Maybe Someday

Chapter Six

Sydney

I continue to stare at the words in the notebook.

Is he right? Did I write them because that’s

how I really feel?

I never give it much thought when I write lyr-

ics, because I’ve always felt no one would read

them, so it doesn’t matter what the meaning is

behind the words. But now that I think about it,

maybe the fact that I don’t give them much

thought proves that they really are a reflection of

how I feel. To me, lyrics are harder to write when

you have to invent the feelings behind them.

That’s when lyrics take a lot of thought, when

they aren’t genuine.

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Oh, wow. Ridge is absolutely right. I wrote

these lyrics weeks ago, long before I knew about

Hunter and Tori.

I lean back against the headboard and open my

laptop again.

Me: Okay, you win.

Ridge: It’s not a competition. Just trying

to help you see that maybe this breakup

is exactly what you needed. I don’t know

you very well, but based on the lyrics you

wrote, I’m guessing you’ve been craving

the chance to be on your own for a while

now.

Me: Well you claim not to know me very

well, but you seem to know me better

than I know myself.

Ridge: I only know what you told me in

those lyrics. Speaking of which, you feel

like running through them? I was about to

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compile them with the music to send to

Brennan and could use your ears. Pun

intended.

I laugh and elbow him.

Me: Sure. What do I do?

He stands and picks up his guitar, then nods

his head toward the balcony. I don’t want to go

out on that balcony. I don’t care if I was ready to

leave Hunter, I sure wasn’t ready to leave Tori.

And being out there will be too much of a

distraction.

I crinkle my nose and shake my head. He

glances across the courtyard at my apartment,

then pulls his lips into a tight, thin line and

slowly nods his head in understanding. He walks

over to the bed and sits on the mattress next to

me.

Ridge: I want you to sing the lyrics while I

play. I’ll watch you so I can make sure

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we’re on the same page with where they

need to be placed on the sheet music.

Me: No. I’m not singing in front of you.

He huffs and rolls his eyes.

Ridge: Are you afraid I’ll laugh at how aw-

ful you sound? I can’t HEAR YOU,

SYDNEY!

He’s smiling his irritating smile at me.

Me: Shut up. Fine.

He sets the phone down and begins playing the

song. When the lyrics are supposed to come in,

he looks up, and I freeze. Not because I’m

nervous, though. I freeze because I’m doing that

thing again where I’m holding my breath because

seeing him play is just . . . he’s incredible.

He doesn’t miss a beat when I skip my intro.

He just starts over from the beginning and plays

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the opening again. I shake myself out of my

pathetic awe and begin singing the words. I

would probably never be singing lyrics in front of

anyone one-on-one like this, but it helps that he

can’t hear me. He does stare pretty hard, though,

which is a little unnerving.

He pauses after every stanza and makes notes

on a page. I lean over and look at what he’s writ-

ing. He’s putting musical notes on blank sheet-

music paper, along with the lyrics.

He points to one of the lines, then grabs his

phone.

Ridge: What key do you sing this line in?

Me: B.

Ridge: Do you think it would sound better

if you took it a little higher?

Me: I don’t know. I guess we could try.

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He plays the second part of the song again, and

I take his advice and sing in a higher key. Sur-

prisingly, he’s right. It does sound better.

“How did you know that?” I ask.

He shrugs.

Ridge: I just do.

Me: But how? If you can’t hear, how do

you know what sounds good and what

doesn’t?

Ridge: I don’t need to hear it. I feel it.

I shake my head, not understanding. I can

maybe understand how he’s taught himself to

play a guitar. With enough practice and a good

teacher and maybe a ton of studying, it’s possible

for him to play as he does. But that doesn’t ex-

plain how he can know which key a voice should

be in and especially which key sounds better.

Ridge: What’s wrong? You look confused.

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Me: I AM confused. I don’t understand

how you can differentiate between vibra-

tions or however you say you feel it. I’m

beginning to think you and Warren are

trying to pull off the ultimate prank and

you’re only pretending to be deaf.

Ridge laughs, then scoots back on the bed until

his back meets the headboard. He sits up straight

and holds his guitar to his side. He spreads his

legs, then pats the empty spot between them.

What the hell? I hope my eyes aren’t open as

wide as I think they are. There’s no way I’m sit-

ting that close to him. I shake my head.

He rolls his eyes and picks up his phone.

Ridge: Come here. I want to show you

how I feel it. Get over yourself, and stop

thinking I’m trying to seduce you.

