Chapter One
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
Sydney
I slide open my balcony door and step outside,
thankful that the sun has already dipped behind
the building next door, cooling the air to what
could pass as a perfect fall temperature. Almost
on cue, the sound of his guitar floats across the
courtyard as I take a seat and lean back into the
patio lounger. I tell Tori I come out here to get
homework done, because I don’t want to admit
that the guitar is the only reason I’m outside
every night at eight, like clockwork.
For weeks now, the guy in the apartment
across the courtyard has sat on his balcony and
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played for at least an hour. Every night, I sit out-
side and listen.
I’ve noticed a few other neighbors come out to
their balconies when he’s playing, but no one is
as loyal as I am. I don’t understand how someone
could hear these songs and not crave them day
after day. Then again, music has always been a
passion of mine, so maybe I’m just a little more
infatuated with his sound than other people are.
I’ve played the piano for as long as I can remem-
ber, and although I’ve never shared it with any-
one, I love writing music. I even switched my
major to music education two years ago. My plan
is to be an elementary music teacher, although if
my father had his way, I’d still be prelaw.
“A life of mediocrity is a waste of a life,” he
said when I informed him that I was changing my
major.
A life of mediocrity. I find that more amusing than insulting, since he seems to be the most dis-satisfied person I’ve ever known. And he’s a law-
yer. Go figure.
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One of the familiar songs ends and the guy
with the guitar begins to play something he’s
never played before. I’ve grown accustomed to
his unofficial playlist since he seems to practice
the same songs in the same order night after
night. However, I’ve never heard him play this
particular song before. The way he’s repeating
the same chords makes me think he’s creating the
song right here on the spot. I like that I’m wit-
nessing this, especially since after only a few
chords, it’s already my new favorite. All his
songs sound like originals. I wonder if he per-
forms them locally or if he just writes them for
fun.
I lean forward in the chair, rest my arms on the
edge of the balcony, and watch him. His balcony
is directly across the courtyard, far enough away
that I don’t feel weird when I watch him but
close enough that I make sure I’m never watch-
ing him when Hunter’s around. I don’t think
Hunter would like the fact that I’ve developed a
tiny crush on this guy’s talent.
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I can’t deny it, though. Anyone who watches
how passionately this guy plays would crush on
his talent. The way he keeps his eyes closed the
entire time, focusing intently on every stroke
against every guitar string. I like it best when he
sits cross-legged with the guitar upright between
his legs. He pulls it against his chest and plays it
like a stand-up bass, keeping his eyes closed the
whole time. It’s so mesmerizing to watch him
that sometimes I catch myself holding my breath,
and I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I’m
gasping for air.
It also doesn’t help that he’s cute. At least, he
seems cute from here. His light brown hair is un-
ruly and moves with him, falling across his fore-
head every time he looks down at his guitar. He’s
too far away to distinguish eye color or distinct
features, but the details don’t matter when
coupled with the passion he has for his music.
There’s a confidence to him that I find compel-
ling. I’ve always admired musicians who are able
to tune out everyone and everything around them
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and pour all of their focus into their music. To be
able to shut the world off and allow yourself to
be completely swept away is something I’ve al-
ways wanted the confidence to do, but I just
don’t have it.
This guy has it. He’s confident and talented.
I’ve always been a sucker for musicians, but
more in a fantasy way. They’re a different breed.
A breed that rarely makes for good boyfriends.
He glances at me as if he can hear my
thoughts, and then a slow grin appears across his
face. He never once pauses the song while he
continues to watch me. The eye contact makes
me blush, so I drop my arms and pull my note-
book back onto my lap and look down at it. I hate
that he just caught me staring so hard. Not that I
was doing anything wrong; it just feels odd for
him to know I was watching him. I glance up
again, and he’s still watching me, but he’s not
smiling anymore. The way he’s staring causes
my heart to speed up, so I look away and focus
on my notebook.
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Way to be a creeper, Sydney.
“There’s my girl,” a comforting voice says
from behind me. I lean my head back and tilt my
eyes upward to watch Hunter as he makes his
way onto the balcony. I try to hide the fact that
I’m shocked to see him, because I’m pretty sure I
was supposed to remember he was coming.
On the off chance that Guitar Boy is still
watching, I make it a point to seem really into
Hunter’s hello kiss so that maybe I’ll seem less
like a creepy stalker and more like someone just
casually relaxing on her balcony. I run my hand
up Hunter’s neck as he leans over the back of my
chair and kisses me upside down.
“Scoot up,” Hunter says, pushing on my
shoulders. I do what he asks and slide forward in
the seat as he lifts his leg over the chair and slips in behind me. He pulls my back against his chest
and wraps his arms around me.
