I could stay and
help you nurse them back to health, but I’d rather
pretend I have something better to do and leave.”
He turns and walks out of my room as Brennan
makes his way in.
“I’m headed out,” he signs. “Got my stuff out
of Sydney’s room.”
I nod and watch as his eyes fall on Sydney and
Maggie.
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“I wish I could say it was fun getting to know
Sydney, but I have a feeling I didn’t even meet
the real Sydney.”
I laugh. “Believe me, you didn’t. Maybe next
time.”
He waves and walks out of my bedroom.
I turn and look at them, at both halves of my
heart, cuddled tightly together in a bed of irony.
? ? ?
I spent the entire morning assisting them as they
alternated between the trash can and the bath-
room. By lunch, Sydney’s vomiting had sub-
sided, and she made her way back to her own
room. It’s late afternoon now, and I’m spoon-
feeding Maggie liquids and forcing her to down
medicine.
“I just need sleep,” she signs. “I’ll be fine.”
She rolls over and pulls the covers up to her chin.
I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, then run
my hand down to her shoulder, where I trace
circles with my thumb. Her eyes are now closed,
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and she’s curled up in a fetal position. She looks
so fragile right now, and I wish I could wrap my-
self around her like a cocoon and shield her from
every single thing this world has left to throw at
her.
I look over at the nightstand when the screen
on my phone lights up. I tuck the covers more se-
curely around Maggie and bend forward and kiss
her cheek, then reach for my phone.
Sydney: Not that you haven’t done
enough, but could you please tell Warren
to turn the volume down on the porn?
I laugh and text Warren.
Me: Turn the porn down. It’s so loud even
I can hear it.
I stand and walk into Sydney’s room to check
on her. She’s flat on her back, staring up at the
ceiling. I sit on the edge of her bed, reach to her
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face, and brush back a strand of hair from her
forehead.
She tilts her face toward me and smiles, then
picks up her phone. Her body is so weak she
makes it look as if the phone weighs fifty pounds
when she tries to text me.
I take the phone from her and shake my head,
letting her know she just needs to rest. I set the
phone on her nightstand and bring my attention
back to her. Her head is relaxed against the pil-
low. Her hair is in waves, trailing down her
shoulders. I run my fingers over a section of her
sun-kissed hair, admiring how soft it is. She tilts
her face toward my hand until her cheek is rest-
ing flush against it. I brush across her cheekbone
with my thumb and watch as her eyes fall closed.
The lyrics I wrote about her flash through my
mind: Lines are drawn, but then they fade. For
her I bend, for you I break.
What kind of man does that make me? If I
can’t prevent myself from falling for another girl,
do I even deserve Maggie? I refuse to answer
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that, because I know that if I don’t deserve Mag-
gie, I also don’t deserve Sydney. The thought of
losing either of them, much less both of them, is
something I can’t bring myself to entertain. I lift
my hand and trace the edge of Sydney’s face
with my fingertips, running them across her hair-
line, down her jaw, and up her chin, until my fin-
gers reach her lips. I slowly trace the shape of her
mouth, feeling the warm waves of breath pass her
lips each time I circle around them. She opens
her eyes, and the familiar pool of pain floats be-
hind them.
She lifts a hand to my fingers. She pulls them
firmly to her mouth and kisses them, then pulls
our hands away, bringing them to rest on her
stomach.
I’m looking at our hands now. She opens a flat
palm, and I do the same, and we press them
together.
I don’t know a lot about the human body, but I
would be willing to bet there’s a nerve that runs
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directly from the palm of the hand, straight to the
heart.
Our fingers are outstretched until she laces
them together, squeezing gently when our hands
connect completely, weaving together.
It’s the first time I’ve ever held her hand.
We stare at our hands for what feels like an
eternity. Every feeling and every nerve are
centered in our palms, in our fingers, in our
thumbs, occasionally brushing back and forth
over one another.
Our hands mold together perfectly, just like the
two of us.
Sydney and me.
I’m convinced that people come across others
in life whose souls are completely compatible
with their own. Some refer to them as soul mates.
Some refer to it as true love. Some people believe
their souls are compatible with more than one
person, and I’m beginning to understand how
true that might be. I’ve known since the moment
I met Maggie years ago that our souls were
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compatible, and they are. That’s not even a
question.
However, I also know that my soul is compat-
ible with Sydney’s, but it’s also so much more
than that. Our souls aren’t just compat-
ible—they’re perfectly attuned. I feel everything
she feels. I understand things she never even has
to say. I know that what she needs is exactly
what I could give her, and what she’s wishing she
could give me is something I never even knew I
needed.
She understands me. She respects me. She
astounds me. She predicts me. She’s never once,
since the second I met her, made me feel as if my
inability to hear is even an inability at all.
I can also tell just by looking at her that she’s
falling in love with me. It serves as further proof
that I need to do what should have been done a
long time ago.
I very reluctantly lean forward, reach over to
her nightstand, and grab a pen. I pull my fingers
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from hers and open her palm to write on it: I need you to move out.
I close her fingers over her palm so she doesn’t
read it while I’m watching her, and I walk away,
leaving behind an entire half of my heart as I go.