Colleen Hoover - Maybe Someday

Me: As long as you promise never again to start a question off with whether or not you can propose a question.

Sydney: Okay, asshole. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, but I’m curious. What did he write on that paper 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 fucking 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.”

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.

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 moment, too.

Me: He is a jerk, but I probably should have responded differently. I’m sorry.

Sydney: Yes, you should have. Maybe instead 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.

Me: We didn’t really get any work done last night. Are you in the mood to make beautiful music together?

Sydney

Ridge puts down his guitar for the first time in more than an hour. We haven’t texted at all, because 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 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 uneasy. 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 lyrics as he continues to play the song. It’s awkward 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 hundred 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

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 expressionless 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 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 supersonic 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 planning to kiss me. He’s eyeing my neck and chest as if he’s searching for a particular part of me. 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 requires 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.

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 order to reach his guitar with both arms.

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 imagine I’m simply sitting up on his bed right now the way I have been for the last hour.

I’ll bring my suitcase