2.
Sydney
I’m mindlessly tapping my feet and singing along to his music with my made-up lyrics when he stops playing mid-song. He never stops mid-song, so naturally, I glance in his direction. He’s leaning forward, staring right at me. He holds up his index finger, as if to say, Hold on, and he sets his guitar beside him and runs into his apartment.
What the hell is he doing?
And oh, my God, why does the fact that he’s acknowledging me make me so nervous?
He comes back outside with a paper and a marker in his hands.
He’s writing. What the hell is he writing?
He holds up two sheets of paper, and I squint to get a good look at what he’s written.
A phone number.
Shit. His phone number?
When I don’t move for several seconds, he shakes the papers and points at them, then points back to me.
He’s insane. I’m not calling him. I can’t call him. I can’t do that to Hunter.
The guy shakes his head, then grabs a fresh sheet of paper and writes something else on it, then holds it up.
Text me.
When I still don’t move, he flips the paper over and writes again.
I have a ?
A question. A text. Seems harmless enough. When he holds up the papers with his phone number again, I pull out my phone and enter his phone number. I stare at the screen for a few seconds, not really knowing what to say in the text, so I go with:
Me: What’s your question?
He looks down at his phone, and I can see him smile when he receives my text. He drops the paper and leans back in his chair, typing. When my phone vibrates, I hesitate a second before looking down at it.
Him: Do you sing in the shower?
I shake my head, confirming my initial suspicion. He’s a flirt. Of course he is, he’s a musician.
Me: I don’t know what kind of question that is, but if this is your attempt at flirting, I’ve got a boyfriend. Don’t waste your time.
I hit send and watch him read the text. He laughs, and this irritates me. Mostly because his smile is so . . . smiley. Is that even a word? I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s as if his whole face smiles right along with his mouth. I wonder what that smile looks like up close.
Him: Believe me, I know you have a boyfriend, and this is definitely not how I flirt. I just want to know if you sing in the shower. I happen to think highly of people who sing in the shower and need to know the answer to that question in order to decide if I want to ask you my next question.
I read the lengthy text, admiring his fast typing. Guys aren’t normally as skilled as girls when it comes to speed-texting, but his replies are almost instantaneous.
Me: Yes, I sing in the shower. Do you sing in the shower?
Him: No, I don’t.
Me: How can you think highly of people who sing in the shower if you don’t sing in the shower?
Him: Maybe the fact that I don’t sing in the shower is why I think highly of people who do sing in the shower.
This conversation isn’t going anywhere.
Me: Why did you need this vital piece of information from me?
He stretches his legs out and props his feet up on the edge of the patio, then stares at me for a few seconds before returning his attention to his phone.
Him: I want to know how you’re singing lyrics to my songs when I haven’t even added lyrics to them yet.
My cheeks instantly heat from embarrassment. Busted.
I stare at his text, then glance up at him. He’s watching me, expressionless.
Why the hell didn’t I think that he could see me sitting out here? I never thought he would notice me singing along to his music. Hell, until last night, I never thought he even noticed me. I inhale, wishing I’d never made eye contact with him to begin with. I don’t know why I find this embarrassing, but I do. It seems as if I’ve invaded his privacy in some way, and I hate that.
Me: I tend to favor songs with lyrics, and I was tired of wondering what the lyrics to your songs were, so I guess I made up a few of my own.
He reads the text, then glances up at me without a hint of his infectious smile. I don’t like his serious glances. I don’t like what they do to my stomach. I also don’t like what his smiley smile does to my stomach. I wish he would stick to a simple, unattractive, emotionless expression, but I’m not sure he’s capable of that.
Him: Will you send them to me?
Oh, God. Hell, no.
Me: Hell, no.
Him: Please?
Me: No.
Him: Pretty please?
Me: No, thank you.
Him: What’s your name?
Me: Sydney. Yours?
Him: Ridge.
Ridge. That fits him. Musical-artisty-moody type.
Me: Well, Ridge, I’m sorry, but I don’t write lyrics that anyone would want to hear. Do you not write lyrics to your own songs?
