Maybe Someday

Chapter Four

Sydney

I must be in shock. How the hell did the day turn

out like this? How does one girl go from having a

best friend, a boyfriend, a purse, and a roof over

her head to being heartbroken and naked, stand-

ing frozen in a strange shower, staring at the wall

for half an hour straight? I swear to God, if this is some huge elaborate birthday hoax at my expense, I’m never speaking to anyone. Ever again.

Ever.

However, I know it’s not a hoax. A hoax is just

wishful thinking. I knew the second I walked

through the front door and headed straight for

Hunter that everything Ridge had said was true. I

flat-out asked Hunter if he was sleeping with

Tori, and the looks on both of their faces would

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have been comical if they didn’t completely

crush my heart and deplete my trust in one fell

swoop. I wanted to sink to the floor and cry when

he couldn’t deny it. Instead, I walked calmly to

my bedroom and began packing my things.

Tori came into the room, crying. She tried to

tell me it meant nothing, that sex had always

been a casual thing between them, even before

they met me. Hearing her say it meant nothing to

them hurt worse than anything. If it meant

something to either of them, at least I could

vaguely understand their betrayal. But the fact

that she was claiming it meant nothing, yet it still

happened, hurt me more than anything else she

could have possibly said at that moment. I’m

pretty sure that’s when I punched her.

It doesn’t help matters that I lost my job just

minutes after Ridge told me about Hunter and

Tori. I think it’s frowned upon in most libraries

when student workers begin crying and throwing

books at the wall in the middle of their shift. But

I can’t help the fact that I happened to be

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stocking the romance section the second I found

out my boyfriend of two years was sleeping with

my roommate. The sappy, romantic covers on the

cart in front of me just really pissed me off.

I turn the water off in Ridge’s shower and step

out, then get dressed.

I feel better physically after finally getting into

dry clothes, but my heart is growing heavier and

heavier with each passing minute. The more time

that passes by, the more my reality begins to sink

in. In the course of just two hours, I’ve lost the

entire last two years of my life.

That’s a lot of time to invest in two people

who were supposed to be the most trusted people

in my life. I’m not sure if I would have ended up

marrying Hunter or if he would have been the

father of any future children of mine, but it hurts

to know that I trusted him enough to possibly fill

those roles, and he ended up being the opposite

of who I thought he was.

I think the fact that I misjudged him pisses me

off more than the fact that he cheated on me. If I

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can’t even accurately judge the people closest to

me, then I can’t trust anyone. Ever. I hate them for taking that away from me. Now, no matter

who comes into my life after this, I’ll always be

skeptical.

I walk back into the living room, and all the

lights are out except for a lamp beside the couch.

I look at my phone, and it’s barely after nine.

Several texts came through while I was in the

shower, so I take a seat on the couch and scroll

through them.

Hunter: Please call me. We need to talk.

Tori: I’m not mad at you for hitting me.

Please call me.

Hunter: I’m worried about you. Where are

you?

Ridge: I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

Are you okay?

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Hunter: I’ll bring your purse to you. Just

tell me where you are.

I drop the phone onto the coffee table and sink

back onto the couch. I have no idea what I’m go-

ing to do. Of course, I never want to speak to

either of them again, but where does that put me?

I can’t afford my own apartment right now, since

financial aid doesn’t come in for another month. I

don’t have enough money in savings to put down

a deposit plus get all the utilities turned on until

then. The majority of the friends I’ve made since

I’ve been going to school here still live in dorms,

so staying with them is out of the question. I’m

basically left with two options: Call my parents,

or enter into some odd plural relationship with

Hunter and Tori in order to save money.

Neither option is one I’m willing to entertain

tonight. I’m just thankful that Ridge allowed me

to stay at his place. At least I’m saving money on

a hotel room. I have no idea where I’ll go when I

wake up in the morning, but that’s still a good

twelve hours away. Until then, I’ll just continue

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to hate the entire universe while I feel sorry for

myself.

