Chapter Twenty Three
Sydney
Sound triggers.
They happen a lot, but mostly when I hear cer-
tain songs. Especially songs Hunter and I both
loved. If I listen to a song during a particularly
depressing period, then hear it later on down the
road, it brings back all the old feelings associated
with that song. There are songs I used to love that
now I absolutely refuse to listen to. They trigger
memories and feelings I don’t want to experience
again.
My text tone has become one of those sound
triggers.
Namely, Ridge’s text tone. It’s very distinct, a
snippet from the demo of our song “Maybe
Someday.” I assigned it to him after I heard the
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song for the first time. I’d like to say that sound
trigger is a negative one, but I’m not so sure it is.
The kiss I experienced with him during the song
certainly led to negative feelings of guilt, but the
kiss itself still turns my heart into a hot mess just thinking about it. And I think about it a lot. Way
more than I should.
In fact, I’m thinking about it right now as the
snippet of our song pours from the speakers of
my cell phone, indicating that I’m receiving a
text.
From Ridge.
I honestly never expected to hear this sound
again.
I roll over on my bed and stretch my arm to the
nightstand, my now-trembling fingers grasping at
my phone. Knowing that I’ve received a text
from him has once again wreaked havoc with my
organs, and they’ve forgotten how to function
properly. I pull the phone to my chest and close
my eyes, too nervous to read his words.
Beat, beat, pause.
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Contract, expand.
Inhale, exhale.
I slowly open my eyes and hold up the phone,
then unlock the screen.
Ridge: Are you home?
Am I home?
Why would he care if I were home? He
doesn’t even know where I live. Besides, he
made it pretty clear where his heart’s loyalty
resided when he told me to move out three weeks
ago.
But I am home, and despite my better judg-
ment, I want him to know I’m home. I’m tempted
to respond with my address and tell him to come
find out for himself whether or not I’m home.
Instead, I go with something safer. Something
less telling.
Me: Yes.
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I pull the covers off and sit up on the edge of
the bed, watching my phone, too afraid even to
blink.
Ridge: You’re not answering the door. Am
I at the wrong apartment?
Oh, God.
I hope he’s at the wrong apartment. Or maybe I hope he’s at the right apartment. I can’t really tell, because I’m happy he’s here, but I’m pissed
off that he’s here.
These conflicting feelings are exhausting.
I stand and run out of my bedroom, straight to
my front door. I peer through the peephole, and
sure enough, he’s at my front door.
Me: You’re outside my door, so yeah.
Right apartment.
I look out the peephole again after hitting send,
and he’s standing with his palm flat against the
door, staring at his phone. Seeing the pained
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expression on his face and knowing it derives
from the battle his heart is going through makes
me want to swing open the door and throw my
arms around him. I close my eyes and press my
forehead to the door in order to give myself time
to think before making any rash decisions. My
heart is being pulled toward him, and I can’t
think of anything I want more right now than to
open this door.
However, I also know that opening the door
won’t do either of us any good. He just broke up
with Maggie a matter of weeks ago, so if he’s
here for me, he can turn right around and leave.
There’s no way anything could work between us
when I know he’s still heartbroken over someone
else. I deserve more than what he can give me
right now. I’ve been through too much this year
to let someone screw with my heart like this.
He shouldn’t be here.
Ridge: Can I come in?
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I turn until my back is pressed against the
door. I clutch the phone to my chest and squeeze
my eyes shut. I don’t want to read his words. I
don’t want to see his face. Everything about him
makes me lose sight of what’s important, what’s
best for me. He isn’t what’s best for my life right
now, especially considering what he’s gone
through in his own life, and I should walk away
from this door and not let him in.
But everything in me wants to let him in.
“Please, Sydney.”
The words are almost an inaudible whisper
through the other side of the door, but I definitely
heard them. Every single part of me heard them.
The desperation in his voice, combined with the
simple fact that he spoke, completely slays me. I
allow my heart to make my decision for me this
time as I slowly face the door. I turn the lock and
slide the latch loose, then open the door.
I can’t describe what it feels like to see him
standing in front of me again without using the
term terrifying.