I hesitate a few more seconds, but the agitation

on his face makes me think I’m being a little im-

mature. I crawl forward, then turn around and

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carefully sit in front of him with my back to his

chest but with several inches between us. He

pulls the guitar in front of me and wraps his other

arm around me until he’s holding it in position.

He pulls it closer, which pushes me flush against

him. Ridge reaches down to his side and picks up

his phone.

Ridge: I’m going to play a chord, and I

want you to tell me where you feel it.

I nod, and he brings his hand back to the gui-

tar. He plays a chord and repeats it a few times,

then pauses. I grab my phone.

Me: I felt it in your guitar.

He shakes his head and picks up his phone

again.

Ridge: I know you felt it in the guitar,

dummy. But where in your body did you

feel it?

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Me: Play it again.

I close my eyes this time and try to take this

seriously. I’ve asked him how he feels it, and

he’s trying to show me, so the least I can do is try

to understand. He plays the chord a few times,

and I’m really trying hard to concentrate, but I

feel the vibration everywhere, especially in the

guitar pressed against my chest.

Me: It’s hard for me, Ridge. It just feels

like it’s everywhere.

He pushes me forward, and I scoot up. He sets

the guitar down, stands up, and walks out of the

bedroom. I wait for him, curious about what he’s

doing. When he comes back, he’s holding

something in his fist. He holds his fist out, so I

hold up my palm.

Earplugs.

He slides in behind me, and I scoot back

against his chest again, then put the earplugs in. I

close my eyes and lean my head back against his

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shoulder. He wraps his arms around me and picks

up his guitar, pulling it against my chest. I can

feel his head rest lightly against mine, and the in-

timate way we’re seated suddenly registers. I’ve

never sat like this with someone I wasn’t seri-

ously dating.

It’s odd, because it seems so natural with him.

Not at all as if he’s got anything other than music

on his mind. I like that about him, because if I

were pressed up against Warren like this, I’m

positive his hands wouldn’t be on the guitar.

I can feel his arms moving slightly, so I know

he’s playing, even though I can’t hear it. I con-

centrate on the vibration and focus all my atten-

tion on the movement inside my chest. When I’m

able to pinpoint exactly where I feel it, I bring

my hand to my chest and pat it. I can feel him

nod his head, and then he continues playing.

I can still feel it in my chest, but it’s much

lower this time. I move my hand down, and he

nods again.

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I pull away from him and turn around to face

him.

“Wow.”

He lifts his shoulders and smiles shyly. It’s

adorable.

Me: This is crazy. I still don’t understand

how you can play an instrument like this,

but I know how you feel it now.

He shrugs off my compliment, and I love how

modest he is, because he clearly has more talent

than anyone I’ve ever met.

“Wow,” I say again, shaking my head.

Ridge: Stop. I don’t like compliments. It’s

awkward.

I set down my phone and we both move back

to the laptops.

Me: Well, you shouldn’t be so impressive,

then. I don’t think you realize what an

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incredible gift you have, Ridge. I know

you say you work hard at it, but so do

thousands of people who can hear, and

they can’t put together songs like you

can. I mean, I can maybe understand the

whole guitar thing now that you’ve ex-

plained it, but what about the voices? How

in the heck can you know what a voice

sounds like and what key it needs to be

in?

Ridge: Actually, I can’t differentiate the

sounds of a voice. I’ve never felt a person

sing the way I “listen” to a guitar. I can

place vocals to a song and develop melod-

ies because I’ve studied a lot of songs and

have learned which keys match up to

which notes, based on the written form of

music. It doesn’t just come naturally. I

work hard at this. I love the idea of music,

and even though I can’t hear it, I’ve

learned to understand and appreciate it in

a different way. I’ve had to work harder at

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the melodies. There are times I’ll write a

song, and Brennan will tell me we can’t

use it because it either sounds too much

like an existing song or it doesn’t actually

sound good to hearing ears like I assumed

it would.

He can downplay this all he wants, but I’m

convinced I’m sitting next to a musical genius. I

hate that he thinks his ability comes from work-

ing so hard at it. I mean, I’m sure it helps, be-

cause all talents have to be nurtured in order to

excel, even for the gifted. But his talent is mind-

blowing. It makes me hurt for him, knowing what

he could do with his gift if he could hear.

Me: Can you hear anything? At all?

He shakes his head.

Ridge: I’ve worn hearing aids before, but

they were more inconvenient than helpful.