My eyes betray me when the sound of the gui-
tar stops abruptly, and I glance across the court-
yard once more. Guitar Boy is eyeing us hard as
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he stands, then goes back inside his apartment.
His expression is odd. Almost angry.
“How was school?” Hunter asks.
“Too boring to talk about. What about you?
How was work?”
“Interesting,” he says, brushing my hair away
from my neck with his hand. He presses his lips
to my neck and kisses his way down my
collarbone.
“What was so interesting?”
He tightens his hold on me, then rests his chin
on my shoulder and pulls me back in the chair
with him. “The oddest thing happened at lunch,”
he says. “I was with one of the guys at this Italian
restaurant. We were eating out on the patio, and I
had just asked the waiter what he recommended
for dessert, when a police car rounded the corner.
They stopped right in front of the restaurant, and
two officers jumped out with their guns drawn.
They began barking orders toward us when our
waiter mumbled, ‘Shit.’ He slowly raised his
hands, and the police jumped the barrier to the
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patio, rushed toward him, threw him to the
ground, and cuffed him right at our feet. After
they read him his rights, they pulled him to his
feet and escorted him toward the cop car. The
waiter glanced back at me and yelled, ‘The tiram-
isu is really good!’ Then they put him in the car
and drove away.”
I tilt my head back and look up at him. “Seri-
ously? That really happened?”
He nods, laughing. “I swear, Syd. It was
crazy.”
“Well? Did you try the tiramisu?”
“Hell, yeah, we did. It was the best tiramisu
I’ve ever had.” He kisses me on the cheek and
pushes me forward. “Speaking of food, I’m
starving.” He stands up and holds out his hand to
me. “Did you cook tonight?”
I take his hand and let him pull me up. “We
just had salad, but I can make you one.”
Once we’re inside, Hunter takes a seat on the
couch next to Tori. She’s got a textbook spread
open across her lap as she halfheartedly focuses
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on both homework and TV at the same time. I
take out the containers from the fridge and make
his salad. I feel a little guilty that I forgot tonight was one of the nights he said he was coming. I
usually have something cooked when I know
he’ll be here.
We’ve been dating for almost two years now. I
met him during my sophomore year in college,
when he was a senior. He and Tori had been
friends for years. After she moved into my dorm
and we became friends, she insisted I meet him.
She said we’d hit it off, and she was right. We
made it official after only two dates, and things
have been wonderful since.
Of course, we have our ups and downs, espe-
cially since he moved more than an hour away.
When he landed the job in the accounting firm
last semester, he suggested I move with him. I
told him no, that I really wanted to finish my un-
dergrad before taking such a huge step. In all
honesty, I’m just scared.
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The thought of moving in with him seems so
final, as if I would be sealing my fate. I know
that once we take that step, the next step is mar-
riage, and then I’d be looking at never having the
chance to live alone. I’ve always had a room-
mate, and until I can afford my own place, I’ll be
sharing an apartment with Tori. I haven’t told
Hunter yet, but I really want to live alone for a
year. It’s something I promised myself I would
do before I got married. I don’t even turn twenty-
two for a couple of weeks, so it’s not as if I’m in
any hurry.
I take Hunter’s food to him in the living room.
“Why do you watch this?” he says to Tori.
“All these women do is talk shit about each other
and flip tables.”
“That’s exactly why I watch it,” Tori says,
without taking her eyes off the TV.
Hunter winks at me and takes his food, then
props his feet up on the coffee table. “Thanks,
babe.” He turns toward the TV and begins eating.
“Can you grab me a beer?”
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I nod and walk back into the kitchen. I open
the refrigerator door and look on the shelf where
he always keeps his extra beer. I realize as I’m
staring at “his” shelf that this is probably how it
begins. First, he has a shelf in the refrigerator.
Then he’ll have a toothbrush in the bathroom, a
drawer in my dresser, and eventually, his stuff
will infiltrate mine in so many ways it’ll be im-
possible for me ever to be on my own.
I run my hands up my arms, rubbing away the
sudden onset of discomfort washing over me. I
feel as if I’m watching my future play out in front
of me. I’m not so sure I like what I’m imagining.
Am I ready for this?
Am I ready for this guy to be the guy I bring
dinner to every night when he gets home from
work?
Am I ready to fall into this comfortable life
with him? One where I teach all day and he does
people’s taxes, and then we come home and I
cook dinner and I “grab him beers” while he
props his feet up and calls me babe, and then we 39/692
go to our bed and make love at approximately
nine P.M. so we won’t be tired the next day, in or-
der to wake up and get dressed and go to work
and do it all over again?
“Earth to Sydney,” Hunter says. I hear him
snap his fingers twice. “Beer? Please, babe?”
I quickly grab his beer, give it to him, then
head straight to my bathroom. I turn the water on
in the shower, but I don’t get in. Instead, I lock
the door and sink to the floor.