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Everything about the way he makes me feel is
absolutely terrifying. The way my heart wants to
be held by him is terrifying. The way my knees
seem to forget how to hold me up is terrifying.
The way my mouth wants to be claimed by his is
terrifying.
I do my best to hide what his presence does to
me by turning away from him and walking to-
ward the living room.
I don’t know why I’m trying to hide my reac-
tion from him, but isn’t that what people do? We
try so hard to hide everything we’re really feeling
from those who probably need to know our true
feelings the most. People try to bottle up their
emotions, as if it’s somehow wrong to have nat-
ural reactions to life.
My natural reaction in this moment is to turn
and hug him, regardless of the reason he’s here.
My arms want to be around him, my face wants
to be pressed against his chest, my back wants to
be cradled by him—yet I’m standing here trying
to pretend that’s the last thing I need from him.
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Why?
I inhale a calming breath, then turn around
when I hear him close the front door behind him.
I lift my eyes to meet his, and he’s standing sev-
eral feet in front of me, watching me. I can tell by
the tightness in his expression that he’s doing ex-
actly what I’m doing. He’s holding back
everything he’s feeling for the sake of . . . what?
Pride?
Fear?
The one thing I’ve always admired about my
relationship with Ridge is that we’re so honest
and real with each other. I’ve always been able to
say exactly what I was thinking, and so has he. I
don’t like this shift we’ve made.
I try to smile at him, but I’m not sure if my
smile is working right now. I speak to him and
enunciate clearly so he can read my lips. “Are
you here because you need a flaw?”
He laughs and exhales at the same time, re-
lieved that I’m not angry.
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I’m not angry. I’ve never been mad at him.
The decisions he’s made during the time he’s
known me aren’t decisions I can hold against
him. The only thing I hold against him is the
night he kissed me and ruined me for every other
kiss I’ll ever experience.
I take a seat on the couch and look up at him.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He sighs, and I quickly look away. It’s hard
enough being in the same room as him right now,
but even harder to make eye contact with him. He
completes the walk into the living room and sits
on the couch next to me.
I debated buying more furniture, but one couch
was all I could afford. A love seat at that. I’m not
so sure I’m sad about my lack of furniture,
though, because his leg is touching my thigh, and
the simple contact causes heat to roll through me
like a riptide. I look down at our knees when they
brush together and realize I’m still wearing the T-
shirt I threw on right before I went to bed. I guess
I was so shocked by the fact that he said he was
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at my apartment door that I didn’t concern myself
with how I looked. I’m in nothing but an over-
sized cotton T-shirt that falls to my knees, and
my hair is more than likely a wreck.
He’s in jeans and a gray Sounds of Cedar T-
shirt. I would say I feel underdressed, but I’m ac-
tually dressed appropriately for what I was doing
before he showed up, which was going to bed.
Ridge: I don’t know if I’m okay. Are you
okay?
I forgot I even asked him a question for a
second.
I shrug. I’m sure I will be fine, but I’m not go-
ing to lie and tell him I am. I think it’s obvious
that neither one of us can really be okay with
how everything has turned out. I’m not okay with
losing Ridge, and Ridge isn’t okay with losing
Maggie.
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Me: I’m sorry about Maggie. I feel awful.
She’ll come around, though. Five years is
a lot to give up for a misunderstanding.
I hit send and finally look up at him. He reads
the text, then eyes me. The concentration in his
expression makes the breath catch in my lungs.
Ridge: It wasn’t a misunderstanding,
Sydney. She understood a little too well.
I read his text several times, wishing he would
expand on it. What wasn’t a misunderstanding?
The reason they broke up? His feelings for me?
Rather than ask him what he means, I cut to the
question I want the answer to the most.
Me: Why are you here?
He works his jaw back and forth before
responding.
Ridge: Do you want me to leave?
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I look at him and slowly shake my head no.
Then I pause and shake my head yes. Then I
pause again and just shrug. He smiles endear-
ingly, completely understanding my confusion.
Me: I guess whether or not I want you
here depends on why you’re here. Are you
here because you need me to try to help
you win back Maggie? Are you here be-
cause you miss me? Are you here because
you want to try to work out some sort of
friendship?