And what better way to feel sorry for myself

than while getting drunk?

I need alcohol. Bad.

I walk to the kitchen and begin to scan the cab-

inets. I hear the door to Ridge’s bedroom open. I

glance over my shoulder at him as he comes out

of his room.

His hair is definitely light brown. Take that,

Tori.

He’s in a faded T-shirt and jeans, and he’s

barefoot, eyeing me inquisitively as he makes his

way into the kitchen. I feel a little embarrassed

for being caught rummaging through his cabin-

ets, so I turn away from him before he sees me

blush.

“I need a drink,” I say. “You got any alcohol?”

He’s staring down at his phone, texting again.

He either can’t do two things at once, or he’s up-

set because I had an attitude with him today.

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“I’m sorry if I was a bitch to you, Ridge, but

you have to admit, my response was a little justi-

fied considering the day I’ve had.”

He casually slips his phone into his pocket and

looks at me from across the bar, but he chooses

not to respond to my half-assed apology. He

purses his lips and cocks an eyebrow.

I’d like to smack that cocky eyebrow back

down where it belongs. What the hell is his prob-

lem? The worst thing I did to him was flip him

off.

I roll my eyes and shut the last cabinet, then

walk back to the couch. He’s really being a jerk,

considering my situation. From the little time

I’ve known him, I was under the impression that

he was actually a nice guy, but I’d almost rather

go back to my own apartment with Tori and

Hunter.

I pick up my phone, expecting another text

from Hunter, but it’s from Ridge.

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Ridge: If you aren’t going to look at me

when you speak, you might want to stick

to texting.

I read the text several times, trying to make

sense of it, but no matter how many times I read

it, I don’t understand it. I grow concerned that

maybe he’s a little weird and I need to leave. I

look at him, and he’s watching me. He can see

the confusion on my face, but he still doesn’t ex-

plain himself. Instead, he resumes texting. When

my phone receives another message, I look at the

screen.

Ridge: I’m deaf, Sydney.

Deaf?

Oh.

Wait. Deaf?

But how? We’ve had so many conversations.

The last few weeks of knowing him and talk-

ing to him flash through my memory, and I can’t

recall a single time I’ve actually heard him speak.

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Is that why Bridgette thought I was deaf?

I stare at my phone, sinking into a heap of em-

barrassment. I’m not sure how to feel about this.

I’m sure that feeling betrayed isn’t a fair re-

sponse, but I can’t help it. I feel I need to tack

this onto the “Ways the world can betray Sydney

on her birthday” list. Not only did he not tell me

he knew my boyfriend was screwing around on

me, but he also failed to mention that he’s deaf?

Not that being deaf is something he should feel

obliged to tell me. I just . . . I don’t know. I feel a little hurt that he didn’t share that fact with me.

Me: Why didn’t you tell me you were

deaf?

Ridge: Why didn’t you tell me you could

hear?

I tilt my head as I read his text and flood with

even more humiliation. He makes a very good

point.

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Oh, well. At least he won’t hear me cry myself

to sleep tonight.

Me: Do you have any alcohol?

Ridge reads my text and laughs, then nods. He

walks to the cabinet below the sink and pulls out

a container of Pine-Sol. He takes two glasses out

of the cabinet, then proceeds to fill them with . . .

cleaning liquid?

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

When he doesn’t turn around, I slap myself in

the forehead, remembering he can’t hear me.

This will take some getting used to. I walk to

where he’s standing. When he sets the Pine-Sol

down on the counter and picks up both glasses, I

grab the bottle of cleaning solution and read it,

then arch an eyebrow. He laughs and hands me a

glass. He sniffs his drink, then motions for me to

do the same. I hesitantly bring it to my nose and

am met with the burning scent of whiskey. He

holds the glass out, clinks it to mine, and we both

down our shots. I’m still recovering from the

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awful taste when he picks up his phone and texts

me again.

Ridge: Our other roommate has an issue

with alcohol, so we have to hide it from

him.

