Chapter Eleven
Sydney
Oh, God. He’s doing that thing again. The mes-
merizing thing.
When I’ve seen him play his guitar like this in
the past, it was before I knew he couldn’t hear
himself play. I thought maybe he just played this
way to get a different angle on the strings, but
now I know he does it so he can feel the music
better. I don’t know why, but knowing this makes
me love watching him even more.
I should probably be working on the lyrics, but
I watch him play the entire song without once
opening his eyes. When he finishes, I quickly
glance down to my notebook, because I know
he’s about to open his eyes and look up at me. I
pretend I’m writing, and he flips his guitar
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around the correct way, then leans back against
my dresser and begins playing the song again.
I focus on the lyrics and think about what he
said. Ridge was right. I wasn’t thinking about the
fact that a guy would be singing them. I was fo-
cused on pouring my feelings onto paper. I close
my eyes and try to picture Ridge singing the
song.
I try to imagine what it would be like to be
honest about what I’m feeling for him and use
that to take the lyrics a little further. I open my
eyes and cross out the first line of the song, then
begin rewriting the first verse.
Watching him from here
Seeing something from so far away
Get a little closer every day
Thinking that I want to make it mine
I think the real reason I’m not able to write to-
night is that every line that ends up on paper is
about Ridge, and I know Ridge will be able to
see through it. He pulled the lyrics out of the
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trash and already read through them, so he has to
have an idea. Still . . . he’s here, wanting me to
finish the song. I focus on the second verse and
try to keep his advice in mind.
I’d run for him you if I could stand
But I can’t make that demand
What I want I can’t demand
’Cause what I want is you
I continue to go through the lyrics on the page,
crossing out the old lines and changing them up
as Ridge plays the song several times.
If I could be his, I would wait
And if I can’t be yours now
I’ll wait here on this ground
Till you come, till you take me away
Maybe someday
Maybe someday
The page becomes messy and hard to read, so I
set it aside and open my notebook to rewrite
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everything. Ridge stops playing for a few
minutes while I transfer everything onto the new
page. When I look up at him, he points to the
page, wanting to read what I’ve written. I nod.
He walks to the bed and sits next to me, lean-
ing in toward me to read what I’ve got so far.
I’m extremely aware that he might see right
through the lyrics and know they have more to do
with him than with Hunter, which causes panic to
course through my veins. He pulls the notebook
closer to him, but it’s still on my lap. His
shoulder is pressed to mine, and his face is so
close he could probably feel my breath against
his cheek . . . if I were breathing. I force my eyes
to fall where his have, onto the lyrics rewritten
across the page on my lap.
I try to ignore what you say
You turn to me
I turn away
Ridge picks up the pen and marks through the
last line, then tilts his head to face me. He points
the pen at himself and makes a writing motion in
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the air, indicating that he wants to change
something.
I nod, full of nerves and fear that he doesn’t
like it. He presses his pen to the paper, next to the lyrics he crossed out. He pauses for a few
seconds before writing and slowly turns to face
me again. His expression is full of trepidation,
and I’m curious about what’s causing it. His eyes
fall from mine, slowly grazing over me until his
attention is back on the page. He inhales and
carefully exhales, then begins writing the new
lyrics. I watch him write out the lyrics to the en-
tire song as I follow closely along, deciphering
the new lyrics he adds in himself.
MAYBE SOMEDAY
Seeing something from so far away
Get a little closer every day
Thinking that I want to make it mine
I’d run for you if I could stand
But what I want I can’t demand
’Cause what I want is you
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Chorus:
And if I can’t be yours now
I’ll wait here on this ground
Till you come
Till you take me away
Maybe Someday
Maybe Someday
I try to ignore what you say
You turn to me, I turn away
But Cupid must have shot me twice
I smell your perfume on my bed
Thoughts of you invade my head
Truths are written, never said
Repeat Chorus
You say it’s wrong, but it feels right
You cut me loose, then hold on tight
Words unfinished, like our song
Nothing good can come this way
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Lines are drawn, but then they fade
For her I bend, for you I break
Repeat Chorus
When he’s finished writing, he sets the pen down
across the paper. His eyes turn to mine again, and
I don’t know if he’s expecting me to respond to
what he just wrote, but I can’t. I’m trying not to
allow myself to feel as if there’s any truth behind
his lyrics, but his words from the first night we
wrote together flash through my head.
“They’re your words, Sydney. Words that
came from you.”
He was telling me then that lyrics have truth
behind them, because they come from some-
where inside the person who wrote them. I look
back down at the page.
