Maybe Someday

Chapter Twenty Three

Sydney

Sound triggers.

They happen a lot, but mostly when I hear cer-

tain songs. Especially songs Hunter and I both

loved. If I listen to a song during a particularly

depressing period, then hear it later on down the

road, it brings back all the old feelings associated

with that song. There are songs I used to love that

now I absolutely refuse to listen to. They trigger

memories and feelings I don’t want to experience

again.

My text tone has become one of those sound

triggers.

Namely, Ridge’s text tone. It’s very distinct, a

snippet from the demo of our song “Maybe

Someday.” I assigned it to him after I heard the

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song for the first time. I’d like to say that sound

trigger is a negative one, but I’m not so sure it is.

The kiss I experienced with him during the song

certainly led to negative feelings of guilt, but the

kiss itself still turns my heart into a hot mess just thinking about it. And I think about it a lot. Way

more than I should.

In fact, I’m thinking about it right now as the

snippet of our song pours from the speakers of

my cell phone, indicating that I’m receiving a

text.

From Ridge.

I honestly never expected to hear this sound

again.

I roll over on my bed and stretch my arm to the

nightstand, my now-trembling fingers grasping at

my phone. Knowing that I’ve received a text

from him has once again wreaked havoc with my

organs, and they’ve forgotten how to function

properly. I pull the phone to my chest and close

my eyes, too nervous to read his words.

Beat, beat, pause.

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Contract, expand.

Inhale, exhale.

I slowly open my eyes and hold up the phone,

then unlock the screen.

Ridge: Are you home?

Am I home?

Why would he care if I were home? He

doesn’t even know where I live. Besides, he

made it pretty clear where his heart’s loyalty

resided when he told me to move out three weeks

ago.

But I am home, and despite my better judg-

ment, I want him to know I’m home. I’m tempted

to respond with my address and tell him to come

find out for himself whether or not I’m home.

Instead, I go with something safer. Something

less telling.

Me: Yes.

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I pull the covers off and sit up on the edge of

the bed, watching my phone, too afraid even to

blink.

Ridge: You’re not answering the door. Am

I at the wrong apartment?

Oh, God.

I hope he’s at the wrong apartment. Or maybe I hope he’s at the right apartment. I can’t really tell, because I’m happy he’s here, but I’m pissed

off that he’s here.

These conflicting feelings are exhausting.

I stand and run out of my bedroom, straight to

my front door. I peer through the peephole, and

sure enough, he’s at my front door.

Me: You’re outside my door, so yeah.

Right apartment.

I look out the peephole again after hitting send,

and he’s standing with his palm flat against the

door, staring at his phone. Seeing the pained

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expression on his face and knowing it derives

from the battle his heart is going through makes

me want to swing open the door and throw my

arms around him. I close my eyes and press my

forehead to the door in order to give myself time

to think before making any rash decisions. My

heart is being pulled toward him, and I can’t

think of anything I want more right now than to

open this door.

However, I also know that opening the door

won’t do either of us any good. He just broke up

with Maggie a matter of weeks ago, so if he’s

here for me, he can turn right around and leave.

There’s no way anything could work between us

when I know he’s still heartbroken over someone

else. I deserve more than what he can give me

right now. I’ve been through too much this year

to let someone screw with my heart like this.

He shouldn’t be here.

Ridge: Can I come in?

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I turn until my back is pressed against the

door. I clutch the phone to my chest and squeeze

my eyes shut. I don’t want to read his words. I

don’t want to see his face. Everything about him

makes me lose sight of what’s important, what’s

best for me. He isn’t what’s best for my life right

now, especially considering what he’s gone

through in his own life, and I should walk away

from this door and not let him in.

But everything in me wants to let him in.

“Please, Sydney.”

The words are almost an inaudible whisper

through the other side of the door, but I definitely

heard them. Every single part of me heard them.

The desperation in his voice, combined with the

simple fact that he spoke, completely slays me. I

allow my heart to make my decision for me this

time as I slowly face the door. I turn the lock and

slide the latch loose, then open the door.

I can’t describe what it feels like to see him

standing in front of me again without using the

term terrifying.

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Everything about the way he makes me feel is

absolutely terrifying. The way my heart wants to

be held by him is terrifying. The way my knees

seem to forget how to hold me up is terrifying.

The way my mouth wants to be claimed by his is

terrifying.

I do my best to hide what his presence does to

me by turning away from him and walking to-

ward the living room.

I don’t know why I’m trying to hide my reac-

tion from him, but isn’t that what people do? We

try so hard to hide everything we’re really feeling

from those who probably need to know our true

feelings the most. People try to bottle up their

emotions, as if it’s somehow wrong to have nat-

ural reactions to life.

My natural reaction in this moment is to turn

and hug him, regardless of the reason he’s here.

My arms want to be around him, my face wants

to be pressed against his chest, my back wants to

be cradled by him—yet I’m standing here trying

to pretend that’s the last thing I need from him.

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Why?

I inhale a calming breath, then turn around

when I hear him close the front door behind him.

I lift my eyes to meet his, and he’s standing sev-

eral feet in front of me, watching me. I can tell by

the tightness in his expression that he’s doing ex-

actly what I’m doing. He’s holding back

everything he’s feeling for the sake of . . . what?

Pride?

Fear?

The one thing I’ve always admired about my

relationship with Ridge is that we’re so honest

and real with each other. I’ve always been able to

say exactly what I was thinking, and so has he. I

don’t like this shift we’ve made.

I try to smile at him, but I’m not sure if my

smile is working right now. I speak to him and

enunciate clearly so he can read my lips. “Are

you here because you need a flaw?”

He laughs and exhales at the same time, re-

lieved that I’m not angry.

