Maybe Someday

Chapter One

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

Sydney

I slide open my balcony door and step outside,

thankful that the sun has already dipped behind

the building next door, cooling the air to what

could pass as a perfect fall temperature. Almost

on cue, the sound of his guitar floats across the

courtyard as I take a seat and lean back into the

patio lounger. I tell Tori I come out here to get

homework done, because I don’t want to admit

that the guitar is the only reason I’m outside

every night at eight, like clockwork.

For weeks now, the guy in the apartment

across the courtyard has sat on his balcony and

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played for at least an hour. Every night, I sit out-

side and listen.

I’ve noticed a few other neighbors come out to

their balconies when he’s playing, but no one is

as loyal as I am. I don’t understand how someone

could hear these songs and not crave them day

after day. Then again, music has always been a

passion of mine, so maybe I’m just a little more

infatuated with his sound than other people are.

I’ve played the piano for as long as I can remem-

ber, and although I’ve never shared it with any-

one, I love writing music. I even switched my

major to music education two years ago. My plan

is to be an elementary music teacher, although if

my father had his way, I’d still be prelaw.

“A life of mediocrity is a waste of a life,” he

said when I informed him that I was changing my

major.

A life of mediocrity. I find that more amusing than insulting, since he seems to be the most dis-satisfied person I’ve ever known. And he’s a law-

yer. Go figure.

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One of the familiar songs ends and the guy

with the guitar begins to play something he’s

never played before. I’ve grown accustomed to

his unofficial playlist since he seems to practice

the same songs in the same order night after

night. However, I’ve never heard him play this

particular song before. The way he’s repeating

the same chords makes me think he’s creating the

song right here on the spot. I like that I’m wit-

nessing this, especially since after only a few

chords, it’s already my new favorite. All his

songs sound like originals. I wonder if he per-

forms them locally or if he just writes them for

fun.

I lean forward in the chair, rest my arms on the

edge of the balcony, and watch him. His balcony

is directly across the courtyard, far enough away

that I don’t feel weird when I watch him but

close enough that I make sure I’m never watch-

ing him when Hunter’s around. I don’t think

Hunter would like the fact that I’ve developed a

tiny crush on this guy’s talent.

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I can’t deny it, though. Anyone who watches

how passionately this guy plays would crush on

his talent. The way he keeps his eyes closed the

entire time, focusing intently on every stroke

against every guitar string. I like it best when he

sits cross-legged with the guitar upright between

his legs. He pulls it against his chest and plays it

like a stand-up bass, keeping his eyes closed the

whole time. It’s so mesmerizing to watch him

that sometimes I catch myself holding my breath,

and I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I’m

gasping for air.

It also doesn’t help that he’s cute. At least, he

seems cute from here. His light brown hair is un-

ruly and moves with him, falling across his fore-

head every time he looks down at his guitar. He’s

too far away to distinguish eye color or distinct

features, but the details don’t matter when

coupled with the passion he has for his music.

There’s a confidence to him that I find compel-

ling. I’ve always admired musicians who are able

to tune out everyone and everything around them

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and pour all of their focus into their music. To be

able to shut the world off and allow yourself to

be completely swept away is something I’ve al-

ways wanted the confidence to do, but I just

don’t have it.

This guy has it. He’s confident and talented.

I’ve always been a sucker for musicians, but

more in a fantasy way. They’re a different breed.

A breed that rarely makes for good boyfriends.

He glances at me as if he can hear my

thoughts, and then a slow grin appears across his

face. He never once pauses the song while he

continues to watch me. The eye contact makes

me blush, so I drop my arms and pull my note-

book back onto my lap and look down at it. I hate

that he just caught me staring so hard. Not that I

was doing anything wrong; it just feels odd for

him to know I was watching him. I glance up

again, and he’s still watching me, but he’s not

smiling anymore. The way he’s staring causes

my heart to speed up, so I look away and focus

on my notebook.

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Way to be a creeper, Sydney.

“There’s my girl,” a comforting voice says

from behind me. I lean my head back and tilt my

eyes upward to watch Hunter as he makes his

way onto the balcony. I try to hide the fact that

I’m shocked to see him, because I’m pretty sure I

was supposed to remember he was coming.

On the off chance that Guitar Boy is still

watching, I make it a point to seem really into

Hunter’s hello kiss so that maybe I’ll seem less

like a creepy stalker and more like someone just

casually relaxing on her balcony. I run my hand

up Hunter’s neck as he leans over the back of my

chair and kisses me upside down.

“Scoot up,” Hunter says, pushing on my

shoulders. I do what he asks and slide forward in

the seat as he lifts his leg over the chair and slips in behind me. He pulls my back against his chest

and wraps his arms around me.