For her I bend, for you I break
Oh, my God, I can’t. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t
want this.
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But it feels so good. His words feel good, his
closeness feels good, his eyes searching mine
make my heart go haywire, and for the life of me,
I can’t figure out how something that feels like
this can be so wrong.
I’m not a bad person.
Ridge isn’t a bad person.
How can two good people who both have such
good intentions end up with feelings, derived
from all the goodness, that are so incredibly bad?
Ridge’s expression grows more concerned, and
he pulls his gaze away from mine and picks up
his phone.
Ridge: Are you okay?
Ha. Am I okay? Yeah. That’s why my palms
are sweating and my chest is heaving and I’m
clenching the sheet beside me on the bed so I
don’t do something to him with these hands that
I’ll never forgive myself for.
I nod, then gently push him aside as I stand up
and walk to the bathroom. I shut the door behind
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me and lean against it, closing my eyes and si-
lently repeating the mantra in my head that I’ve
been repeating for weeks now.
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.
Ridge
After several minutes, she finally walks back into
her bedroom. She smiles at me, walks to the bed,
and picks up her phone.
Sydney: Sorry. I felt sick.
Me: You okay?
Sydney: Yeah. Just needed water, I
guess. I love the lyrics, Ridge. They’re
perfect. Do we need to run through them
again, or can we call it a night?
I really would like to run through them again,
but she looks tired. I’d also give anything to feel
her sing them again, but I’m not sure that’s a
good idea. I already beat up my conscience
enough while I was writing the rest of the lyrics
down. However, the fact that I was more than
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likely writing about her didn’t seem to stop me,
because the only thing on my mind was the
simple fact that I was actually writing. I haven’t been able to write lyrics in months, and in just a
matter of minutes, it was as if a fog lifted and the
words began to flow effortlessly. I would have
kept going if I didn’t feel I’d already gone way
too far.
Me: We’ll call it a night. I’m really happy
with this one, Syd.
She smiles, and I pick up my guitar and head
to my room.
I spend the next several minutes transferring
her lyrics into the music program on my laptop,
and filling in the guitar chords. Once it’s all
entered, I hit send, close it out, and text Brennan.
Me: Just sent you a very rough draft with
lyrics. I really want Sydney to hear this
one, so if you have time this week to work
up a rough acoustic, send it over. I think
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it’ll be good for her to finally be able to
hear something she created come to life.
Brennan: Looking at it now. I hate to ad-
mit this, but I think you were right about
her. She really was sent to earth just for
us.
Me: Starting to seem that way.
Brennan: Give me an hour. Not busy, so
I’ll see what we can work up.
An hour? He’s sending it tonight? I immedi-
ately text Sydney.
Me: Try not to fall asleep. I might have a
little surprise for you after a while.
Sydney: Um, . . . okay?
? ? ?
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Forty-five minutes later, I get an e-mail with an
attachment from Brennan that says, Rough cut,
Maybe Someday. I open it on my phone, find a set of earbuds in the kitchen drawer, and head to
Sydney’s room. She opens the door after I knock
and lets me into her room. I walk over to sit on
her bed and motion to the spot on the mattress
beside me. She looks at me questioningly but
walks to the bed. I hand her the earbuds and pat
her pillow, so she lies down and places them in
her ears. She continues to watch me warily, as if
I’m about to pull an elaborate prank on her.
I scoot down next to her and prop myself up on
my elbow, then hit play. I set the phone down
between us and watch her.
A few seconds pass, and her head swings in
my direction. An “Oh, my God” passes her lips,
and she’s looking at me as if I’ve just given her
the world.
And it feels pretty damn good.
She smiles and puts her hand over her mouth
as her eyes fill with tears. She tilts her face back
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up to the ceiling, more than likely because she’s
embarrassed by her emotional reaction. She
shouldn’t be. It’s exactly what I was hoping to
see.
I continue to watch her as she listens, and her
face conveys a mixture of emotions. She smiles,
then exhales, then closes her eyes. When the song
ends, she looks at me and mouths, “Again.”
I smile and hit play on my phone again. I con-
tinue to watch her, but the second her lips begin
moving and I realize she’s singing along to the
song, my smile is washed away by a sudden emo-
tion I didn’t expect to feel at all.
Jealousy.