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I’m not angry. I’ve never been mad at him.

The decisions he’s made during the time he’s

known me aren’t decisions I can hold against

him. The only thing I hold against him is the

night he kissed me and ruined me for every other

kiss I’ll ever experience.

I take a seat on the couch and look up at him.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He sighs, and I quickly look away. It’s hard

enough being in the same room as him right now,

but even harder to make eye contact with him. He

completes the walk into the living room and sits

on the couch next to me.

I debated buying more furniture, but one couch

was all I could afford. A love seat at that. I’m not

so sure I’m sad about my lack of furniture,

though, because his leg is touching my thigh, and

the simple contact causes heat to roll through me

like a riptide. I look down at our knees when they

brush together and realize I’m still wearing the T-

shirt I threw on right before I went to bed. I guess

I was so shocked by the fact that he said he was

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at my apartment door that I didn’t concern myself

with how I looked. I’m in nothing but an over-

sized cotton T-shirt that falls to my knees, and

my hair is more than likely a wreck.

He’s in jeans and a gray Sounds of Cedar T-

shirt. I would say I feel underdressed, but I’m ac-

tually dressed appropriately for what I was doing

before he showed up, which was going to bed.

Ridge: I don’t know if I’m okay. Are you

okay?

I forgot I even asked him a question for a

second.

I shrug. I’m sure I will be fine, but I’m not go-

ing to lie and tell him I am. I think it’s obvious

that neither one of us can really be okay with

how everything has turned out. I’m not okay with

losing Ridge, and Ridge isn’t okay with losing

Maggie.

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Me: I’m sorry about Maggie. I feel awful.

She’ll come around, though. Five years is

a lot to give up for a misunderstanding.

I hit send and finally look up at him. He reads

the text, then eyes me. The concentration in his

expression makes the breath catch in my lungs.

Ridge: It wasn’t a misunderstanding,

Sydney. She understood a little too well.

I read his text several times, wishing he would

expand on it. What wasn’t a misunderstanding?

The reason they broke up? His feelings for me?

Rather than ask him what he means, I cut to the

question I want the answer to the most.

Me: Why are you here?

He works his jaw back and forth before

responding.

Ridge: Do you want me to leave?

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I look at him and slowly shake my head no.

Then I pause and shake my head yes. Then I

pause again and just shrug. He smiles endear-

ingly, completely understanding my confusion.

Me: I guess whether or not I want you

here depends on why you’re here. Are you

here because you need me to try to help

you win back Maggie? Are you here be-

cause you miss me? Are you here because

you want to try to work out some sort of

friendship?

Ridge: Would I be wrong if I answered

none of the above? I don’t know why I’m

here. Part of me misses you so much it

hurts, while part of me wishes I never

even met you to begin with. I guess today

is one of the days I was hurting, so I stole

Warren’s keys and forced him to give me

your address. I didn’t think this through

or come up with any kind of speech. I just

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did what my heart needed me to do,

which was to see you.

His brutally honest reply melts my heart and

pisses me off all at the same time.

Me: What about tomorrow? What if to-

morrow is one of the days you wished you

never met me? What am I supposed to do

then?

The intensity in his stare is unnerving. Maybe

he’s trying to gauge if that was an angry re-

sponse. I’m not sure if it was or not. I’m not sure

how I feel about the fact that he doesn’t even

know why he’s here.

He doesn’t respond to my text, and it proves

one thing: he’s having the same internal conflict

with himself that I’ve been having.

He wants to be with me, but he doesn’t.

He wants to love me, but he doesn’t know if he

should.

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He wants to see me, but he knows he

shouldn’t.

He wants to kiss me, but it would hurt just as

much as it did the first time he kissed me and had

to walk away. I suddenly feel uncomfortable star-

ing at him. We’re way too close together on this

couch, yet my body is making it very clear to me

that it doesn’t think we’re close enough at all.

What it’s wishing would happen right now are all

the things that aren’t.

Ridge looks away and slowly scans my apart-

ment for a few moments, then returns his atten-

tion to his phone.

Ridge: I like your place. Good neighbor-

hood. Seems safe.

I almost laugh at his text and the casual con-

versation he’s trying to make, because I know

we’re no longer in a place for casual conversa-

tion. We can’t be friends at this point. We also

can’t be together with so much against us. Casual

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conversation has no place between us right now,

yet I can’t bring myself to reply any differently.

Me: I like it here. Thank you for helping

me out with the hotel until I could move

in.

Ridge: It was the least I could do. Abso-

lutely the least I could do.

Me: I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my

first paycheck. I got my job back at the

campus library, so it should only be an-

other week.

Ridge: Sydney, stop. I don’t even want

you to offer.

I have no idea what to say in response. This

whole situation is awkward and uncomfortable,

because we’re both dancing around all the things

we wish we had the courage to do and say.

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I set my phone facedown on the couch. I want

him to know that I need a break. I don’t like that

we aren’t being us.

He takes the hint and lays his phone down on

the armrest beside him, then sighs heavily as he

drops his head against the back of the couch. The

silence makes me wish I could experience the

world from his perspective for once. I find it al-

most impossible to put myself in his shoes,

though. People with the advantage of hearing

take so much for granted, and I’ve never under-

stood that to the extent that I understand it now.

There’s nothing being spoken between us, yet I

understand by his heavy sigh that he’s frustrated

with himself. I understand how much he’s hold-

ing back by the way his breaths are being sharply

pulled in.

I suppose his expertise in a silent world gives

him an ability to read people, just in different

ways. Instead of focusing on the sounds of my

breaths, he focuses on the rise and fall of my

chest. Rather than listening to quiet sighs, he

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more than likely watches my eyes, my hands, my

posture. Maybe that’s why his face is tilted to-

ward mine now, because he wants to see me and

get a feel for what’s going through my head.