I have profound hearing loss, so they

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didn’t help at all when it came to hearing

voices or my guitar. When I used them, I

could tell there were noises, but I couldn’t

decipher them. In all honesty, hearing

aids were a constant reminder that I

couldn’t hear. Without them, I don’t even

think about it.

Me: What made you want to learn guitar,

knowing you would never be able to hear

it?

Ridge: Brennan. He wanted to learn when

we were kids, so we learned together.

Me: The guy who used to live here? How

long have you known him?

Ridge: 21 years. He’s my little brother.

Me: Is he in your band?

Ridge glances at me in confusion.

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Ridge: Have I not told you about our

band?

I shake my head.

Ridge: He’s the singer. He also plays

guitar.

Me: When do you play next? I want to

watch.

He laughs.

Ridge: I don’t play. It’s kind of complic-

ated. Brennan insists that I have as much

stake in the ownership of the band as he

does because I write the majority of the

music, which is why I refer to myself as

being part of the band sometimes. I think

it’s ridiculous, but he’s convinced we

wouldn’t be where we are at this point

without me, so I agree to it for now. But

with the success I think he’s about to

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have, I’ll make him renegotiate eventu-

ally. I don’t like feeling as though I’m tak-

ing advantage of him.

Me: If he doesn’t feel that way, then you

definitely shouldn’t feel that way. And why

don’t you play with them?

Ridge: I have a few times. It’s kind of dif-

ficult, not being able to hear everything

else going on with the band during a

song, so I feel like I throw them off when

I play with them. Besides, they’re on tour

right now, and I can’t travel, so I’ve just

been sending him the stuff I write.

Me: Why can’t you tour with them? Don’t

you work from home?

Ridge: Other obligations. But next time

they’re in Austin, I’ll take you.

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I’ll take you. I think I like that part of his message a little too much.

Me: What’s the name of the band?

Ridge: Sounds of Cedar.

I slam my laptop shut and swing my eyes to

his. “Shut up!” He nods, then reaches down

and opens my laptop again.

Ridge: You’ve heard of us?

Me: Yes. Everyone on campus has heard

of your band, considering they played al-

most every single weekend last year.

Hunter loves you guys.

Ridge: Ah. Well, this is the first time I’ve

ever wished we had one less fan. So

you’ve seen Brennan play?

Me: I only went with Hunter once, and it

was one of the last shows, but yes. I think

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I may have most of the songs on my

phone, actually.

Ridge: Wow. Small world. We are close to

a record deal. That’s why I’ve been

stressing so much about these songs. And

why you need to help me.

Me: OMG! I just realized I’m writing lyrics

for SOUNDS OF CEDAR!!!

I slide my laptop over, then roll onto my stom-

ach and squeal into the mattress while I kick my

legs up and down.

Holy crap! This is too cool.

I compose myself, ignoring Ridge’s laughter,

then sit up straight again and grab my laptop.

Me: So you wrote most of those songs?

He nods.

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Me: Did you write the lyrics to the song

“Something”?

He nods again. I seriously can’t believe this is

happening right now. Knowing he wrote those

lyrics and now I’m sitting here next to him is ex-

citing me way too much.

Me: I’m about to listen to your song.

Since you get to decipher my lyrics, it’s

my turn to decipher yours.

Ridge: I wrote that song two years ago.

Me: Still. It came from you. From some-

where inside you, Ridge. ;)

He picks up a pillow and throws it at my head.

I laugh and scroll through the music folder on my

phone until I find the song, and I hit play.

SOMETHING

I keep on wondering why

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I can’t say ’bye to you

And the only thing I can

think of is the truth

It’s hard to start over

Keep checkin’ that rearview, too

But something’s coming

Something right for you

Just wait a bit longer

You’ll find something you wanted

Something you needed

Something you want to have repeated

Oh, that feeling’s all right

You’ll find that if you listen

Between all the kissing

What made it work

Wound up missing

Oh, that seems about right

I guess I thought that we would

Always stay the same

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And I can tell that you find

Somebody to blame

And I know in my heart,

In my mind, it’s all a game

Our hopes and wishes

Won’t relight the flame

Just wait a bit longer

You’ll find something you wanted

Something you needed

Something you want to have repeated

Oh, that feeling’s all right

You’ll find that if you listen

Between all the kissing

What made it work

Wound up missing

Oh, that seems about right

You don’t ever have to wonder

’Cause you will always know

That what we had was for sure

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For sure

Now that thing is no more

No more

You’ll find what you wanted

You’ll find what you needed

You’ll find what you wanted

You’ll find what you needed

You’ll find what you needed

When the song ends, I sit back up on the bed. I

would ask him about the lyrics and the meaning

behind them right now, but I’m not sure I want

to. I want to listen to it again without him watch-

ing me, because it’s really hard to concentrate

when he’s staring at me. He’s resting his chin in

his hands, casually watching me. I try to hide my

grin, but it’s hard. I see a smile spread across his

lips before he looks down at his phone.