Never in all my life and in all my years of liv-
ing in a world of silence have I wanted to hear
something as much as I want to hear her sing
right now. I want to hear her so bad it physically
hurts. The walls of my chest feel as if they’re
closing in on my heart, and I don’t even realize
that my hand has moved to her chest until she
turns to me, startled. I shake my head, not
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wanting her to stop. She nods slightly, but the
beat of her heart against my hand is increasing by
the second. I can feel the vibration of her voice
against my palm, but the material between my
hand and her skin hinders my ability to feel her
the way I want to. I move my hand upward, until
it’s at the base of her throat, and then I slide it up even farther, until my fingers and palm are flush
against her neck. I scoot closer to her so that my
chest is pressed against her side, because the
overwhelming need to hear her has completely
taken over, and I don’t allow myself to think
about where the invisible lines are drawn.
The vibration of her voice stops, and I feel her
swallow as she looks up at me with the exact
emotions that inspired most of the lines in this
song.
Say it’s wrong, but it feels right.
There’s no other way to describe how I feel. I
know that the way I think about her and feel
about her is wrong, but I struggle so much with
how right it feels when I’m with her.
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She’s no longer singing. My hand is still
wrapped around her throat, and her face is tilted
toward mine. I slide my hand a little higher until
it’s grazing her jaw. I run my finger around the
cord to the earbuds and pull them away from her.
I return my fingers to her jaw, slowly slipping my
hand behind her neck. My palm conforms so per-
fectly to the back of her head it’s as if my hands
were made to hold her like this. I gently pull her
toward me, and she turns her body slightly to-
ward mine. Our chests meet, and it creates a
force so powerful that every other part of me is
demanding to be pressed against every other part
of her.
She reaches her hands up to my neck and
lightly places her palms against my skin, then
slowly eases her fingers up and into my hair.
Having her so close feels as though we’ve cre-
ated our own personal space, and nothing from
outside our world can make its way in, and noth-
ing from inside our world can make its way out.
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Her breaths fall in waves against my lips, and
although I can’t hear them, I imagine they sound
like how a heartbeat feels. I let my forehead fall
against hers, and I feel a rumble from deep within
my chest rise up my throat. The sound I feel pass
my lips causes her mouth to open in a gasp, and
the way her lips are slightly parted causes my
mouth to immediately connect with hers in
search of the relief I desperately need.
Relief is exactly what I find the second our lips
meet. It’s as if every pent-up, denied feeling I’ve
held toward her is suddenly uncaged, and I’m
able to breathe for the first time since I met her.
Her fingers continue to sift through my hair,
and my grip tightens against the back of her head,
pulling her closer. She allows my tongue to slip
inside and find hers. She’s warm and soft, and
the vibrations from her moans begin to leave her
mouth and flow straight into mine.
My lips softly close over hers, and then I part
them, and we do it all over again, but with less
hesitation and more desperation. Her hands are
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now running down my back, and my hand is slip-
ping to her waist, and my tongue is exploring the
incredible way hers dances against mine to a
song only our mouths can hear. The desperation
and speed at which we’re escalating this kiss
make it apparent that we’re both attempting to
get as much out of each other as we can before
the moment ends.
Because we both know it has to end.
I grip her waist tightly as my heart begins to
tear in two, half of it remaining where it’s always
been, with Maggie, and the other half being
pulled to the girl beneath me.
Nothing in my life has ever felt so good yet
hurt so achingly bad.
I tear my mouth away from hers, and we both
gasp for breath as the desperate grip she has on
me keeps me locked against her. I refuse to allow
our mouths to reconnect as I struggle to figure
out which half of my heart I want to save.
I press my forehead to hers and keep my eyes
closed, inhaling and exhaling in rapid succession.
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She doesn’t attempt to kiss me again, but I can
feel her chest as her movements change from
begging for breath to fighting back tears. I pull
back and open my eyes, looking down on her.
Her eyes are shut tightly, but the tears are be-
ginning to fall. She turns her face and covers her
mouth with her hand as she tries to roll onto her
side, away from me. I lift up onto my hands and
look down at what I’ve done to her.
I’ve done the one thing I promised her I would
never do.
I just made her a Tori.
I wince and drop my forehead to the side of
her head and press my lips against her ear. I find
her hand and reach for the pen beside us on the
nightstand. I turn her hand over and press the tip
of the pen to her palm.
I’m so sorry.
I kiss her palm, then crawl off the bed and
back away. She opens her eyes long enough to
look at her hand. She makes a tight fist and pulls
her hand to her chest, then begins to sob into her
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pillow. I take my guitar, my phone, and my
shame . . . and I leave her completely alone.