I feel as if he reads me too well. The way he’s

watching me forces me to try to control every fa-

cial expression and every breath. I close my eyes

and lean my head back, knowing he’s staring,

trying to get a sense of where I am.

I also wish I could just turn to him and tell

him. I want to tell him how much I’ve missed

him. I want to tell him how much he means to

me. I want to tell him how horrible I feel, be-

cause before I showed up in his life, everything

seemed perfect for him. I want to tell him that

even though we both regretted it, that minute we

spent kissing was the one minute out of my entire

life that I wouldn’t trade for the world.

At moments like these, I’m thankful he can’t

hear me, or there would have been so many

things spoken that I would regret.

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Instead, there are so many things left unsaid

that I wish I had the courage to say .

Ridge’s weight shifts on the couch, and my

eyes naturally open out of curiosity. He’s leaning

across the arm of the couch, reaching for

something. When he turns back around, he’s

holding a pen in his hand. He smiles softly, then

picks up my arm. He turns his body toward mine

and presses the pen to my open palm.

I swallow hard and slowly look up at his face,

but he’s looking down at my hand as he writes. I

could swear I almost see a faint smile flash

across his lips. When he’s finished, he brings my

palm to his mouth and blows softly to dry the

ink. His lips are moist and puckered into a pout,

and holy hell, it just got really warm in this apart-

ment. He lowers my hand, and I look down at it.

Just wanted to touch your hand.

I laugh softly. Mostly because his words are so

innocent and sweet compared to the things he’s

written on me in the past. I’ve been sitting here

on this couch with him for ten minutes, wishing

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he would touch me, and then he goes and admits

he was thinking the exact same thing. It’s so ju-

venile, as if we’re teenagers. I’m almost embar-

rassed that it pleases me this much that he’s

touching me, but I can’t recall a time I’ve ever

wanted anything more.

He hasn’t released my hand yet, and I’m still

looking down at his writing, smiling. I brush my

thumb across the back of his hand, and he gasps

quietly. The permission I just gave him with that

tiny movement seems to have broken some invis-

ible barrier, because he immediately slides his

hand over mine and presses our palms together,

then intertwines our fingers. The warmth of his

hand doesn’t come close to the warmth that just

shot through my entire body.

God, if just holding hands with him feels this

intense, I can’t imagine what everything else with

him would feel like.

We’re both watching our hands now, feeling

every bit of the connection pulsating through our

palms. He brushes over my thumb and flips our

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hands over, then takes the pen and presses it to

my wrist. He moves the pen slowly up my wrist,

drawing in a straight line all the way up my fore-

arm. I don’t stop him. I simply watch him. When

he reaches the crease in my elbow, he begins to

write again. I read each word as he writes it.

Just an excuse to touch you here, too.

Without releasing my hand, he lifts my arm

and keeps his eyes focused on mine as he bends

forward and blows softly up and down my arm.

He presses his lips lightly against his words and

kisses them without once breaking eye contact.

When his lips meet my arm, I feel a soft flick of

his tongue tease my arm for a split second before

his mouth closes over my skin.

That might have just made me whimper.

Yep. Pretty sure I just whimpered.

God, I’m so glad he couldn’t hear that.

He pulls his lips away from my arm and con-

tinues to watch me, gauging my reaction. His

eyes are dark and piercing, and they’re focused

all over me. On my lips, on my eyes, on my neck,

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on my hair, on my chest. He can’t seem to take

me in fast enough.

He presses the pen against my skin again,

starting where he left off. He rolls the pen slowly

up my arm, watching it intently the whole time.

When he reaches the sleeve of my T-shirt, he

pushes it up carefully until my shoulder is ex-

posed. He makes a small mark with the pen, then

slowly leans over me. My head falls back against

the couch when I feel his lips meet my skin. His

breath is close and warm against my shoulder.

I’m not even thinking about the fact that he’s

drawing all over me. That can be washed off

later. Right now, I just want his pen to keep go-

ing and going until it’s completely out of ink.

He pulls away and releases my hand, switching

the pen to his other hand. He pulls my sleeve

back down over my shoulder, then slips his fin-

gers inside the collar of my T-shirt, tugging it to

expose more of my collarbone. He puts the tip of

the pen on my shoulder and glances up at me

while he proceeds with caution, making his way

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to my neck. His expression is heated, and I can

tell he’s proceeding with caution despite the fact

that I know exactly what he wishes were happen-

ing right now and where he plans to go with this

pen. He doesn’t have to verbalize it when his

eyes clearly state it for him.

He moves the pen slowly up my neck. I natur-

ally tilt my head to the side, and as soon as I do, I hear a rush of air hiss quietly through his teeth.

He comes to a stop just below my ear. I squeeze

my eyes shut and hope my heart doesn’t explode

when he leans in, because it definitely feels as if

it could. His lips press gently against my skin,

and I swear the room flips upside down.

Or maybe that was just my heart.

One of my hands slides up his arm and grasps

the back of his head, not wanting him to pull

away from this spot. His tongue makes another

quick appearance against my neck, but he doesn’t

let my desperation stall him. He lifts away and

looks back down at me. His eyes are smiling,

knowing how crazy he’s driving me.

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He rolls the pen from the spot below my ear,

back down my neck, and around to the dip in the

base of my throat. Before kissing the spot he just

marked, he grabs me by the waist and lifts me up,

sliding me onto his lap.

I grasp his arms and suck in a rush of air the

second he pulls me against him. My T-shirt slides

up my thighs, and the fact that I’m not wearing

anything under it except underwear pretty much

guarantees that I’ve gotten myself into something

that’s going to be damn hard to pull away from.

