9.
Sydney
I have no idea where we’re going, but I’m doing my best to appear engaged.. I’m in the backseat with Warren, and he’s talking to me about the band, explaining his involvement in it. I ask the appropriate questions and nod at the appropriate moments, but my mind isn’t here at all.
I know I can’t expect the hurt and heartache to go away this quickly, but today has been the worst day so far since my actual birthday. I realize that all the pain I’ve been feeling hasn’t been quite as bad because I’ve had Ridge this week. I don’t know if it’s the way he brings comedic relief when he’s around or if it’s because I really was developing a crush on him, but the times I’ve spent with him were the only times I felt remotely happy. They were the only times I wasn’t thinking about what Hunter and Tori did to me.
But now, watching him in the front seat with his hand clasping Maggie’s . . . I don’t like it. I don’t like how his thumb occasionally sweeps back and forth. I don’t like the way she looks at him. I especially don’t like the way he looks at her. I didn’t like how he slipped his fingers through hers when we reached the bottom of the apartment stairs. I didn’t like how he opened her door, then placed his hand on her lower back while she climbed inside the car. I didn’t like how they had a silent conversation while he was putting the car in reverse. I didn’t like how he laughed at whatever she said and then pulled her to him so he could kiss her forehead. I don’t like how all of these things make me feel as though the only good moments I’ve had since last week are now over.
Nothing has changed. Nothing significant happened between the two of us, and I know we’ll continue with the way things have been. We’ll still write lyrics together. He might still listen to me sing. We’ll still continue to interact the way we’ve done since I met him, so this situation shouldn’t be bothering me.
I know in my heart that I didn’t want anything to happen with him, especially at this point in my life. I know I need to be on my own. I want to be on my own. But I also know that the reason I’m feeling so conflicted by this entire situation is that I did have a little hope. Although I wasn’t ready for anything right now, I thought the possibility would be there. I assumed that maybe someday, when I was ready, things could have developed between us.
However, now that Maggie is in the picture, I realize there can’t be a maybe someday between us. There will never be a maybe someday. He loves her, and she obviously loves him, and I can’t blame them, because whatever they have is beautiful. The way they look at each other and interact and obviously care about each other is something I didn’t realize was missing between Hunter and me.
Maybe someday I’ll have that, but it won’t be with Ridge, and knowing that diminishes whatever ray of hope shone through the storm of my week.
Jesus, I’m so depressing.
I hate Hunter.
I really hate Tori.
And right now, I’m so pathetically miserable, I even hate myself.
“Are you crying?” Warren asks.
“No.”
He nods. “Yes, you are. You’re crying.”
I shake my head. “I am not.”
“You were about to,” he says, looking at me sympathetically. He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me against him. “Chin up, little girl. Maybe tonight we can find someone who will screw the thought of that jerkoff ex right out of that pretty little head of yours.”
I laugh and slap him in the chest.
“I would volunteer to do it, but Bridgette doesn’t like to share,” he says. “She’s kind of a bitch like that, if you haven’t noticed.”
I laugh again, but when my eyes meet Ridge’s in the rearview mirror, my smile fades. His jaw is firm, and his eyes lock with mine for a few seconds before he refocuses on the road in front of him.
He’s unreadable most of the time, but I could swear I saw a small flash of jealousy behind those eyes. And I don’t like how seeing him jealous that I’m leaning against Warren actually feels good.
Turning twenty-two has rotted my soul. Who am I, and why am I having these awful reactions?
We pull into the parking lot of a club. I’ve been here a few times with Tori, so I’m relieved that it won’t be completely unfamiliar. Warren takes my hand and helps me out of the car, then puts an arm around my shoulders and walks with me toward the entrance.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll keep my hands off you tonight so guys won’t assume you’re madly in love with me. I hate cock blockers, and I refuse to be one. But if anyone makes you uncomfortable, just look at me and give me a signal so I can swoop in and pull you out of the situation.”
I nod. “Sounds like a plan. What kind of signal do I give you?”
