Maybe Someday

Chapter Two

Sydney

I’m mindlessly tapping my feet and singing along

to his music with my made-up lyrics when he

stops playing mid-song. He never stops mid-

song, so naturally, I glance in his direction. He’s

leaning forward, staring right at me. He holds up

his index finger, as if to say, Hold on, and he sets his guitar beside him and runs into his apartment.

What the hell is he doing?

And oh, my God, why does the fact that he’s

acknowledging me make me so nervous?

He comes back outside with paper and a mark-

er in his hands.

He’s writing. What the hell is he writing?

He holds up two sheets of paper, and I squint

to get a good look at what he’s written.

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A phone number.

Shit. His phone number?

When I don’t move for several seconds, he

shakes the papers and points at them, then points

back to me.

He’s insane. I’m not calling him. I can’t call

him. I can’t do that to Hunter.

The guy shakes his head, then grabs a fresh

sheet of paper and writes something else on it,

then holds it up.

Text me.

When I still don’t move, he flips the paper

over and writes again.

I have a ?

A question. A text. Seems harmless enough.

When he holds up the papers with his phone

number again, I pull out my phone and enter his

phone number. I stare at the screen for a few

seconds, not really knowing what to say in the

text, so I go with:

Me: What’s your question?

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He looks down at his phone, and I can see him

smile when he receives my text. He drops the pa-

per and leans back in his chair, typing. When my

phone vibrates, I hesitate a second before looking

down at it.

Him: Do you sing in the shower?

I shake my head, confirming my initial suspi-

cion. He’s a flirt. Of course he is, he’s a

musician.

Me: I don’t know what kind of question

that is, but if this is your attempt at flirt-

ing, I’ve got a boyfriend. Don’t waste your

time.

I hit send and watch him read the text. He

laughs, and this irritates me. Mostly because his

smile is so . . . smiley. Is that even a word? I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s as if his

whole face smiles right along with his mouth. I

wonder what that smile looks like up close.

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Him: Believe me, I know you have a boy-

friend, and this is definitely not how I flirt.

I just want to know if you sing in the

shower. I happen to think highly of people

who sing in the shower and need to know

the answer to that question in order to

decide if I want to ask you my next

question.

I read the lengthy text, admiring his fast typ-

ing. Guys aren’t normally as skilled as girls when

it comes to speed-texting, but his replies are al-

most instantaneous.

Me: Yes, I sing in the shower. Do you sing

in the shower?

Him: No, I don’t.

Me: How can you think highly of people

who sing in the shower if you don’t sing in

the shower?

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Him: Maybe the fact that I don’t sing in

the shower is why I think highly of people

who do sing in the shower.

This conversation isn’t going anywhere.

Me: Why did you need this vital piece of

information from me?

He stretches his legs out and props his feet up

on the edge of the patio, then stares at me for a

few seconds before returning his attention to his

phone.

Him: I want to know how you’re singing

lyrics to my songs when I haven’t even

added lyrics to them yet.

My cheeks instantly heat from embarrassment.

Busted.

I stare at his text, then glance up at him. He’s

watching me, expressionless.

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Why the hell didn’t I think that he could see

me sitting out here? I never thought he would no-

tice me singing along to his music. Hell, until last

night, I never thought he even noticed me. I in-

hale, wishing I’d never made eye contact with

him to begin with. I don’t know why I find this

embarrassing, but I do. It seems as if I’ve in-

vaded his privacy in some way, and I hate that.

Me: I tend to favor songs with lyrics, and

I was tired of wondering what the lyrics to

your songs were, so I guess I made up a

few of my own.

He reads the text, then glances up at me

without a hint of his infectious smile. I don’t like

his serious glances. I don’t like what they do to

my stomach. I also don’t like what his smiley

smile does to my stomach. I wish he would stick

to a simple, unattractive, emotionless expression,

but I’m not sure he’s capable of that.

Him: Will you send them to me?

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Oh, God. Hell, no.

Me: Hell, no.

Him: Please?

Me: No.

Him: Pretty please?

Me: No, thank you.

Him: What’s your name?

Me: Sydney. Yours?

Him: Ridge.

Ridge. That fits him. Musical-artisty-moody

type.

Me: Well, Ridge, I’m sorry, but I don’t

write lyrics that anyone would want to

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hear. Do you not write lyrics to your own

songs?

He begins to text, and it’s a really long text.