His eyes drop to the base of my throat as he

slides a hand up my thigh, over my hip, and all

the way up and into my hair. He grasps the back

of my head, then pulls my neck against his

mouth. This kiss is harder and not at all cautious

like the rest of them. I slide my hands into his

hair and keep his mouth pressed against my neck.

He works his kisses all the way up my neck

until his mouth meets my chin. Our bodies are

meshed firmly together, and one of his hands has

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found my lower back and is keeping me flush

against him.

I can’t move. I’m literally panting for breath,

wondering where in the hell the strong Sydney

went. Where’s the Sydney who knows this

shouldn’t be happening?

I’ll look for her later. After he finishes with his

pen.

He pulls away when his lips come close to my

mouth. Our bodies are as close as they can get

without his mouth being on mine. He removes

his hand from my lower back and brings the pen

back around to my throat. When he touches the

tip of it to my skin, I gulp, anticipating which dir-

ection he’s about to go with it.

North or south, north or south. I don’t really

care.

He begins to scroll upward, but then he stops.

He pulls the pen away from my neck and shakes

it, then touches it to my neck again. He makes

another movement upward with the pen but stops

again. He pulls back slightly and frowns at the

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pen, which I’m assuming has just run out of ink.

He looks back at me and tosses the pen over my

shoulder. I hear it land on the floor behind me.

His eyes drop to my lips, which I’m assuming

would have been the pen’s final destination.

We’re both breathing heavily, knowing exactly

what’s about to come next. What we’re about to

experience again for the second time, knowing

how much our first kiss affected us.

I think he’s as terrified as I am right now.

I’m leaning all my weight into him, because

I’ve never been this weak. I can’t think, I can’t

move, I can’t breathe. I just . . . need.

He brings both hands to my cheeks and looks

directly into my eyes.

“Your call,” he whispers.

Jesus Christ, that voice.

I stare at him, not sure if I like that he just put

the control in my hands. He wants this to be my

decision.

It’s so much easier having someone else to

blame when things go where they shouldn’t. I

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know we shouldn’t be putting ourselves into a

situation we’re only going to regret once it’s

over. I could put a stop to it right here. I could

make it easier by asking him to leave now, rather

than when things get even more complicated

between us. I could slide off his lap and tell him

he shouldn’t be here because he hasn’t even had

time to forgive himself for what happened with

Maggie. I could tell him to go away and not

come back until his heart isn’t confused anymore

about who it wants.

If that day ever comes.

There are so many things I could and should

and need to do, but none of them is what I want

to do.

The pressure picks the worst possible time to

break me. The worst possible time.

I squeeze my eyes shut when I feel a tear begin

to work its way out. It trickles down my cheek,

falling slowly toward my jaw. It’s the absolutely

slowest descent a tear has ever made. I open my

eyes, and Ridge is watching it. He’s following

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the wet trail with his eyes, and I can see his jaw

growing more tense with every second that

passes. I want to reach up and wipe it away, but

the last thing I want to do is hide it from him. My

tears say a whole lot more about how I’m feeling

right now than I’m willing to say in a text.

Maybe I need him to know that this is hurting

me.

Maybe I want it to hurt him, too.

When the tear finally curves and disappears

under my jaw, he brings his eyes back to mine.

I’m surprised by what I see in them.

His own tears.

Knowing that he’s hurting because I’m hurting

shouldn’t make me want to kiss him, but it abso-

lutely does. He’s here because he cares about me.

He’s here because he misses me. He’s here be-

cause he needs to feel what we felt in our first

kiss again, just as I do. I’ve wanted that feeling

back since the second his mouth left mine and he

walked away.

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I remove my hands from his shoulders and

grab the back of his head, then lean into him,

bringing my mouth so close to his that our lips

brush.

He grins. “Good call,” he whispers.

He closes the space between our mouths, and

everything else falls away. The guilt, the worries,

the concern over what happens after this kiss

ends. It all melts away the second his mouth

claims mine. He gently coaxes my lips apart with

his tongue, and all the chaos running through my

heart and head is eliminated when I feel his

warmth inside my mouth.

Kisses like his should come with a warning la-

bel. They can’t be good for the heart. He runs a

hand around to my upper thigh, then slips it be-

neath the hem of my T-shirt. His hand glides

across my back, and he grips me tightly, then lifts

his hips at the same time as he pulls me harder

against him.

Oh.

My.

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Goodness.

I become weaker and weaker with every

rhythmic movement he creates with our bodies. I

find whatever parts of him I can hold on to, be-

cause I feel as if I’m falling. I grab his shirt and

his hair while I moan softly into his mouth. When

he feels the sound escape my throat, he quickly

pulls away from my mouth and squeezes his eyes

shut, breathing heavily. When he opens his eyes

again, he’s staring at my throat.

He pulls his hand from beneath my shirt, then

slowly brings it up to my neck.

Oh, my dear, sweet God.

He wraps his fingers around my neck, gently

pressing his palm into the base of my throat

while he stares at my mouth. The thought of him

wanting to feel what he’s doing to me makes my

head swarm and the entire room spin. I’m some-

how able to glance into his eyes long enough to

see them transform from a calm desire to an al-

most carnal need.

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With his other hand still curved around the

back of my head, he pulls me to him with more

urgency, covering my mouth with his. The

second his tongue finds mine again, I give him

more moans than he can possibly keep up with.

This is exactly what I’ve wanted from him.

I’ve wanted him to show up and tell me how

much he’s missed me. I’ve needed to know that

he cares about me, that he wants me. I’ve needed

to feel his mouth on mine again so I could know

that the way his first kiss made me feel wasn’t

just in my head this whole time.