Ridge: Would I be wrong if I answered
none of the above? I don’t know why I’m
here. Part of me misses you so much it
hurts, while part of me wishes I never
even met you to begin with. I guess today
is one of the days I was hurting, so I stole
Warren’s keys and forced him to give me
your address. I didn’t think this through
or come up with any kind of speech. I just
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did what my heart needed me to do,
which was to see you.
His brutally honest reply melts my heart and
pisses me off all at the same time.
Me: What about tomorrow? What if to-
morrow is one of the days you wished you
never met me? What am I supposed to do
then?
The intensity in his stare is unnerving. Maybe
he’s trying to gauge if that was an angry re-
sponse. I’m not sure if it was or not. I’m not sure
how I feel about the fact that he doesn’t even
know why he’s here.
He doesn’t respond to my text, and it proves
one thing: he’s having the same internal conflict
with himself that I’ve been having.
He wants to be with me, but he doesn’t.
He wants to love me, but he doesn’t know if he
should.
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He wants to see me, but he knows he
shouldn’t.
He wants to kiss me, but it would hurt just as
much as it did the first time he kissed me and had
to walk away. I suddenly feel uncomfortable star-
ing at him. We’re way too close together on this
couch, yet my body is making it very clear to me
that it doesn’t think we’re close enough at all.
What it’s wishing would happen right now are all
the things that aren’t.
Ridge looks away and slowly scans my apart-
ment for a few moments, then returns his atten-
tion to his phone.
Ridge: I like your place. Good neighbor-
hood. Seems safe.
I almost laugh at his text and the casual con-
versation he’s trying to make, because I know
we’re no longer in a place for casual conversa-
tion. We can’t be friends at this point. We also
can’t be together with so much against us. Casual
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conversation has no place between us right now,
yet I can’t bring myself to reply any differently.
Me: I like it here. Thank you for helping
me out with the hotel until I could move
in.
Ridge: It was the least I could do. Abso-
lutely the least I could do.
Me: I’ll pay you back as soon as I get my
first paycheck. I got my job back at the
campus library, so it should only be an-
other week.
Ridge: Sydney, stop. I don’t even want
you to offer.
I have no idea what to say in response. This
whole situation is awkward and uncomfortable,
because we’re both dancing around all the things
we wish we had the courage to do and say.
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I set my phone facedown on the couch. I want
him to know that I need a break. I don’t like that
we aren’t being us.
He takes the hint and lays his phone down on
the armrest beside him, then sighs heavily as he
drops his head against the back of the couch. The
silence makes me wish I could experience the
world from his perspective for once. I find it al-
most impossible to put myself in his shoes,
though. People with the advantage of hearing
take so much for granted, and I’ve never under-
stood that to the extent that I understand it now.
There’s nothing being spoken between us, yet I
understand by his heavy sigh that he’s frustrated
with himself. I understand how much he’s hold-
ing back by the way his breaths are being sharply
pulled in.
I suppose his expertise in a silent world gives
him an ability to read people, just in different
ways. Instead of focusing on the sounds of my
breaths, he focuses on the rise and fall of my
chest. Rather than listening to quiet sighs, he
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more than likely watches my eyes, my hands, my
posture. Maybe that’s why his face is tilted to-
ward mine now, because he wants to see me and
get a feel for what’s going through my head.
I feel as if he reads me too well. The way he’s
watching me forces me to try to control every fa-
cial expression and every breath. I close my eyes
and lean my head back, knowing he’s staring,
trying to get a sense of where I am.
I also wish I could just turn to him and tell
him. I want to tell him how much I’ve missed
him. I want to tell him how much he means to
me. I want to tell him how horrible I feel, be-
cause before I showed up in his life, everything
seemed perfect for him. I want to tell him that
even though we both regretted it, that minute we
spent kissing was the one minute out of my entire
life that I wouldn’t trade for the world.
At moments like these, I’m thankful he can’t
hear me, or there would have been so many
things spoken that I would regret.
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Instead, there are so many things left unsaid
that I wish I had the courage to say .
