Chapter Seven
Sydney
Ridge puts down his guitar for the first time in
more than an hour. We haven’t texted at all, be-
cause we’ve been on a roll. It’s pretty cool how
well we seem to work together. He plays a song
over and over while I lie across his bed with a
notebook in front of me. I write down the lyrics
as they come to me, most of the time crumpling
up the paper, chucking it across the room, and
starting over. But I’ve finished lyrics for almost
an entire song tonight, and he’s only crossed out
two lines he didn’t like. I’d say that’s progress.
There’s something about these moments when
we’re writing music that I absolutely love. All
my worries and thoughts about everything wrong
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in my life seem to go away for the short times we
write together. It’s nice.
Ridge: Let’s do the whole song now. Sit
up so I can watch you sing it. I want to
make sure we have it perfect before I
send it to Brennan.
He starts playing the song, so I begin singing.
He’s watching me closely, and the way his eyes
seem to read my every movement makes me un-
easy. Maybe it’s because he can’t express words
through speaking, but everything else about him
seems to make up for that.
As easy as he is to read, it’s only that way
when he wants to be read. Most of the time, he’s able to hold back his expressions, and I don’t
know what the hell he’s thinking. He holds the
crown in the nonverbal department. I’m pretty
sure that with the looks he gives, if he could
speak, he’d never even have to.
I feel uncomfortable watching him watch me
sing, so I close my eyes and try to recall the
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lyrics as he continues to play the song. It’s awk-
ward singing them with him only a few feet
away. When I wrote the lyrics the first time, he
was playing his guitar but was a good two hun-
dred yards away on his balcony. Still, though, as
much as I tried to pretend I was writing them
about Hunter at the time, I knew I was imagining
Ridge singing them all along.
A LITTLE BIT MORE
Why don’t you let me
Take you away
We can live like you wanted
From place to place
I’ll be your home
We can make our own
’Cause together makes it pretty hard to be
alone
We can have everything we ever wanted
And just a little bit more
Just a little bit more
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His guitar stops, so naturally, I stop. I open my eyes, and he’s watching me with one of his expressionless expressions.
I take that back. This expression isn’t expres-
sionless at all. He’s thinking. I can tell by the
squint in his eyes that he’s coming up with an
idea.
He glances away in order to pick up his phone.
Ridge: Do you mind if I try something?
Me: As long as you promise never again
to propose a question by asking if I mind
if you can try something.
Ridge: Nice try, but that made no sense.
I laugh, then look up at him. I nod softly,
scared of what he’s about to “try.” He sits up on
his knees and leans forward, placing both hands
on my shoulders. I attempt to hold in my gasp,
but it’s a failed attempt. I don’t know what he’s
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doing or why he’s getting so close to me, but
holy crap.
Holy crap.
Why is my heart spazzing out right now?
He pushes me until I’m flat on his mattress. He
reaches behind him and picks up his guitar, then
lays it on the other side of me. He lies down next
to me.
Calm down, heart. Please. Ridge has super-
sonic senses, and he’ll feel you beating through
the vibrations of the mattress.
Ridge scoots closer to me and by the way he’s
hesitating, it makes me think he’s unsure if I’ll
allow him any closer.
I will. I absolutely will.
He’s staring at me now, contemplating his next
move. I can tell he’s not about to make a pass at
me. Whatever he’s about to do is making him
way more apprehensive than if he were just plan-
ning to kiss me. He’s eyeing my neck and chest
as if he’s searching for a particular part of me.
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His eyes stop on my abdomen, pause, then fall
back to his phone.
Oh, Lord. What is he about to do? Put his
hands on me? Does he want to feel me sing this
song? Feeling requires touching, and touching re-
quires hands. His hands. Feeling me.
Ridge: Do you trust me?
Me: I don’t trust anyone anymore. My
trust has been completely depleted this
week.
Ridge: Can you replenish your trust for
about five minutes? I want to feel your
voice.
