Maybe Someday

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

425/692

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.

426/692

“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.

427/692

“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

428/692

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

429/692

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

430/692

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.

431/692

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

432/692

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.

433/692

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.

435/692

“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,

436/692

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

437/692

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

438/692

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

439/692

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

440/692

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

441/692

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.

Colleen Hoover's books