We have a good relationship. He’s good to me,
and I know he loves me. I just don’t understand
why every time I think about a future with him,
it’s not an exciting thought.
Ridge
Maggie leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I
need to go.”
I’m on my back with my head and shoulders
partially propped against my headboard. She’s
straddling my lap and looking down at me regret-
fully. I hate that we live so far apart now, but it
makes the time we do spend together a lot more
meaningful. I take her hands so she’ll shut up,
and I pull her to me, hoping to persuade her not
to leave just yet.
She laughs and shakes her head. She kisses
me, but only briefly, and then she pulls away
again. She slides off my lap, but I don’t let her
make it very far before I lunge forward and pin
her to the mattress. I point to her chest.
“You”—I lean in and kiss the tip of her
nose—“need to stay one more night.”
“I can’t. I have class.”
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I grab her wrists and pin her arms above her
head, then press my lips to hers. I know she
won’t stay another night. She’s never missed a
day of class in her life, unless she was too sick to
move. I sort of wish she was feeling a little sick
right now, so I could make her stay in bed with
me.
I slide my hands from her wrists, delicately up
her arms until I’m cupping her face. Then I give
her one final kiss before I reluctantly pull away
from her. “Go. And be careful. Let me know
when you make it home.”
She nods and pushes herself off the bed. She
reaches across me and grabs her shirt, then pulls
it on over her head. I watch her as she walks
around the room and gathers the clothes I pulled
off her in a hurry.
After five years of dating, most couples would
have moved in together by now. However, most
peoples’ other halves aren’t Maggie. She’s so
fiercely independent it’s almost intimidating. But
it’s understandable, considering how her life has
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gone. She’s been caring for her grandfather since
I met her. Before that, she spent the majority of
her teenage years helping him care for her grand-
mother, who died when Maggie was sixteen.
Now that her grandfather is in a nursing home,
she finally has a chance to live alone while fin-
ishing school, and as much as I want her here
with me, I also know how important this intern-
ship is for her. So for the next year, I’ll suck it up while she’s in San Antonio and I’m here in
Austin. I’ll be damned if I ever move out of
Austin, especially for San Antonio.
Unless she asked, of course.
“Tell your brother I said good luck.” She’s
standing in my bedroom doorway, poised to
leave. “And you need to quit beating yourself up,
Ridge. Musicians have blocks, just like writers
do. You’ll find your muse again. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She smiles and backs out of my bedroom. I
groan, knowing she’s trying to be positive with
the whole writer’s block thing, but I can’t stop
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stressing about it. I don’t know if it’s because
Brennan has so much riding on these songs now
or if it’s because I’m completely tapped out, but
the words just aren’t coming. Without lyrics I’m
confident in, it’s hard to feel good about the actu-
al musical aspect of writing.
My phone vibrates. It’s a text from Brennan,
which only makes me feel worse about the fact
that I’m stuck.
Brennan: It’s been weeks. Please tell me
you have something.
Me: Working on it. How’s the tour?
Brennan: Good, but remind me not to al-
low Warren to schedule this many gigs on
the next leg.
Me: Gigs are what gets your name out
there.
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Brennan: OUR name. I’m not telling you
again to stop acting like you aren’t half of
this.
Me: I won’t be half if I can’t work through
this damn block.
Brennan: Maybe you should get out more.
Cause some unnecessary drama in your
life. Break up with Maggie for the sake of
art. She’ll understand. Heartache helps
with lyrical inspiration. Don’t you ever
listen to country?
Me: Good idea. I’ll tell Maggie you sug-
gested that.
Brennan: Nothing I say or do could ever
make Maggie hate me. Give her a kiss for
me, and get to writing. Our careers are
resting squarely on your shoulders.
Me: A*shole.
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Brennan: Ah! Is that anger I detect in
your text? Use it. Go write an angry song
about how much you hate your little
brother, then send it to me. ;)
Me: Yeah. I’ll give it to you after you fi-
nally get your shit out of your old bed-
room. Bridgette’s sister might move in
next month.
Brennan: Have you ever met Brandi?
Me: No. Do I want to?
Brennan: Only if you want to live with two
Bridgettes.
Me: Oh, shit.
Brennan: Exactly. TTYL.
I close out the text to Brennan and open up a
text to Warren.
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Me: We’re good to go on the roommate
search. Brennan says hell no to Brandi. I’ll
let you break the news to Bridgette, since
you two get along so well.
Warren: Well, motherf*cker.
I laugh and hop off the bed, then head to the
patio with my guitar. It’s almost eight, and I
know she’ll be on her balcony. I don’t know how
weird my actions are about to seem to her, but all
I can do is try. I’ve got nothing to lose.