Ridge’s weight shifts on the couch, and my
eyes naturally open out of curiosity. He’s leaning
across the arm of the couch, reaching for
something. When he turns back around, he’s
holding a pen in his hand. He smiles softly, then
picks up my arm. He turns his body toward mine
and presses the pen to my open palm.
I swallow hard and slowly look up at his face,
but he’s looking down at my hand as he writes. I
could swear I almost see a faint smile flash
across his lips. When he’s finished, he brings my
palm to his mouth and blows softly to dry the
ink. His lips are moist and puckered into a pout,
and holy hell, it just got really warm in this apart-
ment. He lowers my hand, and I look down at it.
Just wanted to touch your hand.
I laugh softly. Mostly because his words are so
innocent and sweet compared to the things he’s
written on me in the past. I’ve been sitting here
on this couch with him for ten minutes, wishing
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he would touch me, and then he goes and admits
he was thinking the exact same thing. It’s so ju-
venile, as if we’re teenagers. I’m almost embar-
rassed that it pleases me this much that he’s
touching me, but I can’t recall a time I’ve ever
wanted anything more.
He hasn’t released my hand yet, and I’m still
looking down at his writing, smiling. I brush my
thumb across the back of his hand, and he gasps
quietly. The permission I just gave him with that
tiny movement seems to have broken some invis-
ible barrier, because he immediately slides his
hand over mine and presses our palms together,
then intertwines our fingers. The warmth of his
hand doesn’t come close to the warmth that just
shot through my entire body.
God, if just holding hands with him feels this
intense, I can’t imagine what everything else with
him would feel like.
We’re both watching our hands now, feeling
every bit of the connection pulsating through our
palms. He brushes over my thumb and flips our
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hands over, then takes the pen and presses it to
my wrist. He moves the pen slowly up my wrist,
drawing in a straight line all the way up my fore-
arm. I don’t stop him. I simply watch him. When
he reaches the crease in my elbow, he begins to
write again. I read each word as he writes it.
Just an excuse to touch you here, too.
Without releasing my hand, he lifts my arm
and keeps his eyes focused on mine as he bends
forward and blows softly up and down my arm.
He presses his lips lightly against his words and
kisses them without once breaking eye contact.
When his lips meet my arm, I feel a soft flick of
his tongue tease my arm for a split second before
his mouth closes over my skin.
That might have just made me whimper.
Yep. Pretty sure I just whimpered.
God, I’m so glad he couldn’t hear that.
He pulls his lips away from my arm and con-
tinues to watch me, gauging my reaction. His
eyes are dark and piercing, and they’re focused
all over me. On my lips, on my eyes, on my neck,
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on my hair, on my chest. He can’t seem to take
me in fast enough.
He presses the pen against my skin again,
starting where he left off. He rolls the pen slowly
up my arm, watching it intently the whole time.
When he reaches the sleeve of my T-shirt, he
pushes it up carefully until my shoulder is ex-
posed. He makes a small mark with the pen, then
slowly leans over me. My head falls back against
the couch when I feel his lips meet my skin. His
breath is close and warm against my shoulder.
I’m not even thinking about the fact that he’s
drawing all over me. That can be washed off
later. Right now, I just want his pen to keep go-
ing and going until it’s completely out of ink.
He pulls away and releases my hand, switching
the pen to his other hand. He pulls my sleeve
back down over my shoulder, then slips his fin-
gers inside the collar of my T-shirt, tugging it to
expose more of my collarbone. He puts the tip of
the pen on my shoulder and glances up at me
while he proceeds with caution, making his way
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to my neck. His expression is heated, and I can
tell he’s proceeding with caution despite the fact
that I know exactly what he wishes were happen-
ing right now and where he plans to go with this
pen. He doesn’t have to verbalize it when his
eyes clearly state it for him.
He moves the pen slowly up my neck. I natur-
ally tilt my head to the side, and as soon as I do, I hear a rush of air hiss quietly through his teeth.
He comes to a stop just below my ear. I squeeze
my eyes shut and hope my heart doesn’t explode
when he leans in, because it definitely feels as if
it could. His lips press gently against my skin,
and I swear the room flips upside down.