He begins to text, and it’s a really long text. His fingers move swiftly over his phone while he types. I’m afraid I’m about to receive an entire novel from him. He looks up at me just as my phone vibrates.
Ridge: I guess you could say I’m having a bad case of writer’s block. Which is why I really, really wish you would just send me the lyrics you sing while I’m playing. Even if you think they’re stupid, I want to read them. You somehow know every single song I play, even though I’ve never played them for anyone except when I practice out here.
How does he know I know all his songs? I bring a hand up to my cheek when I feel it flush, knowing he’s been watching me a lot longer than I initially thought. I swear, I have to be the most unintuitive person in this entire world. I glance up at him and he’s continuing with another text, so I look back to my phone and wait for it.
Ridge: I can see it in the way your whole body responds to the guitar. You tap your feet, you move your head. And I’ve even tried to test you by slowing down the song every once in a while to see if you would notice, and you always do. Your body stops responding when I change something up. So just by watching you, I can tell you have an ear for music. And since you sing in the shower, it probably means you’re an okay singer. Which also means that maybe there’s a chance you have a talent for writing lyrics. So, Sydney, I want to know what your lyrics are.
I’m still reading when another text comes through.
Ridge: Please. I’m desperate.
I inhale a deep breath, wishing more than anything that this conversation had never started. I don’t know how in the hell he can come to all these conclusions without me ever having noticed him watching me. In a way, it eases my embarrassment over the fact that he saw me watching him. But now that he wants to know what lyrics I made up, I’m embarrassed for an entirely different reason. I do sing, but not well enough to do anything with it professionally. My passion is mostly for music itself, not at all for performing it. And as much as I do love writing lyrics, I’ve never shared anything I’ve written. It seems too intimate. I’d almost rather he had sent me a vulgar, flirtatious come-on.
I jump when my phone vibrates again.
Ridge: Okay, we’ll make a deal. Pick one song of mine, and send me the lyrics to just that one song. Then I’ll leave you alone. Especially if they’re stupid.
I laugh. And cringe. He’s not going to let up. I’m going to have to change my number.
Ridge: I know your phone number now, Sydney. I’m not giving up until you send me lyrics to at least one song.
Jesus. He’s not going away.
Ridge: And I also know where you live. I’m not above begging on my knees at your front door.
Ugh!
Me: Fine. Stop with the creepy threats. One song. But I’ll have to write the lyrics down while you play it first, because I’ve never written them out before.
Ridge: Deal. Which song? I’ll play it right now.
Me: How would I tell you which song, Ridge? I don’t know the names of any of them.
Ridge: Yeah, me, neither. Hold up your hand when I get to the one you want me to play.
He puts down his phone and picks up his guitar, then begins playing one of the songs. It’s not the one I want him to play, though, so I shake my head. He switches to another song, and I continue to shake my head until the familiar chords to one of my favorites meets my ears. I hold up my hand, and he grins, then starts the song over from the beginning. I pull my notebook in front of me and pick up my pen, then begin to write down the lyrics I’ve put to it.
He has to play the song three times before I finally get them all out. It’s almost dark now, and it’s hard to see, so I pick up my phone.
Me: It’s too dark to read. I’ll go inside and text them to you, but you have to promise you’ll never ask me to do this again.
The light from his phone illuminates his smile, and he nods at me, then picks up his guitar and walks back inside his apartment.
I go to my room and sit on the bed, wondering if it’s too late to change my mind. I feel as if this whole conversation just ruined my eight o’clock patio time. I can’t go back outside and listen to him ever again. I liked it better when I thought he didn’t know I was there. It was like my own personal space with my own personal concert. Now I’ll be way too aware of him to actually enjoy listening, and I curse him for ruining that.
I regretfully text him my lyrics, then turn my phone on silent and leave it on my bed as I go into the living room and try to forget this ever happened.
Ridge
Holy shit. She’s good. Really good. Brennan is going to love this. I know if he agrees to use them, we’ll need her to sign a release, and we’ll have to pay her something. But it’s worth it, especially if the rest of her lyrics are as good as these.