“I don’t know. You can lick your lips seductively. Maybe squeeze your breasts together.”
I elbow him in the side. “Or maybe I can just scratch my nose?”
He shrugs. “That works, too, I guess.” He opens the door, and we all make our way inside. The music is overwhelming, and the second the doors close behind us, Warren leans in to shout into my ear. “There are usually booths open on the balcony level. Let’s go there!” He tightens his grip on my hand, then turns to Ridge and Maggie and motions for them to follow.
? ? ?
I haven’t had to use the secret code Warren and I agreed on, and we’ve been here more than two hours now. I’ve danced with several people, but as soon as the song ends, I make it a point to smile politely and head back to the booth. Warren and Maggie seem to have made a nice dent in the liquor stock, but Ridge hasn’t had a drop. Other than a shot Warren persuaded me to take when we first arrived, I haven’t had anything to drink, either.
“My feet hurt,” I say.
Maggie and Ridge have danced a couple of times but that was to slow songs, so I made it a point not to watch them.
“No!” Warren says, attempting to pull me back up. “I want to dance!”
I shake my head. He’s drunk and loud, and every time I try to dance with him, he ends up butchering my feet almost as badly as he butchers the moves.
“I’ll dance with you,” Maggie says to him. She climbs over Ridge in the booth, and Warren takes her hand. They head down to the lower level to dance, and it’s the first time Ridge and I have been alone in the booth.
I don’t like it.
I like it.
I don’t.
I do.
See? Rotten soul. Corrupted, rotten soul.
Ridge: Having fun?
I’m not really, but I nod, because I don’t want to be that annoying, brokenhearted girl who wants everyone around her to feel how miserable she is.
Ridge: I need to say something, and I may be way off base here, but I’m attempting to improve on how I unintentionally omit things from you.
I look up at him and nod again.
Ridge: Warren is in love with Bridgette.
I read his text twice. Why would he need to say that to me? Unless he thinks I like Warren.
Ridge: He’s always been a flirt, so I just wanted to clear that up. I don’t want to see you get hurt again. That’s all.
Me: Appreciate your concern, but it’s unnecessary. Really. Have no interest there.
He smiles.
Me: You were right. I like Maggie.
Ridge: I knew you would. Everyone likes Maggie. She’s very likable.
I lift my eyes and look around when a Sounds of Cedar song begins to play. I scoot to the back of the booth and look over the railing. Warren and Maggie are standing by the DJ’s table, and Warren is interacting with the DJ while Maggie dances around next to him.
Me: They’re playing one of your songs.
Ridge: Yeah? That always happens when Warren’s around. Are they playing “Getaway”?
Me: Yeah. How’d you know?
Ridge presses a flat palm to his chest and smiles.
Me: Wow. You can differentiate your songs like that?
He nods.
Me: What’s Maggie’s story? She communicates really well. She seems to dance really well. Does she have a different level of hearing loss from yours?
Ridge: Yes, she has mild hearing loss. She hears most things with hearing aids, which is why she also speaks so well. And she does dance well. I stick to slow songs when she wants me to dance with her, since I can’t hear them.
Me: Is that why Maggie speaks out loud and you don’t? Because she can hear?
His eyes swing up to mine for a few seconds, and then he looks back at his phone.
Ridge: No. I could speak if I wanted to.
I should stop. I know he’s probably annoyed by these questions, but I’m too curious.
Me: Why don’t you, then?
He shrugs but doesn’t text me back.
Me: No, I want to know. There has to be a reason. It seems like it would make things a lot easier for you.
Ridge: I just don’t. I get along fine with how I do things now.
Me: Yes, especially when Maggie and Warren are around. Why would you need to talk when they can do it for you?
I hit send before I realize I probably shouldn’t have said that. I have noticed Maggie and Warren do a lot of his talking for him, though. They’ve ordered for him every time the waitress has come by the booth, and I’ve noticed Warren do it several times this week in different situations.
Ridge reads my text, then looks back up at me. It seems I made him uncomfortable, and I immediately regret saying what I did.
Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out how it probably sounded. I just meant you seem to let them do things for you that they wouldn’t necessarily have to do if you would speak for yourself.
My explanation seems to bother him even more than the initial text. I feel as if I’m digging myself a hole.
Me: Sorry. I’ll stop. It’s not my place to judge your situation, because I obviously can’t put myself in your shoes. I was just trying to understand.
He looks at me and pulls the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth. I’ve noticed he does this when he’s thinking hard about something. The way he continues to stare at me makes my throat go dry. I break his gaze, pull the straw into my mouth, and take a sip of my soda. When I look back at him, he’s texting again.
Ridge: I was nine when I stopped verbalizing.
His text does more to my stomach than his stare did. I don’t know why.
Me: You used to talk? Why did you stop?
Ridge: It might take me a while to text the explanation.
Me: It’s fine. You can tell me about it at home when we have our laptops.
He scoots to the edge of the booth and peers over the balcony. I follow his gaze down to Maggie and Warren, who are still both hovering around the DJ booth. When he sees that they’re still occupied, he moves away from the railing and leans forward across the table, resting his elbows in front of him as he begins to text.
Ridge: They don’t look like they’re ready to leave, so I guess we have time now. Brennan and I didn’t luck out in the parent department. They both had issues with addiction. They might still have them, but we wouldn’t know, because we haven’t spoken to either of them in years. My mother spent most of our childhood in bed, doped up on pain pills. Our father spent most of our childhood in bars. When I was five, I was enrolled in a school for the deaf. That’s where I learned sign language. I would come home and teach Brennan, because neither of my parents knew ASL. I taught him because I was five years old and had never had a conversation with anyone before. I was so desperate to communicate I was forcing my two-year-old brother to learn signs like “cookie” and “window” just so I would have someone to talk to.
My heart sinks to my stomach. I look up at him, but he’s still texting.
Ridge: Imagine walking into your first day of school to the realization that there is actually a way to communicate. When I saw kids having conversations with their hands, I was amazed. I lived the first five years of my life never knowing what it was like to communicate. The school began teaching me how to form words using my voice, how to read, how to sign. I spent the next few years practicing everything I learned on Brennan. He became just as fluent in ASL as I was. I wanted him to know it, but I also didn’t want to use him as my way to communicate with my parents. So when I would talk to them, I would always speak my words. I couldn’t hear my own voice, of course, and I know it sounds different when deaf people speak, but I wanted a way to communicate with them since they didn’t know ASL. One day, when I was talking to my father, he told Brennan to tell me to shut up, then had Brennan speak for me. I didn’t understand why, but he was angry. Every time I would try to talk to my father after that, the same thing would happen, and he would tell Brennan to tell me to stop voicing my words. Brennan would translate what my father wanted him to say back to me. I finally realized my father didn’t want me to talk because he didn’t like the way my voice sounded. It embarrassed him that I couldn’t hear. He didn’t like for me to speak when we were in public, because people would know I was deaf, so he would tell me to shut up every time I did it. One day at home, he became so angry that I was still doing it that he started yelling at Brennan. He assumed that since I continued speaking my words, Brennan wasn’t relaying the fact that he didn’t want me to speak. He was really drunk that day and took his anger too far, which wasn’t uncommon. But he hit Brennan so hard upside the head it knocked him out.
Tears begin to well in my eyes, and I have to inhale a calming breath.
Ridge: He was only six years old, Sydney. Six. I never wanted to give my father another reason to hit him, so that was the last day I ever spoke out loud. I guess it just became habit after that.
He lays his phone on the table and folds his arms in front of him. He doesn’t seem to be waiting for a response from me. He may not even want one. He watches me, and I know he sees the tears falling down my cheeks, but he doesn’t react to them. I take a deep breath, then reach over and pick up a napkin and wipe my eyes. I wish he wouldn’t see me responding like this but I can’t hold it back. He smiles softly and begins to reach across the table for my hand, and then Warren and Maggie reappear at the booth.
