Chapter Thirteen
Sydney
Not much has changed in the way we practice to-
gether, other than the fact that we now practice
five feet apart from each other. We’ve completed
a couple of songs since “the kiss,” and although
the first night was a little awkward, we seem to
have found our groove. We haven’t talked about
the kiss, and we haven’t talked about Maggie,
and we haven’t discussed why he plays on the
floor and why I write alone on the bed. There’s
no reason to discuss it, because we’re both very
aware of all of it.
The fact that we’ve admitted our attraction to
each other doesn’t seem to have eliminated it the
way we’d hoped. For me, it’s like a huge ele-
phant in the room. It feels as if it takes up so
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much space when I’m with him that it presses me
against the wall, squeezing the last traces of
breath out of me. I keep telling myself it’ll get
better, but it’s been almost two weeks since the
kiss, and it hasn’t gotten easier at all.
Luckily, I have two interviews next week, and
if I get hired, at least it’ll get me out of the house more. Warren and Bridgette both work and go to
school, so they’re not here a whole lot. Ridge
works from home, so the fact that we’re both
here alone the majority of the day is always at the
front of my mind.
Out of all the hours in the day, though, the
hour I hate the most is when Ridge is in the
shower. Which means I really hate this hour,
since that’s where he is right now. I hate where
my thoughts go when I know he’s one wall away
from me, completely unclothed.
Jesus, Sydney.
I hear the water turn off and the shower curtain
slide open, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying
once again not to picture him. This would
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probably be a good time of day to turn on some
music to drown out my thoughts.
As soon as the door closes between the bath-
room and his bedroom, there’s a knock at the
front door. I gladly jump off the bed and head to-
ward the living room to get my mind off the fact
that I know Ridge is in his room getting dressed
right now.
I don’t even bother looking through the peeph-
ole, which is a very bad oversight on my part. I
swing open the door to find Hunter standing
sheepishly at the top of the stairs. He eyes me, his
expression apologetic and nervous. My heart
drops to my stomach at the mere sight of him.
It’s been weeks since I last laid eyes on him. I
was beginning to forget what he looked like.
His dark hair is longer since I last saw him,
and it reminds me that I’m always the one to
schedule his hair appointments. The fact that he
hasn’t even bothered to make his own appoint-
ment makes him that much more pathetic to me.
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“Should I give Tori the number for your
barber? Your hair looks awful.”
The mention of Tori’s name makes him grim-
ace. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m not jumping
back into his arms that’s causing that regretful
expression on his face.
“You look good,” he says, capping his words
off with a smile.
“I am good,” I say, not sure if I’m lying to him or not.
He runs a free hand over his jaw and turns
away from me, appearing to regret the fact that
he’s here.
How is he here? How does he even know
where I live?
“How did you know where to find me?” I ask,
tilting my head in curiosity.
I see the split-second shift of his eyes as they
glance across the courtyard toward Tori’s apart-
ment. It’s obvious he doesn’t want me to notice
what’s going on in his mind, because it would
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only shed light on the fact that he’s still visiting
Tori on a regular basis.
“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice void of the
confidence I’ve always known him to have.
“If I let you in and convince you it’s over, will
you promise to stop texting me?”
He barely nods his head, so I step aside, and he
walks into the living room. I walk to the dining-
room table and pull out a chair, making it obvi-
ous that he’s not making himself comfortable by
sitting on the couch. He walks toward the table as
his eyes work their way around the room, more
than likely in search of information on who lives
here with me.
He grips the back of the chair and pulls it out
slowly while his eyes focus on a pair of Ridge’s
shoes tucked beside the couch. I like that he no-
ticed them.
“Are you living here now?” he asks, his voice
tight and controlled.
“For now,” I say, my voice even more con-
trolled. I’m proud of myself for keeping calm,
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because I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t
hurt to see him. I gave him two years of my life,
and all the things I felt for him can’t just be cut
off at once. Feelings take time to disappear, so
they’re still here. They’re just mixed and swirled
together with a hell of a lot of hatred now. It’s
confusing to feel this way when I see him, be-
cause I never thought I could dislike the man in
front of me. I never thought he would betray me
the way he did.
“Do you think that’s safe? Just moving in with
some strange guy you barely know?” He’s eyeing
me disapprovingly as he takes his seat, as if he
has the right to judge any part of my life.