Now that I have it, I’m not sure I’m strong

enough for it. I know that the second this ends

and he walks out the front door, my heart will die

all over again. The more I open up to him, the

more I need him. The more I admit to myself that

I need him, the more it hurts to know that I still

don’t exactly have him.

I’m still not convinced that he’s here for the

right reasons. Even if he is here for the right reasons, it’s still wrong timing. Not to mention all the

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questions still running through my head. I try to

push them away, and for brief moments, it works.

When his hands graze my cheek or his lips close

over mine, I forget all about those questions that I

can’t seem to run away from. But then he’ll

pause to catch his breath, and he’ll look me in the

eye, and all those questions just cram right back

into the front of my head, until they’re so heavy

that they’re forcing more tears to want to escape.

I clench his arms when the uncertainty begins

to take over. I shake my head and try to push

against him. He pulls away from my mouth and

sees my doubt building, and he shakes his head to

get me to stop analyzing this moment between

us. His eyes are pleading as he strokes my cheek,

pulls me flush against him, and tries to kiss me

again, but I struggle out of his arms.

“Ridge, no,” I say. “I can’t.”

I’m still shaking my head when his hand grips

my wrist. I slide off his lap and keep walking un-

til his fingers fall away from me.

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I walk straight to the kitchen sink and dispense

soap into my hands, then begin scrubbing the ink

off my arm. I reach into a drawer and pull out a

rag, then wet it and press it to my neck. Tears are

streaming down my cheeks as I try to wash away

the reminders of what just happened between us.

The reminders are going to make him that much

harder to overcome.

Ridge comes up behind me and places his

hands on my shoulders. He turns me around to

face him. When he sees that I’m crying, his eyes

fill with apology, and he pulls the rag from my

hand. He brushes the hair off my shoulder and

gently rubs my skin, washing away the ink. He

looks incredibly guilty for making me cry, but

it’s not his fault. It’s never his fault. It’s no one’s fault. It’s both our faults.

When he’s finished rubbing away the ink, he

tosses the rag behind me onto the counter, then

pulls me against his chest. The comfort that sur-

rounds me makes this even harder. I want this all

the time. I want him all the time. I want these tiny 600/692

snippets of perfection between us to be our con-

stant reality, but that can’t happen right now. I

completely understand his earlier comment, when

he said that there are times he misses me and

times he wishes he never met me, because right

now, I’m wishing I never set foot out onto my

balcony the first time I heard his guitar.

If I never experienced how he could make me

feel, then I wouldn’t miss it after he’s gone.

I wipe my eyes and pull away from him.

There’s so much we need to discuss, so I walk to

the couch, retrieve our phones, and bring his to

him. I move away from him to lean against the

other counter while I type, but he grabs my arm

and pulls me back. He leans against the bar and

pulls my back against his chest, then wraps his

arms around me from behind. He kisses the side

of my head, then moves his lips to my ear.

“Stay here,” he says, wanting me to remain

pressed against him.

It’s crazy how being held by someone for just

a few minutes can forever change how it feels not 601/692

to be held by him. The second he releases his

hold on you, it suddenly feels as if a part of you

is missing. I guess he feels it, too, which is why

he wants me near him.

Does he feel this way about Maggie, too?

Questions like this refuse to leave my mind.

Questions like this keep me from believing he

could ever be happy with the outcome of his situ-

ation, because he lost her in the end. I don’t want

to be someone’s second choice.

I lean my head against his shoulder and

squeeze my eyes shut, trying my best not to let

my mind go there again. However, I know I have

to go there if I ever want to find a sense of

closure.

Ridge: I wish I could read your mind.

Me: Believe me, I wish you could, too.

He laughs quietly and squeezes me tightly in

his arms. He keeps his cheek pressed against my

head as he types out another text.

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Ridge: We’ve always been able to say

whatever is on our minds. You still have

that with me, you know. You can say

whatever you need to say, Sydney. That’s

what I’ve always loved about us the most.

Why do all the words he says and writes and

texts have to pierce my heart?

I inhale a deep breath, then exhale carefully. I

open my eyes and look down at my phone, terri-

fied to ask the one question I don’t really want

the answer to. I ask it anyway, because as much

as I don’t want to know the answer, I need to know the answer.

Me: If she texted you right now and said

she made the wrong choice, would you

go? Would you walk out my front door

without thinking twice?

My head stills when the rapid rise and fall of

his chest comes to a sudden halt.

I can no longer hear his breaths.

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His grip around me loosens slightly.

My heart crumbles.

I don’t need to read an answer from him. I

don’t even need to hear it. I can feel it in every part of him.

It’s not as if I were expecting his answer to be

any different. He spent five years with her. It’s

obvious that he loves her. He’s never said

otherwise.

I was just hoping he was wrong.

I immediately break away from him and walk

swiftly toward my bedroom. I want to lock my-

self inside until he leaves. I don’t want him to see

what this does to me. I don’t want him to see that

I love him the same way he loves Maggie.

I reach my bedroom and swing open the door.

I rush inside and begin to shut the door behind

me, but he pushes the door open. He steps into

my bedroom and turns me around to face him.

His eyes are searching mine, desperately trying

to get across whatever it is he wishes he could

say. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to

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speak, but then he closes it again. He releases my

arms, then turns around and runs his hands

through his hair. He grips the back of his neck,

then kicks my bedroom door shut with a frus-

trated groan. He leans his forearm into the door

and presses his forehead against it. I do nothing

but stand still and watch him try to fight the war

within himself. The same war I’ve been fighting.

He remains in the same position while he lifts

his phone and responds to my text.

Ridge: That’s not a fair question.

Me: Yeah, well, you didn’t really put me in

a fair situation by showing up here

tonight.