Or maybe that was just my heart.
One of my hands slides up his arm and grasps
the back of his head, not wanting him to pull
away from this spot. His tongue makes another
quick appearance against my neck, but he doesn’t
let my desperation stall him. He lifts away and
looks back down at me. His eyes are smiling,
knowing how crazy he’s driving me.
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He rolls the pen from the spot below my ear,
back down my neck, and around to the dip in the
base of my throat. Before kissing the spot he just
marked, he grabs me by the waist and lifts me up,
sliding me onto his lap.
I grasp his arms and suck in a rush of air the
second he pulls me against him. My T-shirt slides
up my thighs, and the fact that I’m not wearing
anything under it except underwear pretty much
guarantees that I’ve gotten myself into something
that’s going to be damn hard to pull away from.
His eyes drop to the base of my throat as he
slides a hand up my thigh, over my hip, and all
the way up and into my hair. He grasps the back
of my head, then pulls my neck against his
mouth. This kiss is harder and not at all cautious
like the rest of them. I slide my hands into his
hair and keep his mouth pressed against my neck.
He works his kisses all the way up my neck
until his mouth meets my chin. Our bodies are
meshed firmly together, and one of his hands has
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found my lower back and is keeping me flush
against him.
I can’t move. I’m literally panting for breath,
wondering where in the hell the strong Sydney
went. Where’s the Sydney who knows this
shouldn’t be happening?
I’ll look for her later. After he finishes with his
pen.
He pulls away when his lips come close to my
mouth. Our bodies are as close as they can get
without his mouth being on mine. He removes
his hand from my lower back and brings the pen
back around to my throat. When he touches the
tip of it to my skin, I gulp, anticipating which dir-
ection he’s about to go with it.
North or south, north or south. I don’t really
care.
He begins to scroll upward, but then he stops.
He pulls the pen away from my neck and shakes
it, then touches it to my neck again. He makes
another movement upward with the pen but stops
again. He pulls back slightly and frowns at the
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pen, which I’m assuming has just run out of ink.
He looks back at me and tosses the pen over my
shoulder. I hear it land on the floor behind me.
His eyes drop to my lips, which I’m assuming
would have been the pen’s final destination.
We’re both breathing heavily, knowing exactly
what’s about to come next. What we’re about to
experience again for the second time, knowing
how much our first kiss affected us.
I think he’s as terrified as I am right now.
I’m leaning all my weight into him, because
I’ve never been this weak. I can’t think, I can’t
move, I can’t breathe. I just . . . need.
He brings both hands to my cheeks and looks
directly into my eyes.
“Your call,” he whispers.
Jesus Christ, that voice.
I stare at him, not sure if I like that he just put
the control in my hands. He wants this to be my
decision.
It’s so much easier having someone else to
blame when things go where they shouldn’t. I
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know we shouldn’t be putting ourselves into a
situation we’re only going to regret once it’s
over. I could put a stop to it right here. I could
make it easier by asking him to leave now, rather
than when things get even more complicated
between us. I could slide off his lap and tell him
he shouldn’t be here because he hasn’t even had
time to forgive himself for what happened with
Maggie. I could tell him to go away and not
come back until his heart isn’t confused anymore
about who it wants.
If that day ever comes.
There are so many things I could and should
and need to do, but none of them is what I want
to do.
The pressure picks the worst possible time to
break me. The worst possible time.
I squeeze my eyes shut when I feel a tear begin
to work its way out. It trickles down my cheek,
falling slowly toward my jaw. It’s the absolutely
slowest descent a tear has ever made. I open my
eyes, and Ridge is watching it. He’s following
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the wet trail with his eyes, and I can see his jaw
growing more tense with every second that
passes. I want to reach up and wipe it away, but
the last thing I want to do is hide it from him. My
tears say a whole lot more about how I’m feeling
right now than I’m willing to say in a text.
Maybe I need him to know that this is hurting
me.
Maybe I want it to hurt him, too.
When the tear finally curves and disappears
under my jaw, he brings his eyes back to mine.
I’m surprised by what I see in them.
His own tears.