“You and Tori didn’t leave me much choice,
did you? I found myself screwed over and home-
less on my birthday. If anything, I would think
you should be congratulating me for handling it
all so well. You sure as hell can’t sit here and
judge me.”
He huffs, then leans forward over the table and
closes his eyes, pressing the palms of his hands
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against his forehead. “Sydney, please. I didn’t
come here to fight or make excuses. I came here
to tell you how sorry I am.”
If there’s one thing I’d like to hear from him,
it’s an apology. If there are two things I’d like to hear, it’s an apology followed by a good-bye.
“Well, you’re here now,” I say quietly. “Have
at it. Tell me how sorry you are.” My voice isn’t
confident anymore. In fact, I want to punch my-
self, because it sounds really sad and heart-
broken, and that’s the last thing I want him to
think I feel.
“I’m sorry, Sydney,” he says, spitting the
words out fast and desperately. “I’m so, so sorry.
I know it won’t make it better, but things have al-
ways been different between Tori and me. We’ve
known each other for years, and I know it’s not
an excuse, but our relationship was sexual before
you even met us. But that’s all it was. It was just
sex, and once you were in the picture, neither of
us could figure out how to just put a stop to
something that had been going on between us for
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years. I know this doesn’t make sense, but what I
had with her was completely separate from what
I had with you. I love you. If you’ll just give me
one more chance to prove myself, I’ll never
speak to Tori again.”
My heart is pounding as hard as it was the mo-
ment I found out they were sleeping together. I’m
inhaling controlled breaths in an effort not to
climb across the table and beat the shit out of
him. I’m also clenching my fists in an effort not
to climb across the table and kiss him. I would
never take him back, but my head is so damned
confused right now, because I miss what we had
so much. It was simple and good, and my heart
never ached the way it’s been aching these past
few weeks.
What’s confusing me the most is the fact that
my heart hasn’t been aching like this because I
can’t be with Hunter. It’s aching because I can’t
be with Ridge.
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I realize as I’m sitting here that I’m more upset
that Ridge came into my life than I am that
Hunter left it. How screwed up is that?
Before I can respond, Ridge’s bedroom door
opens, and he walks out. He’s in jeans and noth-
ing else, and I tense from the way my body re-
sponds to his presence. However, I love the fact
that Hunter is about to turn around and witness
Ridge looking like this.
Ridge pauses just feet from the table when he
sees Hunter sitting across from me. He glances
from Hunter to me, just as Hunter turns to see
who I’m looking at. I can see the concern wash
over Ridge’s face, along with a flash of anger. He
eyes me hard, and I know exactly what’s going
through his head right now. He’s wondering what
the hell Hunter is doing here, just as I am. I nod
in reassurance, letting Ridge know I’m fine. I
shift my eyes to his bedroom and silently tell him
that Hunter and I need privacy.
Ridge doesn’t move. He doesn’t like that I just
told him to go back to his bedroom. From the
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looks of it, he doesn’t really trust Hunter alone
with me. Maybe it’s the fact that he wouldn’t be
able to hear me if I needed him to return for any
reason. Whatever it is, I just made him com-
pletely uncomfortable with my request. Regard-
less, he nods and turns back toward his room, but
not before eyeing Hunter with a warning shot.
Hunter faces me again, but his expression is no
longer apologetic.
“What the hell was that?” he asks, his voice
dripping in jealousy.
“That was Ridge,” I reply firmly. “I believe the
two of you have already met.”
“Are the two of you . . . like . . . ?”
Before I answer him, Ridge walks back into
the room with his laptop and heads straight to the
couch. He drops down onto the sofa, eyeing
Hunter the entire time while he opens his laptop
and props his feet up on the coffee table in front
of him.
The fact that Ridge refuses to leave me alone
with Hunter pleases me way too much.
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“Not that it’s any of your business,” I say, “but
no, we aren’t dating. He has a girlfriend.”
Hunter returns his attention to me and laughs
under his breath. I have no idea what he just
found funny, but it pisses me off. I fold my arms
while I glare at him and lean back against my
seat.
Hunter leans forward and looks straight into
my eyes. “Please tell me you see the irony in this,
Sydney.”
I shake my head, absolutely not seeing any
irony in this situation.