Me: Is his issue that he hates it?

Ridge: His issue is that he doesn’t like to

pay for it himself and he drinks everyone

else’s.

I nod, set my phone back down, grab the con-

tainer, and pour us each another shot. We repeat

the motions, downing the second one. I grimace

as the burn spreads its way down my throat and

through my chest. I shake my head, then open my

eyes.

“Can you read lips?” I ask.

He shrugs, then grabs a piece of paper and a

pen conveniently placed on the counter next to

him. Depends on the lips.

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I guess that makes sense. “Can you read

mine?”

He nods and takes the pen again. Mostly. I’ve

learned to anticipate what people are going to

say more than anything. I take most of my cues

from body language and the situations I’m in.

“What do you mean?” I ask, pushing on the

counter with my palms and hopping up onto the

bar. I’ve never met anyone who couldn’t hear be-

fore. I didn’t realize I was full of so many ques-

tions. It could be that I’m already feeling a buzz

or I just don’t want him to go back to his room

yet. I don’t want to be left alone to think about

Hunter and Tori.

Ridge sets the notepad down and picks up my

phone, then tosses it to me. He pulls one of the

bar stools out and sits on it next to where I’m

seated on the counter.

Ridge: If I’m at the store and a cashier

speaks to me, I can mostly guess what

they’re asking. Same thing with a waitress

at a restaurant. It’s pretty simple to

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gather what people are saying when it’s a

routine conversation.

Me: But what about right now? This isn’t

routine. I doubt you have many homeless

girls spend the night on your couch, so

how do you know what I’m saying?

Ridge: Because you’re basically asking me

the same questions as anyone else who

initially finds out I can’t hear. It’s the

same conversation, just different people.

This comment bothers me, because I don’t

want to seem like those kinds of people at all. It

has to get old, having to field the same questions

over and over.

Me: Well, I don’t really want to know

about it, then. Let’s change the subject.

Ridge looks up at me and smiles.

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Damn. I don’t know if it’s the whiskey or the

fact that I’ve been single for two hours, but that

smile does some serious flirting with my

stomach.

Ridge: Let’s talk about music.

“Okay,” I say with a nod.

Ridge: I wanted to talk to you about this

tonight. You know, before I ruined your

life and all that. I want you to write lyrics

for my band. For the songs I have written

and maybe some future songs if you’re up

for it.

I pause before responding to him. My initial

response is to ask him about his band, because

I’ve been dying to see this guy perform. My

second response is to ask him how the hell he can

play a guitar if he can’t hear, but again, I don’t

want to be one of “those people.” My third re-

sponse is to automatically say no, because

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agreeing to give someone lyrics is a lot of pres-

sure. Pressure I don’t really want right now, since

my life has pretty much taken a nosedive today.

I shake my head. “No. I don’t think I want to

do that.”

Ridge: We would pay you.

That gets my attention. I suddenly feel an op-

tion three making its way into the picture.

Me: What kind of pay are we talking

about? I still think you’re insane for want-

ing me to help you write lyrics, but you

may have caught me at a very desperate

and destitute moment, being as though

I’m homeless and could use some extra

money.

Ridge: Why do you keep referring to your-

self as homeless? Do you not have a place

to stay?

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Me: Well, I could stay with my parents,

but that would mean I’d have to transfer

schools my senior year, and it would put

me about two semesters behind. I could

also stay with my roommate, but I don’t

know how much I’d like to hear her

screwing my boyfriend of two years at

night while I try to sleep.

Ridge: You’re a smartass.

Me: Yeah, I guess I’ve got that going for

me.

Ridge: You can stay here. We’re kind of in

search of a fourth roommate. If it means

you’ll help us with the songs, you can stay

for free until you get back on your feet.

I read the text twice, slowly. I shake my head.

Ridge: Just until you can get your own

place.

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Me: No. I don’t even know you. Besides,

your Hooters girlfriend already hates me.

Ridge laughs at that comment.