I inhale, then look at him—lying next to
me—and I nod. He sets down his phone without
breaking my gaze. He’s watching me as if he’s
warning me to stay calm, but it’s having the exact
opposite effect. I’m sort of panicked right now.
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He scoots closer and slides his arm under the
back of my neck.
Oh.
Now he’s even closer.
Now his face is hovering over mine. He
reaches across my body and pulls the guitar flush
against my side, bringing it closer to us. He’s still eyeing me with a look that seems intended to
produce a calming effect.
It doesn’t. It doesn’t calm me down at all.
He lowers his head to my chest, then presses
his cheek against my shirt.
Oh, this is great. Now he definitely feels how
spastic my heart is beating right now. I close my
eyes and want to die of embarrassment, but I
don’t have time for that, because he begins
strumming the strings of the guitar next to me. I
realize he’s playing with both hands, one from
underneath my head and one over me. His head is
against my chest, and I can feel his hair brush my
neck. He’s pretty much sprawled across me in or-
der to reach his guitar with both arms.
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Oh, my dear sweet baby Jesus in a wicker
basket.
How does he expect me to sing?
I try to calm down by regulating my breathing,
but it’s hard when we’re positioned like this. As
usual when I miss an intro, he seamlessly starts
the song over again from the beginning. When he
reaches the point where I come in, I begin
singing. Sort of. It’s really quiet, because I’m still waiting for air to find its way back into my lungs.
After the first few lines, I find a steadiness to
my voice. I close my eyes and do my best to ima-
gine I’m simply sitting up on his bed right now
the way I have been for the last hour.
I’ll bring my suitcase
You bring that old map
We can live by the book
Or we can never go back
Feeling the breeze
Never felt so right
We’ll watch the stars
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Until they fade into light
We can have everything we ever wanted
And just a little bit more
Just a little bit more
He finishes the last chord but doesn’t move. His
hands remain stilled on his guitar. His ear re-
mains firmly pressed against my chest. My
breaths are heavier now that I’ve just sung an en-
tire song, and his head rises with each intake of
air.
He sighs a deep sigh, then lifts his head and
rolls onto his back without making eye contact
with me. We lie in silence for a few minutes. I’m
not sure why he’s being so unresponsive, but I’m
too nervous to make any sudden movements. His
arm is still underneath me, and he’s making no
effort to remove it, so I’m not even sure if he’s
finished with this little experiment yet.
I’m also not sure I’d even be able to move.
Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. What are you doing?
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I absolutely, positively, do not want to be having this reaction right now. It’s been a week since
I broke up with Hunter. The very last thing I
want—or even need—is to develop a crush on
this guy.
However, I’m thinking that may have
happened before this week.
Crap.
I tilt my head and look at him. He’s watching
me, but I can’t tell what his face is trying to con-
vey. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s thinking, Oh, hey, Sydney. Our mouths sure are close together.
Let’s do them a favor and close this gap.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I’m incredibly
impressed with my telepathic abilities. His full
lips are slightly parted as he quietly takes in sev-
eral slow, deep breaths.
I can actually hear him breathing, which sur-
prises me, because that’s another of his sounds
that he keeps complete and total control over. I
like that he can’t seem to control it right now. As
much as I claim to want to be unattached from
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guys and independent and strong, the only thing
I’m thinking is how much I wish he would take
complete and total control over me. I want him to
dominate this situation by rolling on top of me
and forcing that incredible mouth onto mine, ren-
dering me completely dependent on him for
breath.
My phone receives a text, interrupting my
clearly overactive imagination. Ridge closes his
eyes and turns to face the opposite direction. I
sigh, knowing he didn’t even hear the text, so
turning away was of his own accord. Which
means I’m feeling pretty awkward right now for
just having that rich internal dialogue sweep
through my mind. I reach behind my head and
feel around until I find my phone.
Hunter: Are you ready to talk yet?
I roll my eyes. Way to ruin the moment,
Hunter. I was hoping that after days of avoiding his texts and phone calls, he would finally get a
clue. I shake my head and text him back.