My lack of comprehension makes him laugh
again. “I’m trying to explain to you that what
happened between Tori and me was strictly phys-
ical. It meant nothing to either of us, but you
won’t even try to understand my side of it. Yet
you’re practically eye-f*cking your roommate
who happens to be in love with another woman,
and you don’t see the hypocrisy in your actions?
You can’t tell me you haven’t slept with him in
the two months you’ve been here. How can you
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not see that what the two of you are doing isn’t
any different from what Tori and I did? You
can’t justify your own actions without forgiving
mine.”
I’m trying to keep my jaw off the floor. I’m
trying to keep my anger subdued. I’m trying to
keep myself from reaching across this table and
punching him square between his accusing eyes,
but I’ve learned the hard way that punching isn’t
all it’s cracked up to be.
I allow myself several moments to calm down
before I respond. I glance at Ridge, who is still
eyeing me. He knows by the look on my face that
Hunter just crossed the line. Ridge’s hands are
gripping the screen of his laptop, prepared to
shove it aside if I need him.
I don’t need him. I’ve got this.
I square up with Hunter, pulling my gaze off
Ridge and focusing on the eyes I so desperately
want to rip out of Hunter’s head.
“Ridge has an amazing girlfriend who doesn’t
deserve to be cheated on, and luckily for her, he’s
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the type of guy who realizes her worth. With that
said, you’re wrong about the fact that I’m sleep-
ing with him, because I’m not. We both know
how unfair it would be to his girlfriend, so we
don’t act on our attraction. You should take note
that simply because a girl makes your dick hard,
that doesn’t mean you have to go shove it inside
her!”
I push myself away from the table at the same
time as Ridge sets his laptop aside and stands.
“Go, Hunter. Just go,” I say, unable to look at
him for another second. The simple fact that he
thought he had Ridge pegged as being anything
like him pisses me off, and he’d be smart to
leave.
He stands up and walks straight to the door. He
opens it and leaves without even looking back.
I’m not sure if his exit was so simple because he
finally understands that I’m not willing to take
him back or if it’s because Ridge looked as if he
was about to kick his ass.
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I have a good feeling I won’t be hearing from
Hunter anymore.
I’m still staring at the door when my phone
sounds off. I take it out of my pocket and turn to
Ridge. He’s holding his phone, looking at me
with concern.
Ridge: Why was he here?
Me: He wanted to talk.
Ridge: Did you know he was coming over?
I look up at Ridge after reading his text, and
for the first time, I notice his jaw is tense and he
doesn’t look very happy. I’d almost label his re-
action as slightly jealous, but I don’t want to ad-
mit that.
Me: No.
Ridge: Why did you let him in?
Me: I wanted to hear him apologize.
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Ridge: Did he?
Me: Yes.
Ridge: Don’t let him in here again.
Me: I wasn’t planning on it. BTW, you’re
kind of being a jerk right now.
He glances up at me and shrugs.
Ridge: It’s my apartment, and I don’t
want him here. Don’t let him in again.
I don’t like his attitude right now, and to be
honest, the fact that he just referred to this as his apartment doesn’t sit right with me. It feels like a
low blow to remind me that I’m at his mercy. I
don’t bother responding. In fact, I toss the phone
onto the couch so he can’t text me, and I head to-
ward my room.
When I reach my bedroom door, my emotions
catch up with me. I’m not sure if it’s seeing
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Hunter again and having all of those hurtful feel-
ings resurface or if it’s the fact that Ridge is be-
ing an a*shole. Whatever it is, the tears begin to
well in my eyes, and I hate that I’m letting either
of them get to me in the first place.
Ridge grabs my shoulder and turns me around
to face him, but I keep my eyes trained on the
wall behind him. I don’t even want to look him in
the eye. He puts my phone back in my hand,
wanting me to read whatever he just texted, but I
still don’t want to. I throw the phone toward the
couch again, but he intercepts it, then tries to
force it back into my hand. I take it this time, but
I press the power button down until the phone
shuts off, and then I toss it onto the couch again.
I look him in the eye now, and his expression is
angry. He takes two steps toward the coffee table,
grabs a pen out of the drawer, and walks back to
me. He takes my hand, but I pull it from him, still
not wanting to know what he has to say to me.
I’ve had enough apologies for tonight. I try to
turn away from him, but he grabs my arm and
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presses it against the door, holding it forcefully
while he writes on it. When he’s finished writing,
I pull my arm away and watch as he tosses his
pen onto the couch, then walks back to his bed-
room. I look down at my arm.