But the question is, will she be willing to help out? She obviously doesn’t have much confidence in her talent, but that’s the least of my worries. The biggest worry is how I’ll persuade her to send me more lyrics. Or how to get her to write with me. I doubt her boyfriend would go for that. He has to be the biggest jerk I’ve ever laid eyes on. I can’t believe the balls of that guy, especially after watching him last night. He comes outside on the patio and kisses Sydney, cuddling up to her in the chair like the most attentive boyfriend in the world. Then, the second she turns her back, he’s out on the patio with the other chick. Sydney must have been in the shower, because the two of them rushed outside as if they were on a timer, and the chick had her legs wrapped around his waist and her mouth on his faster than I could even blink. And it wasn’t a first-time occurrence. I’ve seen it happen so many times I’ve lost count.
It’s really not my place to inform Sydney that the guy she’s dating is screwing her roommate. I especially can’t tell her through a text. But if Maggie were cheating on me, I’d sure as hell want to know about it. I just don’t know Sydney well enough to tell her something like that. Usually, the person to break the news is the one to catch all the blame, anyway. Especially if the person being cheated on doesn’t want to believe it. I could send her an anonymous note, but the douchebag boyfriend would more than likely be able to talk his way out of it.
I won’t do anything for now. It’s not my place, and until I get to know her better, I’m not in a position for her to trust me. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out, hoping Sydney decided to send me more lyrics, but the text is from Maggie.
Maggie: Almost home. See you in two weeks.
Me: I didn’t say text me when you’re almost home. I said text me when you’re home. Now, stop texting and driving.
Maggie: Okay.
Me: Stop!
Maggie: Okay!
I toss the phone onto the bed and refuse to text her back. I’m not giving her a reason to text me again until she makes it home. I walk to the kitchen for a beer, then take a seat next to a passed-out Warren on the couch. I grab the remote and hit info to see what he’s watching.
Porn.
Figures. The guy can’t watch anything without nudity. I start to change the channel, but he snatches the remote out of my hands. “It’s my night.”
I don’t know if it was Warren or Bridgette who decided we should divvy up the TV, but it was the worst idea ever. Especially since I’m still not sure which night is actually mine, even though, technically, this is my apartment. I’m lucky if either of them pays rent on a quarterly basis. I put up with it because Warren has been my best friend since high school, and Bridgette is . . . well, she’s too mean for me to even want to strike up a conversation with her. I’ve avoided that since Brennan let her move in six months ago. I really don’t have to worry about money right now, thanks to my job and the cut Brennan gives me, so I just leave it alone. I still don’t know how Brennan met Bridgette or how they’re involved, but even though their relationship isn’t sexual, he obviously cares about her. I have no idea how or why, since she doesn’t have any noticeable redeeming qualities other than how she looks in her Hooters uniform.
And of course, the second that thought passes through my head, so do the words Maggie said when she found out Bridgette was moving in with us.
“I don’t care if she moves in. The worst thing that could happen would be for you to cheat on me. Then I’d have to break up with you, then your heart would shatter, and we’d both be miserable for life, and you would be so depressed you’d never be able to get it up again. So make sure if you do cheat, it’s the best sex you ever have, because it’ll also be the last sex you ever have.”
She doesn’t have to worry about me cheating on her, but the scenario she painted was enough to ensure that I don’t even look at Bridgette in her uniform.
How in the hell did my thoughts wander this far?
This is why I’m having writer’s block; I can’t seem to focus on anything important lately. I go back to my room to transfer the lyrics Sydney sent onto paper, and I begin to work out how to add them to the music. I want to text Sydney to tell her what I think about them, but I don’t. I should leave her hanging a little while longer. I know how nerve-racking it is to send someone a piece of yourself and then have to sit back and wait for it to be judged. If I make her wait long enough, maybe once I tell her how brilliant she is, she’ll have developed a craving to send me more.
It might be a little cruel, but she has no idea how much I need her. Now that I’m pretty sure I’ve found my muse, I have to work it just right so she doesn’t slip away.