His fingers move swiftly over his phone while he

types. I’m afraid I’m about to receive an entire

novel from him. He looks up at me just as my

phone vibrates.

Ridge: I guess you could say I’m having a

bad case of writer’s block. Which is why I

really, really wish you would just send me

the lyrics you sing while I’m playing. Even

if you think they’re stupid, I want to read

them. You somehow know every single

song I play, even though I’ve never

played them for anyone except when I

practice out here.

How does he know I know all his songs? I

bring a hand up to my cheek when I feel it flush,

knowing he’s been watching me a lot longer than

I initially thought. I swear, I have to be the most

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unintuitive person in this entire world. I glance

up at him and he’s continuing with another text,

so I look back to my phone and wait for it.

Ridge: I can see it in the way your whole

body responds to the guitar. You tap your

feet, you move your head. And I’ve even

tried to test you by slowing down the song

every once in a while to see if you would

notice, and you always do. Your body

stops

responding

when

I

change

something up. So just by watching you, I

can tell you have an ear for music. And

since you sing in the shower, it probably

means you’re an okay singer. Which also

means that maybe there’s a chance you

have a talent for writing lyrics. So,

Sydney, I want to know what your lyrics

are.

I’m still reading when another text comes

through.

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Ridge: Please. I’m desperate.

I inhale a deep breath, wishing more than any-

thing that this conversation had never started. I

don’t know how in the hell he can come to all

these conclusions without my ever having no-

ticed him watching me. In a way, it eases my em-

barrassment over the fact that he saw me watch-

ing him. But now that he wants to know what lyrics I made up, I’m embarrassed for an entirely

different reason. I do sing, but not well enough to

do anything with it professionally. My passion is

mostly for music itself, not at all for performing

it. And as much as I do love writing lyrics, I’ve

never shared anything I’ve written. It seems too

intimate. I’d almost rather he had sent me a vul-

gar, flirtatious come-on.

I jump when my phone vibrates again.

Ridge: Okay, we’ll make a deal. Pick one

song of mine, and send me the lyrics to

just that one song. Then I’ll leave you

alone. Especially if they’re stupid.

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I laugh. And cringe. He’s not going to let up.

I’m going to have to change my number.

Ridge: I know your phone number now,

Sydney. I’m not giving up until you send

me lyrics to at least one song.

Jesus. He’s not going away.

Ridge: And I also know where you live.

I’m not above begging on my knees at

your front door.

Ugh!

Me: Fine. Stop with the creepy threats.

One song. But I’ll have to write the lyrics

down while you play it first, because I’ve

never written them out before.

Ridge: Deal. Which song? I’ll play it right

now.

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Me: How would I tell you which song,

Ridge? I don’t know the names of any of

them.

Ridge: Yeah, me, neither. Hold up your

hand when I get to the one you want me

to play.

He puts down his phone and picks up his gui-

tar, then begins playing one of the songs. It’s not

the one I want him to play, though, so I shake my

head. He switches to another song, and I continue

to shake my head until the familiar chords to one

of my favorites meets my ears. I hold up my

hand, and he grins, then starts the song over from

the beginning. I pull my notebook in front of me

and pick up my pen, then begin to write down the

lyrics I’ve put to it.

He has to play the song three times before I fi-

nally get them all out. It’s almost dark now, and

it’s hard to see, so I pick up my phone.

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Me: It’s too dark to read. I’ll go inside and

text them to you, but you have to promise

you’ll never ask me to do this again.

The light from his phone illuminates his smile,

and he nods at me, then picks up his guitar and

walks back inside his apartment.

I go to my room and sit on the bed, wondering

if it’s too late to change my mind. I feel as if this whole conversation just ruined my eight o’clock

patio time. I can’t go back outside and listen to

him ever again. I liked it better when I thought he

didn’t know I was there. It was like my own per-

sonal space with my own personal concert. Now

I’ll be way too aware of him to actually enjoy

listening, and I curse him for ruining that.

I regretfully text him my lyrics, then turn my

phone on silent and leave it on my bed as I go in-

to the living room and try to forget this ever

happened.

Ridge

Holy shit. She’s good. Really good. Brennan is

going to love this. I know if he agrees to use

them, we’ll need her to sign a release, and we’ll

have to pay her something. But it’s worth it, es-

pecially if the rest of her lyrics are as good as

these.