Let him in next time if he’s really what you
want.
My barrier completely breaks. Reading his
angry words depletes me of whatever strength I
had left to hold back my tears. I rush through my
bedroom door and straight into the bathroom. I
turn on the faucet and squirt soap into my hands,
then begin scrubbing his words off my arm while
I cry. I don’t even look up when the door to his
bedroom opens, but I see him out of my peripher-
al vision as he closes the door behind him and
slowly walks toward me. I’m still scrubbing the
ink off my arm and sniffling back the tears when
he reaches across me for the soap.
He dispenses some onto the palm of his hand,
then wraps his fingers around my wrist. The ten-
derness in his touch lashes out and scars my
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heart. He runs the soap up my wrist where the
words begin and lathers my skin as I drop my
other hand away and grip the edge of the sink, al-
lowing him to wash his words away.
He’s apologizing.
He massages his thumbs into the words, rub-
bing them away with the water.
I’m still staring down at my arm, but I can feel
his gaze directly on me. I’m aware of the exag-
gerated breaths I have to take in now that he’s
next to me, so I attempt to slow them down until
there are no longer traces of ink on my skin.
He grabs a hand towel and dries my arm, then
releases me. I bring my arm to my chest and hold
it with my other hand, not knowing what move to
make now. I finally bring my eyes to meet his,
and I instantaneously forget why I’m even upset
with him in the first place.
His expression is reassuring and apologetic
and maybe even a little longing. He turns and
walks out of the bathroom, then returns seconds
later with my phone. He powers it on and hands
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it to me while he leans against the counter, still
looking at me regretfully.
Ridge: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I
said. I thought maybe you were entertain-
ing the thought of accepting his apology,
and it upset me. You deserve better than
him.
Me: He showed up unannounced. I would
never take him back, Ridge. I was just
hoping an apology from him would help
me move on from the betrayal a little
quicker.
Ridge: Did it help at all?
Me: Not really. I feel even more pissed
than before he showed up.
As Ridge reads my text, I notice the tension
ease in his expression. His reaction to my situ-
ation with Hunter borders on jealousy, and I hate
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that this makes me feel good. I hate that every
time something Ridge-related makes me feel
good, it’s immediately followed up with guilt.
Why do things between the two of us have to be
so complicated?
I wish we could keep things simple, but I have
no idea how to do that.
Ridge: Let’s go write an angry song about
him. That might help.
He looks at me with a sly grin, and it makes
my insides swirl and melt. Then I freeze just as
fast from the guilt of those feelings.
For once, it would be nice not to be consumed
with shame.
I nod and follow him to his room.
Ridge
I’m sitting on the floor again. It’s not the most
comfortable place to play, but it’s much better
than being on the bed next to her. I can never
seem to focus on the actual music when I’m in
her personal space and she’s in mine.
She requested that I play one of the songs I
used to play when I sat out on my balcony to
practice, so we’ve been working through it. She’s
lying on her stomach, writing on her notepad.
Erasing and writing, erasing and writing. I’m sit-
ting here on the floor, not even playing. I’ve
played the song enough for her to know the
melody by now, so I’m just waiting while I watch
her.
I love how she focuses so intently on the lyr-
ics, as if she’s in her own world and I’m just a
lucky observer. Every now and then, she’ll tuck
behind her ear the hair that keeps spilling in front
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of her face. My favorite thing to watch her do is
erase her words. Every time the eraser meets the
paper, she pulls her top lip in with her bottom
teeth and chews on it.
I hate that it’s my favorite thing to watch her
do, because it shouldn’t be. It triggers all these
what-ifs in my head, and my mind begins imagining things it shouldn’t be imagining. I begin to
picture myself lying next to her on the bed while
she writes. I imagine her lip being tucked in
while I’m just inches from her, looking down on
the words she’s written. I imagine her glancing
up at me, noticing what she’s doing to me with
her small, innocent gestures. I imagine her rolling
onto her back, welcoming me to create secrets
with her that’ll never leave this room.
I close my eyes, wanting to do whatever I can
to stop the thoughts. They make me feel just as
guilty as if I were to act on them. Sort of similar
to how I felt a couple of hours ago when I
thought there was a chance she was getting back
together with Hunter.
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I was pissed.
I was jealous.