Ridge pulls his hand back and looks up at them. Maggie’s arms are draped across Warren’s shoulders, and she’s laughing at nothing in particular. Warren keeps trying to grab the back of the booth—it looks as if he’s about to need support, too, but he can’t seem to grasp anything. Ridge and I both stand up and assist them. Ridge pulls Maggie off Warren, and I wrap Warren’s arm around my shoulders. He presses his forehead to mine.
“Syd, I’m so happy you got cheated on. I’m so happy you moved in.”
I laugh and push his face away from mine. Ridge nods his head toward the entrance, and I nod in agreement. Another drink, and we would probably have to carry these two out.
“I like that dress you wear, Syd. That blue one? But please don’t wear it again.” Warren is leaning his head against mine as we make our way toward the stairs. “I don’t like your ass in it, because I think I might love Bridgette, and your dress makes me love your ass.”
Wow. He’s really drunk if he’s admitting that he might love Bridgette.
“I already told you I was burning that dress,” I say, laughing.
“Good,” he says with a sigh.
We reach the exit, and I notice Ridge is carrying Maggie now. Her arms are draped around his neck, and her eyes are closed. Once we reach the car, she opens her eyes as Ridge tries to stand her up. She attempts to take a step but ends up stumbling. Ridge opens the back door, and she practically falls inside. He scoots her to the other side of the seat, and she falls against the door, closing her eyes again. Ridge steps out of the way and motions for Warren to climb in. Warren steps forward and reaches up to Ridge’s face. He pats Ridge’s cheek and says, “I feel bad for you, buddy. I bet it’s really hard not to kiss Sydney, cuz it’s hard for me, and I don’t even like her like you do.”
Warren climbs inside the car and falls against Maggie. I’m thankful that he was too drunk to sign any of that, because I know that Ridge didn’t understand what he said. I can tell by the confused look Ridge is giving me. He laughs and bends down, lifting Warren’s leg, which is still hanging out of the car. He pushes it inside the car and closes the door, and my mind is still stuck on Warren’s words.
Ridge reaches in front of me and pulls on the handle of the front passenger door, then opens it. I step forward, but the second Ridge’s hand rests against my lower back, I pause.
I glance up at him, and he’s looking straight down at me. His hand remains on my lower back as I force myself to slowly close the gap between myself and the car. The second I begin to lower myself into the seat, his hand slips away, and he waits until I’m all the way inside the car, then closes the door.
I lean my head back into the seat and close my eyes, terrified of what that simple gesture just did to me.
I hear him take his position behind the wheel, and the car cranks, but I continue to keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to feel what I feel when I look at him. I don’t like how every minute I spend with him, I feel more and more like a Tori.
My phone receives a text, so I’m forced to open my eyes. Ridge is holding his phone, watching me.
Ridge: She doesn’t do this a lot. Probably not even three times a year. She’s been under a lot of stress lately, and she likes to go out. It helps.
Me: I wasn’t judging her.
Ridge: I know. I just wanted you to know she’s not a raging alcoholic like I am.
He winks at me, and I laugh. I glance into the backseat, where Warren is draped across Maggie. They’re both out cold. I turn back around in my seat and text him again.
Me: Thank you for telling me all that earlier. You didn’t have to, and I know you probably didn’t want to, but thank you.
He gives me a sideways glance, then returns his attention to his phone.
Ridge: I’ve never told anyone that story. Not even Brennan. He was probably too young to even remember it.
He sets his phone down and puts the car in reverse, then begins to back out.
Why is it that the only question I wish I could ask him right now is the most inappropriate one? I want to ask him if he’s ever told Maggie, but his answer shouldn’t matter to me. It shouldn’t matter at all, but it does.
He begins to drive, and he reaches down and turns on the radio, which confuses me. He can’t hear it, so I don’t understand why he would care if it was on or off.
But then I realize he didn’t do it for himself.
He turned it on for me.
Ridge
After stopping at a drive-thru for food, we pull up to the apartment complex. I put the car in park.