Ridge: Why do I feel like you’re fangirling

right now?

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Probably because I am.

Me: I’m not fangirling. Don’t flatter your-

self. I’ve witnessed how evil you can be

with your revenge schemes, and I’ve been

exposed to your severe alcoholism, so I’m

not as enamored with you as I could be.

Ridge: My father was a severe alcoholic.

Your jokes are a little off-putting.

I look up at him apologetically and with a hint

of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I was kidding.”

Ridge: I’m kidding, too.

I kick him in the knee and glare at him.

Ridge: Well, sort of kidding. My father

really is a raging alcoholic, but I don’t give

a shit if you joke about it.

Me: I can’t now. You ruined the fun.

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He laughs, and it’s followed by an awkward

moment of silence. I grin and drop my eyes back

to my phone.

Me: OMG. Can I have your autograph?

He rolls his eyes.

Me: Please? And can I have my picture

taken with you? OMG, I’m in Ridge

Lawson’s bed!

I’m laughing, but Ridge isn’t finding me

amusing.

Me: Ridge Lawson, will you sign my

boobs?

He puts his laptop down beside him, leans over

to his nightstand and picks up a marker, then

turns back to me.

I don’t really want his autograph. Surely he knows I’m kidding.

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He pulls the lid off the marker, swiftly lunges

across the bed, and knocks me onto my back,

bringing the marker to my forehead.

He’s trying to sign my face?

I lift my legs and create a barrier with my

knees as I try to force his hands away.

Dammit, he’s strong.

He puts one of my hands under his knee and

locks my arm to the bed. His other arm grabs my

arm that’s pushing his face away, and he pushes

that hand to the bed, too. I’m screaming and

laughing and trying to turn my face away from

him, but every time I move, the marker moves

over my face while he tries to sign his name.

I’m unable to overpower him, so I eventually

sigh and hold my head still so he’ll stop drawing

all over my face.

He hops up, puts the lid back on the marker,

and smirks at me.

I reach over to my laptop.

Me: You are no longer my prank master.

This has officially turned into a three-way

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war. Excuse me while I go Google my

revenge.

I fold up my laptop and walk quietly out of the

room while he laughs at me. As I head through

the living room toward my bedroom, Warren

glances at me. Twice.

“Should have stayed in here and watched porn

with me,” he says, taking in the marker all over

my face.

I ignore his comment. “Ridge and I just fin-

ished discussing TV rules,” I lie. “I get

Thursdays.”

“No, you don’t,” Warren says. “Tomorrow is

Thursday. I watch Thursday-night porn on

Thursday.”

“Not anymore you don’t. Guess you should

have asked about my television habits when you

were interviewing me.”

He groans. “Fine. You can have Thursdays,

but only if you wear that dress you had on

earlier.”

I laugh. “I’m burning that dress.”

Ridge

“Why’d you give Sydney the TV tonight?” War-

ren signs. He drops onto the couch next to me.

“You know I love Thursday night. I’m off work

on Fridays.”

“I never talked to Sydney about TV nights.”

He glances toward Sydney’s bedroom door

with a scowl on his face. “What a little liar. How

did you meet her, anyway?”

“Music-related. She’s writing lyrics for the

band.”

Warren’s eyes bulge, and he straightens up on

the couch, turning to look at me as if I’ve just be-

trayed him.

“Don’t you think this is something your man-

ager should know about?”

I laugh and sign back to him. “Good point.

Hey, Warren, Sydney is officially writing lyrics

for us.”

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He frowns. “And don’t you think your man-

ager should have discussed a financial arrange-

ment with her? What percentage are we giving

her?”

“We’re not. She feels guilty taking a percent-

age while she’s not paying rent, so we’re good

for now.”

He’s standing now, glaring down at me. “How

do you know you can trust her? And what if

something happens with a song she helped write?

What if it makes the cut on the album and she

suddenly decides she wants a percentage? And

why the hell aren’t you writing the lyrics

anymore?”

I sigh. We’ve been over this so many times it’s

making my head hurt. “I can’t. You know I can’t.