Ridge: Bridgette is not my girlfriend. And

she’s hardly ever here, so you don’t have

to worry about her.

Me: This is too weird.

Ridge: What other option do you have? I

saw you didn’t even have cab fare earlier.

You’re pretty much at my mercy.

Me: I have cab fare. I left my purse in my

apartment, and I didn’t want to go back

up to get it, so I didn’t have a way to pay

the driver.

Ridge frowns when he reads my text.

Ridge: I’ll go with you to get it if you need

it.

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I look up at him. “Are you sure?” I ask.

He smiles and walks toward the front door, so

I follow him.

Ridge

It’s still raining out, and I know she just put on

dry clothes after her shower, so once we reach

the bottom of the stairwell, I pull my phone out

and text her.

Me: Wait here so you don’t get wet again.

I’ll go get it myself.

She reads the text and shakes her head, then

looks back up at me. “No. I’m going with you.”

I can’t help but appreciate the fact that she

doesn’t respond to my being deaf the way I ex-

pect her to. Most people become uneasy once

they aren’t sure how to communicate with me.

The majority of them raise their voices and talk

slowly, sort of like Bridgette. I guess they think

being louder will somehow miraculously make

me hear again. However, it does nothing but

force me to contain my laughter while they talk

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to me as if I’m an idiot. Granted, I know people

don’t do it to be disrespectful. It’s just simple ig-

norance, and that’s fine. I’m so used to it I don’t

even notice anymore.

However, I did notice Sydney’s reaction . . .

because there really wasn’t one. As soon as she

found out, she just propped herself up on the

counter and continued talking to me, even though

she moved from speaking to texting. And it helps

that she’s a fast texter.

We run across the courtyard until we reach the

base of the stairs that lead up to her apartment. I

begin walking up and notice that she’s frozen at

the bottom of the stairs. The look in her eyes is

nervous, and I instantly feel bad for not realizing

how hard this must be for her. I know she’s prob-

ably hurting a lot more than she’s letting on.

Learning that your best friend and your boyfriend

have betrayed you has to be difficult, and it

hasn’t even been a day since she found out. I

walk back down the stairs and grab her hand,

then smile at her reassuringly. I tug on her hand;

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she takes a deep breath and walks with me up the

stairs. She taps me on the shoulder before we

reach her door, and I turn around.

“Can I wait here?” she says. “I don’t want to

see them.”

I nod, relieved that her lips are easy to read.

“But cow well you ass therefore my bird?” she

says.

Or I think that’s what she said. I laugh, knowing I more than likely completely misread her

lips. She says it again when she sees the confu-

sion on my face, but I still don’t understand her. I

hold up my phone so she can text me.

Sydney: But how will you ask them for my

purse?

Yeah. I was a little off on that one.

Me: I’ll get your purse, Sydney. Wait

here.

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She nods. I type out a text as I walk to the

front door and knock. A minute passes, and no

one comes to the door, so I knock again, with

more force, thinking maybe my first knock was

too soft to be heard. The doorknob turns, and

Sydney’s friend appears in the doorway. She eyes

me curiously for a second, then glances behind

her. The door opens wider, and Hunter appears,

eyeing me suspiciously. He says something that

looks like “Can I help you?” I hold up the text

that says I’m here for Sydney’s purse, and he

looks down and reads it, then shakes his head.

“Who the hell are you?” he says, apparently

not liking the fact that I’m here on Sydney’s be-

half. The girl disappears from the doorway, and

he opens the door even farther, then folds his

arms over his chest and glares at me. I motion to

my ear and shake my head, letting him know that

I can’t hear what he’s saying.

He pauses, then throws his head back and

laughs and disappears from the doorway. I glance

to Sydney, who is standing nervously at the top

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of the stairs, watching me. Her face is pale, and I

give her a wink, letting her know everything is

okay. Hunter comes back, slaps a piece of paper

against the door, and writes on it. He holds the

paper up for me to read.

Are you f*cking her?