My eyes betray me when the sound of the gui-

tar stops abruptly, and I glance across the court-

yard once more. Guitar Boy is eyeing us hard as

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he stands, then goes back inside his apartment.

His expression is odd. Almost angry.

“How was school?” Hunter asks.

“Too boring to talk about. What about you?

How was work?”

“Interesting,” he says, brushing my hair away

from my neck with his hand. He presses his lips

to my neck and kisses his way down my

collarbone.

“What was so interesting?”

He tightens his hold on me, then rests his chin

on my shoulder and pulls me back in the chair

with him. “The oddest thing happened at lunch,”

he says. “I was with one of the guys at this Italian

restaurant. We were eating out on the patio, and I

had just asked the waiter what he recommended

for dessert, when a police car rounded the corner.

They stopped right in front of the restaurant, and

two officers jumped out with their guns drawn.

They began barking orders toward us when our

waiter mumbled, ‘Shit.’ He slowly raised his

hands, and the police jumped the barrier to the

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patio, rushed toward him, threw him to the

ground, and cuffed him right at our feet. After

they read him his rights, they pulled him to his

feet and escorted him toward the cop car. The

waiter glanced back at me and yelled, ‘The tiram-

isu is really good!’ Then they put him in the car

and drove away.”

I tilt my head back and look up at him. “Seri-

ously? That really happened?”

He nods, laughing. “I swear, Syd. It was

crazy.”

“Well? Did you try the tiramisu?”

“Hell, yeah, we did. It was the best tiramisu

I’ve ever had.” He kisses me on the cheek and

pushes me forward. “Speaking of food, I’m

starving.” He stands up and holds out his hand to

me. “Did you cook tonight?”

I take his hand and let him pull me up. “We

just had salad, but I can make you one.”

Once we’re inside, Hunter takes a seat on the

couch next to Tori. She’s got a textbook spread

open across her lap as she halfheartedly focuses

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on both homework and TV at the same time. I

take out the containers from the fridge and make

his salad. I feel a little guilty that I forgot tonight was one of the nights he said he was coming. I

usually have something cooked when I know

he’ll be here.

We’ve been dating for almost two years now. I

met him during my sophomore year in college,

when he was a senior. He and Tori had been

friends for years. After she moved into my dorm

and we became friends, she insisted I meet him.

She said we’d hit it off, and she was right. We

made it official after only two dates, and things

have been wonderful since.

Of course, we have our ups and downs, espe-

cially since he moved more than an hour away.

When he landed the job in the accounting firm

last semester, he suggested I move with him. I

told him no, that I really wanted to finish my un-

dergrad before taking such a huge step. In all

honesty, I’m just scared.

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The thought of moving in with him seems so

final, as if I would be sealing my fate. I know

that once we take that step, the next step is mar-

riage, and then I’d be looking at never having the

chance to live alone. I’ve always had a room-

mate, and until I can afford my own place, I’ll be

sharing an apartment with Tori. I haven’t told

Hunter yet, but I really want to live alone for a

year. It’s something I promised myself I would

do before I got married. I don’t even turn twenty-

two for a couple of weeks, so it’s not as if I’m in

any hurry.

I take Hunter’s food to him in the living room.

“Why do you watch this?” he says to Tori.

“All these women do is talk shit about each other

and flip tables.”

“That’s exactly why I watch it,” Tori says,

without taking her eyes off the TV.

Hunter winks at me and takes his food, then

props his feet up on the coffee table. “Thanks,

babe.” He turns toward the TV and begins eating.

“Can you grab me a beer?”

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I nod and walk back into the kitchen. I open

the refrigerator door and look on the shelf where

he always keeps his extra beer. I realize as I’m

staring at “his” shelf that this is probably how it

begins. First, he has a shelf in the refrigerator.

Then he’ll have a toothbrush in the bathroom, a

drawer in my dresser, and eventually, his stuff

will infiltrate mine in so many ways it’ll be im-

possible for me ever to be on my own.

I run my hands up my arms, rubbing away the

sudden onset of discomfort washing over me. I

feel as if I’m watching my future play out in front

of me. I’m not so sure I like what I’m imagining.

Am I ready for this?

Am I ready for this guy to be the guy I bring

dinner to every night when he gets home from

work?

Am I ready to fall into this comfortable life

with him? One where I teach all day and he does

people’s taxes, and then we come home and I

cook dinner and I “grab him beers” while he

props his feet up and calls me babe, and then we 39/692

go to our bed and make love at approximately

nine P.M. so we won’t be tired the next day, in or-

der to wake up and get dressed and go to work

and do it all over again?

“Earth to Sydney,” Hunter says. I hear him

snap his fingers twice. “Beer? Please, babe?”

I quickly grab his beer, give it to him, then

head straight to my bathroom. I turn the water on

in the shower, but I don’t get in. Instead, I lock

the door and sink to the floor.