He turns until his back is flat against my bed-

room door. He brings two frustrated hands to his

forehead, then lifts his leg at the knee and kicks

the door behind him. Seeing him struggle with

who he really wants is more pain than I’m will-

ing to endure. I deserve more than he can give

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me right now, and his conflict is screwing with

my heart. Screwing with my head. Everything

with him is just too much.

Me: I want you to leave. I can’t be around

you anymore. It terrifies me that you’re

wishing I were her.

He hangs his head and stares at the floor for

several moments while I continue to stare at him.

He isn’t denying that he’d rather be with Maggie

right now. He isn’t making excuses or telling me

he could love me more than he loves her.

He’s completely quiet . . . because he knows

I’m right.

Me: I need you to leave. Please. And if

you really care about me, you won’t come

back.

He slowly turns and faces me. His eyes lock

with mine, and I’ve never seen more emotions

flash through them than in this moment.

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“No,” he says firmly.

He begins walking toward me, and I begin

backing away from him. He’s shaking his head

pleadingly. He reaches me just as my legs meet

my bed, and then he grabs my face between his

hands and presses his lips to mine.

I shake my head and push against his chest. He

steps away from me and winces, looking even

more frustrated with his inability to communicate

with me. His eyes search the room for whatever

will help him convince me I’m wrong, but I

know nothing can help our situation. He just

needs to realize this, too.

He looks down at my bed, then back at me. He

grabs my hand and pulls me around to the side of

the bed. He places his hands on my shoulders and

pushes me down until I’m seated. I have no idea

what he’s doing, so I don’t resist.

Yet.

He continues to lower me until I’m lying with

my back flat on the bed. He stands straight up

and removes his T-shirt. Before he even has it

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completely over his head, I’m already attempting

to roll off the bed. If he thinks sex will fix our

situation, he’s not as smart as I thought he was.

“No,” he says again when he sees me trying to

escape.

The sheer conviction in his voice causes me to

freeze, and I fall back against my mattress again.

He kneels down on the bed, grabs a pillow, and

lays it beside my head. He lies down next to me,

and my whole body tenses from his close prox-

imity. He picks up his phone.

Ridge: Listen to me, Sydney.

I stare at the text in anticipation of what he’ll

type next. When I notice that he’s not even tex-

ting me a follow-up, I look at him. He shakes his

head and pulls my phone from my hands, then

tosses it beside him. He takes my hand and places

it over his heart.

“Here,” he says, patting my hand. “Listen to

me here.”

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My chest tightens when I realize what he

wants me to do. He pulls me to him, and I will-

ingly allow it. He gently lowers my head to his

heart as he adjusts himself beneath me and helps

me get comfortable.

I relax against his chest, finding the rhythm of

his heartbeat.

Beat, beat, pause.

Beat, beat, pause.

Beat, beat, pause.

It’s absolutely beautiful.

The way it sounds is beautiful.

The way it cares is beautiful.

The way it loves is beautiful.

He presses his lips to the top of my head.

I close my eyes . . . and I cry.

Ridge

I hold her against me for so long I’m not even

sure if she’s awake. I still have so much I want to

say to her, but I don’t want to move. I love the

way she feels when we’re wrapped together like

this. I’m afraid if I move, she’ll come to her

senses again and ask me to leave.

It’s barely been three weeks since Maggie and

I broke up. When Sydney asked if I’d take Mag-

gie back, I didn’t answer, but only because I

know she wouldn’t believe my answer.

I love Maggie, but I honestly don’t think Mag-

gie and I are best for each other anymore. I know

exactly where we went wrong. The beginning of

our relationship was romantic to the point where

it was almost fictionalized. We were nineteen

years old. We barely knew each other. The way

we waited for an entire year only built up

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feelings that weren’t based on anything except

false hopes and idealized love.

By the time Maggie and I were finally able to

be together, I think we were more in love with

the idea of us, rather than with the actual us. Of

course, I loved her. I still love her. But until I met Sydney, I had no idea how much my love for

Maggie was built up from my desire to swoop in

and save her.

Maggie was right. I’ve done nothing for the

past five years but try to be the hero who protects

her. The problem? Heroines don’t need

protecting.

When Sydney put me on the spot earlier, I

wanted to tell her no, that I wouldn’t take Maggie

back. When she said she was terrified that I was

wishing she were Maggie, I wanted to grab hold

of her and prove to her how I’ve never, not once,

wished I were anywhere else when I’m with her.

I wanted to tell her the only regret I have is not

realizing sooner which one of them I was better

for. Which girl I made more sense with. Which

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girl I grew to love in a realistic, natural way, not

in an idealized sense.

I didn’t say anything because I’m terrified she

won’t understand. I’ve chosen Maggie over her

time and time again, and it’s my own fault that

I’ve put doubt into Sydney’s head. And even

though I know that the scenario she’s painting

could never happen because Maggie and I both

accept that it’s over, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t take Maggie back. However, my decision

wouldn’t be because I want to be with Maggie

more. It wouldn’t even be because I love Maggie

more. But how do I possibly convince Sydney of

that when it’s hard for me to comprehend?

I don’t want Sydney ever to feel like my

second choice, when I know in my heart that

she’s the right choice. The only choice.

I keep my arm around her, and I pick up my

phone. She lifts her head and rests her chin on

my chest, looking up at me. I hand her back her

phone, and she takes it, then turns away from me

and presses her ear against my heart again.

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Me: Do you want to know why I needed

you to listen to me?

She doesn’t respond with a text. She just nods

her head yes, remaining pressed against my

chest. One of her hands is slowly tracing up and

down from my waist to my arm. The feel of her

hands against my skin is something I never want

to become a memory. I lower my left hand to the

back of her head and stroke her hair.

Me: It’s kind of a long explanation. Do you

have a notebook I can write in?