But the question is, will she be willing to help

out? She obviously doesn’t have much confid-

ence in her talent, but that’s the least of my wor-

ries. The biggest worry is how I’ll persuade her

to send me more lyrics. Or how to get her to

write with me. I doubt her boyfriend would go for that. He has to be the biggest jerk I’ve ever laid

eyes on. I can’t believe the balls of that guy, es-

pecially after watching him last night. He comes

outside on the patio and kisses Sydney, cuddling

up to her in the chair like the most attentive boy-

friend in the world. Then, the second she turns

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her back, he’s out on the patio with the other

chick. Sydney must have been in the shower, be-

cause the two of them rushed outside as if they

were on a timer, and the chick had her legs

wrapped around his waist and her mouth on his

faster than I could even blink. And it wasn’t a

first-time occurrence. I’ve seen it happen so

many times I’ve lost count.

It’s really not my place to inform Sydney that

the guy she’s dating is screwing her roommate. I

especially can’t tell her through a text. But if

Maggie were cheating on me, I’d sure as hell

want to know about it. I just don’t know Sydney

well enough to tell her something like that. Usu-

ally, the person to break the news is the one to

catch all the blame, anyway. Especially if the

person being cheated on doesn’t want to believe

it. I could send her an anonymous note, but the

douchebag boyfriend would more than likely be

able to talk his way out of it.

I won’t do anything for now. It’s not my place,

and until I get to know her better, I’m not in a

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position for her to trust me. My phone vibrates in

my pocket, and I pull it out, hoping Sydney de-

cided to send me more lyrics, but the text is from

Maggie.

Maggie: Almost home. See you in two

weeks.

Me: I didn’t say text me when you’re al-

most home. I said text me when you’re

home. Now, stop texting and driving.

Maggie: Okay.

Me: Stop!

Maggie: Okay!

I toss the phone onto the bed and refuse to text

her back. I’m not giving her a reason to text me

again until she makes it home. I walk to the kit-

chen for a beer, then take a seat next to a passed-

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out Warren on the couch. I grab the remote and

hit info to see what he’s watching.

Porn.

Figures. The guy can’t watch anything without

nudity. I start to change the channel, but he

snatches the remote out of my hands. “It’s my

night.”

I don’t know if it was Warren or Bridgette who

decided we should divvy up the TV, but it was

the worst idea ever. Especially since I’m still not

sure which night is actually mine, even though,

technically, this is my apartment. I’m lucky if

either of them pays rent on a quarterly basis. I put

up with it because Warren has been my best

friend since high school, and Bridgette is . . .

well, she’s too mean for me to even want to

strike up a conversation with her. I’ve avoided

that since Brennan let her move in six months

ago. I really don’t have to worry about money

right now, thanks to my job and the cut Brennan

gives me, so I just leave it alone. I still don’t

know how Brennan met Bridgette or how they’re

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involved, but even though their relationship isn’t

sexual, he obviously cares about her. I have no

idea how or why, since she doesn’t have any no-

ticeable redeeming qualities other than how she

looks in her Hooters uniform.

And of course, the second that thought passes

through my head, so do the words Maggie said

when she found out Bridgette was moving in

with us.

“I don’t care if she moves in. The worst thing

that could happen would be for you to cheat on

me. Then I’d have to break up with you, then

your heart would shatter, and we’d both be

miserable for life, and you would be so depressed

you’d never be able to get it up again. So make

sure if you do cheat, it’s the best sex you ever

have, because it’ll also be the last sex you ever

have.”

She doesn’t have to worry about my cheating

on her, but the scenario she painted was enough

to ensure that I don’t even look at Bridgette in

her uniform.

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How in the hell did my thoughts wander this

far?

This is why I’m having writer’s block; I can’t

seem to focus on anything important lately. I go

back to my room to transfer the lyrics Sydney

sent onto paper, and I begin to work out how to

add them to the music. I want to text Sydney to

tell her what I think about them, but I don’t. I

should leave her hanging a little while longer. I

know how nerve-racking it is to send someone a

piece of yourself and then have to sit back and

wait for it to be judged. If I make her wait long

enough, maybe once I tell her how brilliant she

is, she’ll have developed a craving to send me

more.

It might be a little cruel, but she has no idea

how much I need her. Now that I’m pretty sure

I’ve found my muse, I have to work it just right

so she doesn’t slip away.

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