It’s just for a little while, until I get over my

block. And calm down, she’s agreed to sign over

anything she helps with.”

He drops back onto the couch, frustrated. “Just

don’t add any more people to our band without

consulting me first, okay? I feel like I’m being

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shut out when you don’t include me.” He folds

his arms across his chest and pouts.

“Is sweet little Warren pouting?” I lean for-

ward and wrap my arms around him, and he tries

to shove me off. I climb on top of him and kiss

his cheek, and he starts hitting me in the arm, try-

ing to pull away from my grasp. I laugh and let

go of his face, then look up at Sydney, who just

walked into the room. She’s staring at us. Warren

slides his hand up my thigh and lays his head on

my shoulder. I reach up and pat his cheek while

we both stare up at her, straight-faced. She

shakes her head slowly and walks back into her

bedroom.

As soon as her bedroom door closes, we

separate.

“I wish I hated Bridgette a little more than I do

at night, because Sydney definitely needs me,”

Warren signs.

I laugh, knowing Sydney is more than likely

swearing off guys based on the week she’s had.

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“That girl doesn’t need anything other than the

opportunity to be alone for a while.”

Warren shakes his head. “No, that girl defin-

itely needs me. I wonder how I can pull off an

elaborate prank that involves her agreeing to

have sex with me.”

“Bridgette,” I remind him. I don’t know why I

remind him. I never remind him about Bridgette

when he talks about other girls.

“You’re a dream crusher,” he signs, falling

back against the couch at the same moment I re-

ceive a text.

Sydney: Can I ask you a question?

Me: As long as you promise never again

to start a question off with whether or not

you can propose a question.

Sydney: Okay, a*shole. I know I shouldn’t

be thinking about him at all, but I’m curi-

ous. What did he write on that paper

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when we went to get my purse? And what

did you write back that made him hit you?

Me: I agree that you shouldn’t be thinking

about him at all, but I’m honestly shocked

it’s taken you this long to ask me about it.

Sydney: Well?

Ugh. I hate writing it verbatim, but she wants

to know, so . . .

Me: He wrote, “Are you f*cking her?”

Sydney: OMG! What a prick!

Me: Yep.

Sydney: So what did you say back to him

that made him punch you?

Me: I wrote, “Why do you think I’m here

for her purse? I gave her a hundred for

tonight, and now she owes me change.”

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I reread the text, and I’m not so sure it sounds

as funny as I thought it did.

My eyes dart up to her bedroom door, which is

now swinging open. She runs into the living

room, directly toward the couch. I don’t know if

it’s the look on her face or the hands that are

coming at me, but I immediately cover my head

and duck behind Warren. He doesn’t really like

being used as a human shield, though, so he

jumps off the couch. She continues slapping at

my arms until I’m curled up in a fetal position on

the couch. I’m trying not to laugh, but she hits

like a girl. This is nothing compared to what I

saw her do to Tori.

She backs away, and I reluctantly uncover my

head. She marches back to her room, and I watch

as she slams her door.

Warren is now standing next to the couch with

his hands on his hips. He looks at me, then looks

back at Sydney’s door. He puts his palms up and

shakes his head, then retreats into his bedroom.

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I should probably apologize to her. It was just

a joke, but I guess I can see how it would piss her

off. I knock on her door a couple of times. She

doesn’t open it, so I text her.

Me: Can I come in?

Sydney: That depends. Do you have any

bills smaller than a hundred this time?

Me: It seemed funny at the time. I’m

sorry.

A few seconds pass, and then her door opens

and she steps aside. I raise my eyebrows and

smile, attempting to look innocent. She shoots

me a dirty look and walks back to her bed.

Sydney: It wasn’t what I would have

wanted you to say, but I can see why you

said it. He’s a jerk, and I probably would

have wanted to piss him off in that mo-

ment, too.

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Me: He is a jerk, but I probably should

have responded differently. I’m sorry.

Sydney: Yes, you should have. Maybe in-

stead of insinuating that I was a whore,

you could have gone with “If I could only

be so lucky.”

I laugh at her comment, then offer up another

alternative answer.

Me: I could have gone with “Only when

you’re being faithful to her. Which is

never.”

Sydney: Or you could have said, “No, I’m

not. I’m madly in love with Warren.”

At least she’s making jokes about it. I really do

feel sort of bad for saying that to him, but it felt

oddly appropriate at the time.

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Me: We didn’t really get any work done

last night. Are you in the mood to make

beautiful music together?

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