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Me: Your behavior is bordering on harass-
ment. Stop contacting me. We’re done.
Ridge
Stop with the guilt trip, Ridge. You didn’t do anything wrong. You aren’t doing anything wrong.
Your heart is beating like this simply because
you’ve never felt anyone sing before. It was overwhelming. You had a normal reaction to an over-
whelming event. That’s all.
My eyes are still closed, and my arm is still
underneath her. I should move it, but I’m still try-
ing to recover.
And I really want to hear another song.
This might be making her uncomfortable, but I
have to get her to push through her discomfort,
because I can’t think of any other situation where
I’ll be able to do this.
Me: Can I play another one?
She’s holding her phone, texting someone
who’s not me. I wonder if she’s texting Hunter,
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but I don’t peek at her phone, as much as I want
to.
Sydney: Okay. The first one didn’t do any-
thing for you?
I laugh. I think it did a little too much, in more
ways than I’d like to admit. I’m almost positive it
was also obvious to her by the end of the song,
with the way I was pressed against her. But feel-
ing her voice and what it was doing to all the oth-
er parts of me was way more important than what
she was doing to me.
Me: I’ve never “listened” to anyone like
that before. It was incredible. I don’t even
know how to describe it. I mean, you
were here, and you were the one singing,
so I guess you don’t really need me to de-
scribe it. But I don’t know. I wish you
could have felt that.
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Sydney: You’re welcome, I guess. I’m not
really doing anything profound here.
Me: I’ve always wanted to feel someone
sing one of my songs, but it would be a
little awkward doing this with one of the
guys in the band. Know what I mean?
She laughs, then nods.
Me: I’ll play the one we practiced last
night, and then I want to play this last
one again. Are you okay? If you’re tired of
singing, just tell me.
Sydney: I’m good.
She lays down her phone, and I reposition my-
self against her chest. My entire body is battling
itself. My left brain is telling me this is somehow
wrong, my right brain is wanting to hear her sing
again, my stomach is nowhere to be found, and
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my heart is punching itself in the face with one
arm and hugging itself with the other.
I might never have this opportunity again, so I
wrap my arm over her and begin playing. I close
my eyes and search for the beat of her heart,
which has slowed down some since the first
song. The vibration of her voice meets my cheek,
and I swear my heart flinches. She feels the way I
imagined a voice would feel during a song but
multiplied by a thousand. I focus on how her
voice blends with the vibration of the guitar, and
I’m in complete awe.
I want to feel the range of her voice, but it’s
hard without using my hands to feel it. I pull my
hand away from the guitar and stop playing. Just
like that, she stops singing. I shake my head no
and motion a circle in the air with my finger,
wanting her to keep singing even though I’m no
longer playing the chords.
Her voice picks back up, and I keep my ear
pressed firmly to her chest while I lay my palm
flat against her stomach. Her muscles clench
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beneath my hand, but she doesn’t stop singing. I
can feel her voice everywhere. I can feel it in my
head, in my chest, against my hand.
I relax against her and listen to the sound of a
voice for the very first time.
? ? ?
I wrap my arm around Maggie’s waist and pull
her in closer. I can feel her struggling beneath
me, so I pull her even tighter. I’m not ready for
her to go home yet. Her hand smacks my fore-
head, and she’s lifting me off her chest as she at-
tempts to wiggle out from beneath me.
I roll onto my back to let her off the bed, but
instead, she’s slapping my cheeks. I open my
eyes and look up to see Sydney hovering over
me. Her mouth is moving, but my vision is too
fogged over to see what she’s trying to say. Not
to mention that the strobe light isn’t helping.
Wait. I don’t have a strobe light.
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I sit straight up on the bed. Sydney hands me
my phone and begins to text me, but my phone is
dead. Did we fall asleep?
The lights. The lights are going on and off.