Me: Take the food up and unlock the door while I wake them up.
She picks up our two drinks and the bag of food. She heads up to the apartment, and I walk to the back door and open it. I shake Warren awake and help him out of the car. Then I wake Maggie up and help her out. She’s still too out of it to walk, so I pick her up and shut the door behind me. I make sure Warren walks ahead of me up the stairs, because I’m not positive he won’t fall down them.
When we make it inside, Warren stumbles to his bedroom, and I walk Maggie into my room. I lay her on the bed and take off her shoes, then her clothes. I pull the covers over her, then head back into the dining room, where Sydney has laid out our food. It’s almost midnight, and we haven’t eaten since lunch. I take a seat in front of her.
Me: So now that you know one of my deep, dark secrets, I want to know one of yours.
We both have our phones out on the table while we eat. She smiles and begins to text me back.
Sydney: You have more than one deep, dark secret?
Me: We’re talking about you right now. If we’re going to be working together, I need to know what I’m getting myself into. Tell me about your family. Any raging alcoholics?
Sydney: No, just raging a*sholes. My father is a lawyer, and he hates that I’m not going to law school. My mother stays home. She’s never worked a day in her life. She’s a great mom, but she’s also one of those perfect moms, you know? Think Leave It to Beaver meets Stepford Wives.
Me: Siblings?
Sydney: Nope. Only child.
Me: I wouldn’t have pegged you as an only child. Nor would I have guessed you were a lawyer’s daughter.
Sydney: Why? Because I’m not pretentious and spoiled?
I smile at her and nod.
Sydney: Well, thanks. I try.
Me: I don’t mean for this to come off as insensitive, but if your father is a lawyer and you still have a relationship with your parents, why did you not call them last week? When you had nowhere to go?
Sydney: The primary thing my mother instilled in me was the fact that she didn’t want me to be her. She had no education and has always been completely dependent on my father. She raised me to be very independent and financially responsible, so I’ve always taken pride in not asking for their help. It’s hard sometimes, especially when I really need their help, but I always get by. I also don’t ask for their help because my father would point out in a not-so-nice way that if I were in law school, he’d be paying for it.
Me: Wait. You’re paying for school on your own? But if you changed your major to prelaw, your father would pay for it?
She nods.
Me: That’s not really fair.
Sydney: Like I said, my father is an a*shole. But I don’t go around blaming my parents for everything. I have a lot to be thankful for. I’ve grown up in a relatively normal household, both of my parents are alive and well, and they support me to an extent. They’re better than most, just worse than some. I hate it when people spend their entire lives blaming their parents for every bad thing that happens to them.
Me: Yeah. I completely agree, which is why I was emancipated at sixteen. Decided to take my life into my own hands.
Sydney: Really? What about Brennan?
Me: I took him with me. The courts thought he stayed with my parents, but he moved in with me. Well, with Warren. We’ve been friends since we were fourteen. Both of his parents are deaf, which is how he knows ASL. Once I became emancipated, they allowed me and Brennan to stay with them. My parents still had guardianship over Brennan, but as far as they were concerned, I did them a huge favor by taking him off their hands.
Sydney: Well, that was incredibly considerate of Warren’s parents.
Me: Yes, they’re great people. Not sure why Warren turned out the way he did, though.
She laughs.
Sydney: Did they continue to raise Brennan after you left for college?
Me: No, we actually only stayed with them for seven months. When I turned seventeen, I moved us into an apartment. I dropped out of school and got a GED so I could start college sooner.
Sydney: Wow. So you raised your brother?
Me: Hardly. Brennan lived with me, but he was never the type who could be raised. He was fourteen when we got our own place. I was only seventeen. As much as I’d like to say I was the responsible, mature adult, I was quite the opposite. Our apartment became the hangout for everyone who knew us, and Brennan partied just as hard as I did.
Sydney: That shocks me. You seem so responsible.