She nods and slides off me. She reaches into

her nightstand and takes out a notebook and a

pen. I readjust myself against her headboard. She

hands me the notebook but doesn’t move closer

to me. I grab her wrist and part my legs, then mo-

tion for her to lie against me while I write. She

crawls toward me and wraps her arms around my

waist, pressing her ear to my heart again. I put

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my arms around her and prop the notebook on

my knee, resting my cheek on top of her head.

I wish there was an easier way for us to com-

municate so all the things I have to say to her

could be instant. I wish I could look into her eyes

and tell her exactly how I feel and what’s on my

mind, but I can’t, and I hate that for us. Instead, I lay my heart out on paper. She remains still

against my chest while I take almost fifteen

minutes to gather my thoughts and get them all

down for her. When I’m finished, I hand her the

notebook. She readjusts herself until her back is

pressed against my chest. I keep my arms around

her and hold her while she reads the letter.

Sydney

I have no idea what to expect from the words

he’s just written, but as soon as he hands me the

paper I begin to soak every sentence up as

quickly as my eyes can scan them. The fact that a

barrier exists in the way we communicate makes

every word I receive from him, in whatever form,

something I feel the need to consume as quickly

as possible.

I don’t know if I’m actually more aware of my

own heartbeat than other people are of theirs,

but I tend to believe I am. The fact that I can’t hear the world around me leaves me to focus

more on the world inside me. Brennan told me

the only time he’s aware of his own heartbeat is

when it’s quiet and he’s being still. That’s not the case for me, because it’s always quiet in my

world. I’m always aware of my heartbeat. Al-

ways. I know its pattern. I know its rhythm. I

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know what makes it speed up and slow down, and

I even know when to expect that. Sometimes I feel my heart react before my brain has the chance to.

The reactions of my heart have always been

something I was able to predict . . . until a few months ago.

The first night you walked out onto your bal-

cony was the first night I noticed the change. It was subtle, but it was there. Just an extra little skip. I brushed it off because I didn’t want to

think it had anything to do with you. I liked how loyal my heart was to Maggie, and I didn’t want

my loyalty to her to change.

But then, the first time I saw you singing along

to one of my songs, it happened again. Only that

time, it was more obvious. It would speed up a

little faster every time I saw your lips moving. It would start beating in places I never felt my

heart beat before. That first night I saw you

singing, I had to get up and go inside to finish

playing, because I didn’t like how you made my

heart feel. For the first time, I felt as though I 616/692

had absolutely no control over it, and that made

me feel horrible.

The first time I walked out of my bedroom to

find you standing in my apartment, soaking wet

from the rain—my God, I didn’t know hearts

could beat like that. I knew my heart like the back of my hand, and nothing had ever made it react

like you did. I put the blankets on the couch for you as quickly as I could, pointed you in the direction of the bathroom, and immediately went

back to my bedroom. I’ll spare you the details of what I had to do while you were in my shower in

order to calm myself down after seeing you up

close for the first time.

My physical reaction to you didn’t worry me.

Physical reactions are normal, and at that point, my heart still belonged to Maggie. My heartbeats

were all for Maggie. They always had been, but

the more time I spent with you, the more you

started to unintentionally infiltrate and steal

some of those heartbeats. I did everything I could to prevent it from happening. For a while, I

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convinced myself that I was stronger than my

heart, which is why I allowed you to stay. I

thought what I felt for you was nothing but at-

traction and that if I let myself have you in my

fantasies enough, that would suffice in reality.

However, I soon realized that the way I fantas-

ized about you wasn’t at all how guys normally

fantasize about girls they’re attracted to. I didn’t imagine myself stealing kisses from you when no

one was around. I didn’t imagine myself sliding

into your bed in the middle of the night and doing to you all the things we both wished I would do.

Instead, I was imagining what it would feel like if you fell asleep in my arms. I was imagining what

it would feel like to wake up next to you in the

morning. I was imagining your smiles and your

laughter and even how good it would feel to be

able to comfort you when you cried.

The trouble I had gotten myself into became

obvious the night I put those headphones in your

ears and watched you sing the song we created

together. Watching those words pass your lips

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and knowing I couldn’t hear them and feeling

how much my heart ached for us in that moment,

I knew what was happening was so much more

than I could control. My strength was over-

powered by my weakness for you. The second my

lips touched yours, my heart split completely in

two. Half of it belonged to you from that point on.

Every other beat of my heart was for you.

I knew I should have asked you to leave that

night, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The

thought of saying good-bye to you hurt way too

much. I had planned on asking you to move out

the next day, but once we talked through

everything, the ease with which we dealt with our situation gave me more excuses to ignore it.

Knowing we were both fighting it gave me hope

that I could give back to Maggie the part of my

heart I had lost to you.

The weekend of Warren’s party was when I

realized it was too late. I spent the entire night of the party trying not to watch you. Trying not to

be obvious. Trying to keep my attention focused

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on Maggie, where it should have been. However,

all the effort and denial in the world couldn’t

have saved me from what happened the next day.

When I walked into your room and sat down be-

side you on the bed, I felt it.

I felt you give me a piece of your heart.

And Sydney, I wanted it. I wanted your heart

more than I’ve ever wanted anything. The second

I reached down and held your hand in mine, it

happened. My heart made its choice, and it chose

you.

