Chapter Nine
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 real-
ize 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 re-
lief 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
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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
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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 situ-
ation 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 pos-
sibility 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 in-
teract and obviously care about each other is
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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 depressed.
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.
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“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 jeal-
ous 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.
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“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 block-
ers, 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 seduct-
ively. 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.
? ? ?
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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. War-
ren 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
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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 at-
tempting to improve on how I uninten-
tionally omit things from you.
I look up at him and nod again.
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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 un-
necessary. 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
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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 commu-
nicates really well. She seems to dance
really well. Does she have a different level
of hearing loss from yours?
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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.
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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 War-
ren 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 sev-
eral times this week in different situations.
Ridge reads my text, then looks back up at me.
It seems I made him uncomfortable, and I imme-
diately regret saying what I did.
Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to
come out how it probably sounded. I just
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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 bot-
tom 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.
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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 Mag-
gie 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 el-
bows 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 par-
ent department. They both had issues
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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 lan-
guage. 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 con-
versation 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
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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 us-
ing my voice, how to read, how to sign. I
spent the next few years practicing
everything I learned on Brennan. He be-
came 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 communic-
ate 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 com-
municate 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
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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. Bren-
nan 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.
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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 an-
other 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 wait-
ing 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 re-
act 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
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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 fore-
head 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 exit, and I nod in
agreement. Another drink, and we would prob-
ably 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.
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“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 carry-
ing 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 stum-
bling. Ridge opens the back door, and she prac-
tically 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
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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
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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, watch-
ing 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.
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Me: Thank you for telling me all that earli-
er. 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 re-
verse, 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.
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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 be-
hind 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
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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 in-
to. 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
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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 preten-
tious 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
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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 in-
stilled in me was the fact that she didn’t
want me to be her. She had no education
and has always been completely depend-
ent on my father. She raised me to be
very independent and financially respons-
ible, so I’ve always taken pride in not ask-
ing for their help. It’s hard sometimes, es-
pecially 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.
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Me: That’s not really fair.
Sydney: Like I said, my father is an as-
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 par-
ents for every bad thing that happens to
them.
Me: Yeah. I completely agree, which is
why I was emancipated at sixteen. De-
cided 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.
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We’ve been friends since we were four-
teen. Both of his parents are deaf, which
is how he knows ASL. Once I became
emancipated, they allowed me and Bren-
nan 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 consid-
erate 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 Bren-
nan after you left for college?
Me: No, we actually only stayed with them
for
seven
months.
When
I
turned
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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, ma-
ture adult, I was quite the opposite. Our
apartment became the hangout for every-
one 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
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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 six-
teen and I was nineteen, so that took up a
lot of our time. That’s also the year I star-
ted 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.
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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
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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. So-
metimes 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
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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?
283/692
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.
284/692
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.