We have a good relationship. He’s good to me,

and I know he loves me. I just don’t understand

why every time I think about a future with him,

it’s not an exciting thought.

Ridge

Maggie leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I

need to go.”

I’m on my back with my head and shoulders

partially propped against my headboard. She’s

straddling my lap and looking down at me regret-

fully. I hate that we live so far apart now, but it

makes the time we do spend together a lot more

meaningful. I take her hands so she’ll shut up,

and I pull her to me, hoping to persuade her not

to leave just yet.

She laughs and shakes her head. She kisses

me, but only briefly, and then she pulls away

again. She slides off my lap, but I don’t let her

make it very far before I lunge forward and pin

her to the mattress. I point to her chest.

“You”—I lean in and kiss the tip of her

nose—“need to stay one more night.”

“I can’t. I have class.”

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I grab her wrists and pin her arms above her

head, then press my lips to hers. I know she

won’t stay another night. She’s never missed a

day of class in her life, unless she was too sick to

move. I sort of wish she was feeling a little sick

right now, so I could make her stay in bed with

me.

I slide my hands from her wrists, delicately up

her arms until I’m cupping her face. Then I give

her one final kiss before I reluctantly pull away

from her. “Go. And be careful. Let me know

when you make it home.”

She nods and pushes herself off the bed. She

reaches across me and grabs her shirt, then pulls

it on over her head. I watch her as she walks

around the room and gathers the clothes I pulled

off her in a hurry.

After five years of dating, most couples would

have moved in together by now. However, most

peoples’ other halves aren’t Maggie. She’s so

fiercely independent it’s almost intimidating. But

it’s understandable, considering how her life has

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gone. She’s been caring for her grandfather since

I met her. Before that, she spent the majority of

her teenage years helping him care for her grand-

mother, who died when Maggie was sixteen.

Now that her grandfather is in a nursing home,

she finally has a chance to live alone while fin-

ishing school, and as much as I want her here

with me, I also know how important this intern-

ship is for her. So for the next year, I’ll suck it up while she’s in San Antonio and I’m here in

Austin. I’ll be damned if I ever move out of

Austin, especially for San Antonio.

Unless she asked, of course.

“Tell your brother I said good luck.” She’s

standing in my bedroom doorway, poised to

leave. “And you need to quit beating yourself up,

Ridge. Musicians have blocks, just like writers

do. You’ll find your muse again. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She smiles and backs out of my bedroom. I

groan, knowing she’s trying to be positive with

the whole writer’s block thing, but I can’t stop

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stressing about it. I don’t know if it’s because

Brennan has so much riding on these songs now

or if it’s because I’m completely tapped out, but

the words just aren’t coming. Without lyrics I’m

confident in, it’s hard to feel good about the actu-

al musical aspect of writing.

My phone vibrates. It’s a text from Brennan,

which only makes me feel worse about the fact

that I’m stuck.

Brennan: It’s been weeks. Please tell me

you have something.

Me: Working on it. How’s the tour?

Brennan: Good, but remind me not to al-

low Warren to schedule this many gigs on

the next leg.

Me: Gigs are what gets your name out

there.

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Brennan: OUR name. I’m not telling you

again to stop acting like you aren’t half of

this.

Me: I won’t be half if I can’t work through

this damn block.

Brennan: Maybe you should get out more.

Cause some unnecessary drama in your

life. Break up with Maggie for the sake of

art. She’ll understand. Heartache helps

with lyrical inspiration. Don’t you ever

listen to country?

Me: Good idea. I’ll tell Maggie you sug-

gested that.

Brennan: Nothing I say or do could ever

make Maggie hate me. Give her a kiss for

me, and get to writing. Our careers are

resting squarely on your shoulders.

Me: A*shole.

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Brennan: Ah! Is that anger I detect in

your text? Use it. Go write an angry song

about how much you hate your little

brother, then send it to me. ;)

Me: Yeah. I’ll give it to you after you fi-

nally get your shit out of your old bed-

room. Bridgette’s sister might move in

next month.

Brennan: Have you ever met Brandi?

Me: No. Do I want to?

Brennan: Only if you want to live with two

Bridgettes.

Me: Oh, shit.

Brennan: Exactly. TTYL.

I close out the text to Brennan and open up a

text to Warren.

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Me: We’re good to go on the roommate

search. Brennan says hell no to Brandi. I’ll

let you break the news to Bridgette, since

you two get along so well.

Warren: Well, motherf*cker.

I laugh and hop off the bed, then head to the

patio with my guitar. It’s almost eight, and I

know she’ll be on her balcony. I don’t know how

weird my actions are about to seem to her, but all

I can do is try. I’ve got nothing to lose.

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