My relationship with Maggie was a great one,

and I never want to disrespect what I had with

her. When I told you I’ve loved her since the mo-

ment I met her and that I’d love her until the moment I die, I was being honest. I have always

loved her, I do love her, and I always will love

her. She’s an incredible person who deserves so

much more than what life has handed her, and it

pisses me off to this day when I think about it. I would switch my fate with hers in a second if I

had that option. Unfortunately, life doesn’t work 620/692

that way. Fate doesn’t work that way. So even

after I knew I had found in you what I would nev-

er find in my relationship with Maggie, it still

wasn’t enough. No matter how much I cared for

you or how deep my feelings for you ran, it would have never been enough to get me to leave Maggie. If I couldn’t change her fate, I was at least going to give her the best damn life I could give her. Even if it meant sacrificing aspects of my

own, I would have done it without pause, and I

never would have regretted it. Not even for a

second.

However, until three weeks ago, I didn’t real-

ize that the best life I could give her was a life without me in it. She needed the opposite of what I could offer her, and I know that now. She knows that now. And we accept it.

So when you ask if I would choose her over

you, you’re presenting a situation that I can’t

give you a straight answer to. Because yes, at

this point, I probably would walk away from you

if she asked me to. The majority of my loyalty still 621/692

lies with her. But if you’re asking who I need

more? Who I want to be with more? Who my

heart craves more? My heart decided that for me

a long time ago, Sydney.

When I’ve read the last word, I pull the note-

book against my chest and cry. He slides me off

of him until I’m on my back, and he hovers over

me, guiding my eyes up to meet his.

“It’s you,” he says aloud. “My heart . . . wants

you.”

A sob breaks free from my chest when I hear

his words. I immediately grab his shoulders and

lift myself up, pressing my lips to the area dir-

ectly over his heart. I kiss him over and over, si-

lently thanking him for giving me reassurance

that I haven’t been in this alone.

When I lower my head back to the pillow, he

lies beside me, then pulls me against him. He

touches my cheek with his hand and slowly leans

in to kiss me. His mouth caresses mine so

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carefully it feels as if he’s holding my heart in his hand and is afraid he might drop it.

As much as I’m convinced he would do

everything he could to protect my heart, I’m still

too scared to hand it over. I don’t want to give it

to him until I know it’s the only heart he’s

holding.

? ? ?

I don’t open my eyes, because I don’t want him
to know I hear him leaving. I felt him kiss me. I

felt him slide his arm out from beneath me. I

heard him pull his shirt over his head. I heard

him search for a pen. I heard him write me a let-

ter, and I heard him place it on the pillow beside

me.

I feel his hand as it presses into the mattress

beside my head. His lips meet my forehead be-

fore he pulls away and walks out my bedroom

door. When I hear the front door shut, I roll onto

my side and pull the covers over my head to

block out the sunlight. If I didn’t have to work

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today, I’d stay right here in this position and cry

myself dry.

I brush my hand across the mattress in search

of his letter. When I find it, I pull it under the

covers with me and read it.

Sydney,

A few months ago, we thought we had it all

figured out. I was with the one girl I thought I

would be with forever, and you were with a guy

you thought deserved you way more than he did.

Look at us now.

Wanting more than anything to be free to love

each other but cursed by bad timing and loyal

hearts. We both know where we want to be; we

just don’t know how to get there. Or when we should get there. I wish things were as easy as

they seemed when I was nineteen. We’d grab a

calendar and pick a date, and we’d start a count-

down until I could show up at your front door

and start loving you.

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However, I’ve learned that the heart can’t be

told when and who and how it should love. The

heart does whatever the hell it wants to do. The

only thing we can control is whether we give our

lives and our minds the chance to catch up to our hearts.

I know that’s what you want more than any-

thing. Time to catch up.

As much as I want to stay here and allow this

to begin between us, there’s something I want

from you even more than that. I want you to be

with me in the end, and I know that can’t happen

if I keep trying to rush our beginning. I know exactly why you were hesitant to let me in last

night: you aren’t ready yet. Maybe I’m not,

either. You’ve always said you wanted time to

yourself, and the last thing I want is to start a relationship with you when I’ve barely given

enough respect to the one that just ended with

Maggie.

I don’t know when you’ll be ready for me. It

might be next month or next year. Whenever it is, 625/692

just know that I have absolutely no doubt that we can make this work. I know we can. If there are

two people in this world capable of finding a way to love each other, it’s us.

Ridge

P.S. I spent most of the night watching you

sleep, so that’s one fantasy I got to check off the list. I also wrote lyrics to an entire song, which was unfortunate for Brennan. I didn’t have my

guitar, so I forced him to make a rough cut of it at five o’clock this morning so I could leave it

with you.

One of these days, I’ll play it for you, along

with all the other songs I plan to write for you

while we’re apart. Until then, I’ll be waiting

patiently.

Just say when.

I fold the letter and pull it against my chest. As

much as it hurts to know he’s walking away, I

also know that I need to let him. I asked for this.

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We need this. I need this. I need to get myself to a point where I know that we can finally be together without all the doubt running through my

head. He’s right. My mind needs to catch up to

my heart.

I run the back of my hand across my eyes, then

open my texts.

Me: Can you come over? I need your

help.

Warren: If this has to do with the fact that

I gave Ridge your address last night, I’m

sorry. He forced it out of me.

Me: This has nothing to do with that. I

need to ask you for a huge favor.

Warren: Be there when I get off work to-

night. Should I bring condoms?

Me: Funny guy.

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I close out the text to Warren and open up the

song Ridge just sent me. I reach into my drawer

for my headphones, then fall back against my pil-

low and hit play.

IT’S YOU

Baby, everything you’ve ever done

Underneath this here sun

It doesn’t even matter anymore

Oh, of this I’m sure

‘Cause you’ve taken me

Places I want to be

And you show me

Everything that I could ever

Want to see

You, you know it’s

You know it’s you

I think about you every single day

Trying to think of something better to say

Maybe hi, how are you

Not just anything will do

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‘Cause you’ve taken me

Places I want to be

And you show me

Everything that I could ever

Want to see

You, you know it’s

You know it’s you

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