I grab Sydney’s phone out of her hand and
check the time: 8:15 A.M. I also read the text she
just tried to send me.
Sydney: Someone’s at your bedroom
door.
Warren wouldn’t be up this early on a Friday.
It’s his day off.
Friday.
Maggie.
SHIT!
I hurriedly jump off the bed and grab Sydney’s
wrists, then swing her to her feet. She looks
shocked that I’m panicking, but she needs to get
the hell back to her room. I open the bathroom
door and motion for her to take that route. She
walks into the bathroom, then turns and heads
back into my bedroom. I grab her by the
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shoulders and force her back into the bathroom.
She slaps my hands away and points into my
bedroom.
“I want my phone!” she says, pointing toward
my bed. I retrieve her phone, but before I hand it
to her, I type a text on it.
Me: I’m sorry, but I think that’s Maggie.
You can’t be in here, or she’ll get the
wrong idea.
I hand her the phone, and she reads the text,
then looks back up at me. “Who’s Maggie?”
Who’s Maggie? How the hell can she not
remember . . .
Oh.
Is it possible I’ve never mentioned Maggie to
her before?
I grab her phone again.
Me: My girlfriend.
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She looks at the text, and her jaw tightens. She
slowly brings her eyes back to mine, and she
snatches the phone out of my hand, grabs the
doorknob, and steps back into the bathroom. The
door closes in my face.
So was not expecting that reaction.
But I don’t have time to respond, because my
light is still flickering. I head straight to the bedroom door and unlock it, then open it.
Warren is standing in the doorway with his
arm pressed against the frame. There’s no sign of
Maggie.
My panic instantly subsides as I walk back-
ward and fall onto my bed. That could have been
ugly. I glance up at Warren, because he’s obvi-
ously here for something.
“Why aren’t you answering my texts?” he
signs from the doorway.
“My phone died.” I reach over to my phone
and place it on the charging base on the
nightstand.
“But you never let your phone die.”
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“First time for everything,” I sign.
He nods his head, but it’s an annoying, suspi-
cious, You’re hiding something kind of nod.
Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.
“You’re hiding something,” he signs.
Or maybe I’m not being paranoid.
“And I just checked Sydney’s room.” He
arches a suspicious brow. “She wasn’t in there.”
I glance to the bathroom, then look back at
Warren, wondering if I should even lie about it.
All we did was fall asleep. “I know. She was in
here.”
He holds his stern expression. “All night?”
I nod casually. “We were working on lyrics. I
guess we fell asleep.”
He’s acting strange. If I didn’t know him bet-
ter, I’d think he was jealous. Wait. I do know him better. He is jealous.
“Does this bother you, Warren?”
He shrugs and signs back. “Yeah. A little.”
“Why? You spend almost every night in Brid-
gette’s bed.”
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He shakes his head. “It’s not that.”
“What is it, then?”
He breaks his gaze, and I can see the discom-
fort cross his face before he exhales. He makes
the sign that indicates Maggie’s name. He brings
his eyes back to mine. “You can’t do this, Ridge.
You made this choice for yourself years ago, and
I tried to tell you then what I thought about it.
But you’re in it now, and if I have to be the an-
noying friend to remind you of that, so be it.”
I wince, because it kind of pisses me off how
he’s referring to my and Maggie’s relationship.
“Don’t refer to my relationship with Maggie as
being ‘in it’ ever again.”
His expression grows apologetic. “You know
what I mean, Ridge.”
I stand and walk toward him. “How long have
we been best friends?”
He shrugs. “That’s all I am to you? A best
friend? Ridge, I thought we were so much more
than that.” He smirks as if he’s trying to be
funny, but I don’t laugh. When he sees how
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much his remarks have bothered me, his expres-
sion quickly sobers. “Ten years.”
“Ten. Ten years. You know me better than
that, Warren.”
He nods, but his face is still full of doubt.
“Good-bye,” I sign. “Shut the door on your
way out.” I turn and walk back to my bed, and
when I face the door again, he’s gone.