I was having thoughts and feelings I knew I
shouldn’t be having, and it was scaring the shit
out of me. I’ve never had an issue with jealousy
until now, and I don’t like the person it’s turning
me into. Especially when the jealousy I’m feeling
has nothing to do with the girl I’m in an actual
relationship with.
I flinch when something hits me on the fore-
head. I immediately open my eyes and look at
Sydney. She’s on the bed, laughing, pointing at
my phone. I pick it up and read her text.
Sydney: Are you falling asleep? We aren’t
finished.
Me: No. Just thinking.
She moves over on the bed to make more room
and pats the spot next to her.
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Sydney: Come think right here so you can
read these. I have most of the lyrics
down, but I’m hung up on the chorus. I’m
not sure what you want.
We haven’t openly discussed the fact that we
don’t write on the bed together anymore. She’s
focused on the lyrics, though, so I need to pull
my shit together and focus on them, too. I set my
guitar down and pull myself up, then walk to the
bed and lie beside her. I take the notebook out of
her hands and pull it in front of me to read what
she’s written so far.
She smells good.
Damn.
I try to block off my senses somehow, but I
know it’s a wasted effort. Instead, I focus on the
words she’s written, quickly impressed at how ef-
fortlessly they come to her.
Why don’t we keep
Keep it simple
You talk to your friends
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And I’ll be here to mingle
But you know that I
I want to be
Right by your side
Where I ought to be
And you know that I
That I can see
The way that your eyes
Seem to follow me
After reading what she’s written, I hand her back
the notebook and pick up my phone. I’m con-
fused about the lyrics, because they aren’t at all
what I was expecting. I’m not sure I like them.
Me: I thought we were writing an angry
song about Hunter.
She shrugs, then begins texting me back.
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Sydney: I tried. The subject of Hunter
doesn’t really inspire me anymore. You
don’t have to use them if you don’t like
them. I can try something different.
I stare at her text, not sure how to respond. I
don’t like the lyrics, but not because they aren’t
good. It’s because the words she’s written down
make me think she’s somehow able to read my
mind.
Me: I love them.
She smiles and says, “Thank you.” She flips
onto her back, and I catch myself appreciating
this moment and this night and her low-cut dress
way more than I probably should. When my eyes
make their way back to hers, she’s watching me,
plainly aware of what’s going through my head.
Eyes don’t lie, unfortunately.
When neither of us breaks our gaze, I’m forced
to swallow the huge lump in my throat.
Don’t get yourself in trouble, Ridge.
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Thank God she sits up when she does.
Sydney: I’m not sure where you want the
chorus to come in. This song is a little
more upbeat than the ones I’m used to.
I’ve written three different ones, but I
don’t like how any of them sound. I’m
stuck.
Me: Let me watch you sing it one more
time.
I roll off the bed and grab the guitar, then take
it back to the bed but sit on the edge this time.
We turn to face each other, and I play while she
sings. When we make it to the chorus, she stops
singing and shrugs, letting me know this is where
she’s stuck. I take her notebook and read the lyr-
ics over a few times. I glance up at her without
being too obvious about it and write the first
thing that comes to mind.
And I must confess
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My interest
The way that you move
When you’re in that dress
It’s making me feel
Like I want to be
The only man
That you ever see
I pause from writing and look up at her again,
feeling every bit of the words in this chorus. I
think we both know the words we write have to
do with each other, but that doesn’t seem to stop
us at all. If we keep having moments like these
with words that are way too honest, we’ll both
end up in trouble. I quickly look back down at
the paper as more lyrics begin to enter my head.
Whoa, oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble, trouble
Whoa, oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble now
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I refuse to look up at her again while I write. I
keep my mind focused on the words that some-
how seem to flow from my fingertips every time
we’re together. I don’t question what’s inspiring
me or what they mean.
I don’t question it . . . because it’s obvious.
But it’s art. Art is just an expression. An ex-
pression isn’t the same as an act, as much as it
sometimes feels that way. Writing lyrics isn’t the
same as directly informing someone of your
feelings.
Is it?
I keep my eyes on the paper and continue to
write the words I honestly wish I didn’t feel.
The second I’m finished writing, I’m so
worked up I don’t allow myself to witness her re-
action to the words. I quickly hand her back the
notebook and pull my guitar around and begin
playing so she can work through the chorus.