Me: I wasn’t as wild as I probably could have been, being on my own at that young an age. Luckily, all our money went to bills and rent, so I never got into any bad habits. We just liked to have fun. Our band was formed when Brennan was sixteen and I was nineteen, so that took up a lot of our time. That’s also the year I started dating Maggie, and I calmed down a lot after that.
Sydney: You’ve been with Maggie since you were nineteen?
I nod but don’t text her back. My food has hardly been touched from all the texting, so I pick up my burger. She does the same, and we eat until both of us are finished. We stand up and clear off the table. Then she gives me a wave and heads off to her room. I sit on the couch and turn on the TV. After about fifteen minutes of channel surfing, I finally stop on a movie channel. The captioning has been turned off on the TV, but I don’t bother turning it back on. I’m too tired to read and follow along with the movie, anyway.
The door to Sydney’s bedroom opens, and she walks out, looking slightly startled when she sees I’m still awake. She’s in one of her baggy shirts again, and her hair is wet. She walks back to her room, then comes out with her phone and sits on the couch with me.
Sydney: I’m not tired. What are you watching?
Me: I don’t know, but it just started.
She pulls her feet up and rests her head on the arm of the couch. Her eyes are on the TV, but my eyes are on her. I have to admit, the Sydney who went out tonight is a completely different Sydney from the one lying here. Her makeup is gone, her hair is no longer perfect, her clothes even have holes in them, and I can’t help but laugh just looking at her. If I were Hunter, I’d be punching myself in the face right now.
She’s beginning to lean forward for her phone when she cuts her eyes in my direction. I want to look back at the TV and pretend she didn’t just catch me staring at her, but that would make this even more awkward. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to care that I was looking at her, because she gives her attention to her phone.
Sydney: How are you watching this without captions?
Me: Too tired to read along right now. Sometimes I just like to watch movies without captions and try to guess what they’re saying.
Sydney: I want to try it. Put it on mute, and we’ll deaf-watch it together.
I laugh. Deaf-watch? That’s a new one. I point the remote to the TV and press the mute button. She turns her attention back to the TV, but once again, I fail to look away from her.
I don’t understand my sudden obsession with staring at her, but I can’t seem to stop. She’s several feet away. We aren’t touching. We aren’t speaking. She isn’t even looking at me. Yet the simple fact that I’m staring at her makes me feel incredibly guilty, as if I’m doing something wrong. Staring is harmless, so why do I feel so guilty?
I attempt to talk myself out of the feelings of guilt, but deep down, I know exactly what’s happening.
I don’t feel guilty simply because I’m staring at her. I feel guilty for how it’s making me feel.
? ? ?
This makes twice in a row I’ve been woken up like this. I push away the hand that’s slapping me and open my eyes. Warren is standing over me. He slaps a piece of paper on my chest, then whacks his hand against the side of my head. He walks to the front door and grabs his keys, then leaves for work.
Why is he going to work this early?
I pick up my phone, and it says 6:00 A.M. I guess he’s not leaving early.
I sit up on the couch and see Sydney still curled up at the other end, sound asleep. I pull the paper from Warren off my chest and look down at it.
How about you go to your room and sleep in the bed with your girlfriend!
I wad up the note and stand, then take it to the trash can and bury it. I go back to the couch, put my hand on Sydney’s shoulder, and shake her awake. She rolls onto her back and rubs her eyes, then looks up at me.
She smiles when she sees me. That’s it. All she did just now was smile, but all of a sudden, my chest is on fire, and it feels as if a wave of heat just rolled down the entire length of my body. I recognize this feeling, and it’s not good. It’s not good at all. I haven’t felt this way since I was nineteen.
Since I first began developing feelings for Maggie.
I point to Sydney’s room to let her know she should go to bed, then quickly turn around and head into my bedroom. I pull off my jeans and T-shirt and softly slide into bed next to Maggie. I wrap my arms around her, pull her against my chest, and spend the next half hour falling asleep to a broken record of reminders.
You’re in love with Maggie.
Maggie’s perfect for you.
You’re perfect for her.
She needs you.
You’re happy when you’re with her.
You’re with the one and only girl you’re meant to be with.