Jesus, what a prick. I motion for the pen and

paper, and he hands them to me. I write my re-

sponse and hand it back to him. He looks down at

the paper, and his jaw tightens. He crumples up

the paper, drops it to the floor, and then, before I

can react, his fist is coming at me.

I accept the hit, knowing I should have been

prepared for it. The girl reappears, and I can tell

she’s screaming, although I have no idea whom

she’s screaming at or what she’s saying. As soon

as I take a step back from the doorway, Sydney is

in front of me, rushing into the apartment. My

eyes follow her as she runs down the hallway,

disappears into a room, and comes back out

clutching a purse. The girl steps in front of her

and places her hands on Sydney’s shoulders, but

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Sydney pulls her arm back, makes a fist, and

punches the girl in the face.

Hunter tries to step in front of Sydney to block

her from leaving, so I tap him on the shoulder.

When he turns around, I punch him square in the

nose, and he stumbles back. Sydney’s eyes go

wide, and she looks back at me. I grab her hand

and pull her out of the apartment, toward the

stairs.

Luckily, the rain has finally stopped, so we

both break into a run back toward my apartment.

I glance behind me a couple of times to make

sure neither of them is following us. Once we

make it back across the courtyard and up my

stairs, I swing open the door and step aside so she

can run in. I shut the door behind us and bend

over, clasping my knees with my hands to catch

my breath.

What an a*shole. I’m not sure what Sydney

saw in him, but the fact that she dated him makes

me question her judgment a little bit.

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I glance up at her, expecting to see her in tears,

but instead, she’s laughing. She’s sitting on the

floor, attempting to catch her breath, laughing

hysterically. I can’t help but smile, seeing her re-

action. And the fact that she punched that girl

right in the face without a moment’s hesitation?

I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s tougher than I

first thought.

She looks up at me and inhales a calming

breath, then mouths the words thank you, while holding up her purse. She stands up and brushes

the wet hair out of her face, then walks to the kit-

chen and opens a few drawers until she finds a

dishtowel and pulls it out. She wets it under the

faucet, turns around, and motions me over. When

I reach her, I lean against the counter while she

takes my chin and angles my face to the left. She

presses the towel to my lip, and I wince. I didn’t

even realize it was hurting until she touched it.

She pulls the rag back, and there’s blood on it, so

she rinses it under the faucet and puts it back up

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to my mouth. I notice that her own hand is red. I

take it and inspect it. It’s already swelling.

I pull the rag from her hand and wipe the rest

of the blood off my face, then grab a ziplock bag

out of the cabinet, go to the freezer, and fill it

with ice. I take her hand and press the ice onto it,

letting her know she needs to keep it there. I lean

against the counter next to her and pull my phone

out.

Me: You hit her good. Your hand is

already swelling.

She texts me with one hand, keeping the ice on

top of the other as she rests it on the counter.

Sydney: It could be because that wasn’t

the first time I’ve punched her today. Or it

could also be swollen because you aren’t

the first one to punch Hunter today.

Me: Wow. I’m impressed. Or terrified. Is

three punches your daily average?

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Sydney: Three punches is now my lifetime

average.

I laugh.

She shrugs and sets her phone down, then pulls

the ice off her hand and brings it back up to my

mouth. “Your lip is swelling,” she says.

My hands are clenching the countertop behind

me. I become increasingly uneasy with how com-

fortable she is with all this. Thoughts of Maggie

flash through my head, and I can’t help but won-

der if she’d be okay with this scenario if she were

to walk through the front door right now.

I need a distraction.

Me: You want birthday cake?

She smiles and nods.

Me: I probably shouldn’t drive, since

you’ve turned me into a raging alcoholic

tonight, but if you feel like walking, Park’s

Diner makes a damn good dessert, and

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it’s less than a mile from here. Pretty sure

the rain is over.

“Let me change,” she says, motioning to her

clothes. She pulls clothes from her suitcase, then

heads to the bathroom. I put the top on the Pine-

Sol and hide it back under the cabinet.

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