Knowing that he’s hurting because I’m hurting
shouldn’t make me want to kiss him, but it abso-
lutely does. He’s here because he cares about me.
He’s here because he misses me. He’s here be-
cause he needs to feel what we felt in our first
kiss again, just as I do. I’ve wanted that feeling
back since the second his mouth left mine and he
walked away.
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I remove my hands from his shoulders and
grab the back of his head, then lean into him,
bringing my mouth so close to his that our lips
brush.
He grins. “Good call,” he whispers.
He closes the space between our mouths, and
everything else falls away. The guilt, the worries,
the concern over what happens after this kiss
ends. It all melts away the second his mouth
claims mine. He gently coaxes my lips apart with
his tongue, and all the chaos running through my
heart and head is eliminated when I feel his
warmth inside my mouth.
Kisses like his should come with a warning la-
bel. They can’t be good for the heart. He runs a
hand around to my upper thigh, then slips it be-
neath the hem of my T-shirt. His hand glides
across my back, and he grips me tightly, then lifts
his hips at the same time as he pulls me harder
against him.
Oh.
My.
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Goodness.
I become weaker and weaker with every
rhythmic movement he creates with our bodies. I
find whatever parts of him I can hold on to, be-
cause I feel as if I’m falling. I grab his shirt and
his hair while I moan softly into his mouth. When
he feels the sound escape my throat, he quickly
pulls away from my mouth and squeezes his eyes
shut, breathing heavily. When he opens his eyes
again, he’s staring at my throat.
He pulls his hand from beneath my shirt, then
slowly brings it up to my neck.
Oh, my dear, sweet God.
He wraps his fingers around my neck, gently
pressing his palm into the base of my throat
while he stares at my mouth. The thought of him
wanting to feel what he’s doing to me makes my
head swarm and the entire room spin. I’m some-
how able to glance into his eyes long enough to
see them transform from a calm desire to an al-
most carnal need.
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With his other hand still curved around the
back of my head, he pulls me to him with more
urgency, covering my mouth with his. The
second his tongue finds mine again, I give him
more moans than he can possibly keep up with.
This is exactly what I’ve wanted from him.
I’ve wanted him to show up and tell me how
much he’s missed me. I’ve needed to know that
he cares about me, that he wants me. I’ve needed
to feel his mouth on mine again so I could know
that the way his first kiss made me feel wasn’t
just in my head this whole time.
Now that I have it, I’m not sure I’m strong
enough for it. I know that the second this ends
and he walks out the front door, my heart will die
all over again. The more I open up to him, the
more I need him. The more I admit to myself that
I need him, the more it hurts to know that I still
don’t exactly have him.
I’m still not convinced that he’s here for the
right reasons. Even if he is here for the right reasons, it’s still wrong timing. Not to mention all the
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questions still running through my head. I try to
push them away, and for brief moments, it works.
When his hands graze my cheek or his lips close
over mine, I forget all about those questions that I
can’t seem to run away from. But then he’ll
pause to catch his breath, and he’ll look me in the
eye, and all those questions just cram right back
into the front of my head, until they’re so heavy
that they’re forcing more tears to want to escape.
I clench his arms when the uncertainty begins
to take over. I shake my head and try to push
against him. He pulls away from my mouth and
sees my doubt building, and he shakes his head to
get me to stop analyzing this moment between
us. His eyes are pleading as he strokes my cheek,
pulls me flush against him, and tries to kiss me
again, but I struggle out of his arms.
“Ridge, no,” I say. “I can’t.”
I’m still shaking my head when his hand grips
my wrist. I slide off his lap and keep walking un-
til his fingers fall away from me.
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I walk straight to the kitchen sink and dispense
soap into my hands, then begin scrubbing the ink
off my arm. I reach into a drawer and pull out a
rag, then wet it and press it to my neck. Tears are
streaming down my cheeks as I try to wash away
the reminders of what just happened between us.
The reminders are going to make him that much
harder to overcome.
Ridge comes up behind me and places his
hands on my shoulders. He turns me around to
face him. When he sees that I’m crying, his eyes
fill with apology, and he pulls the rag from my
hand. He brushes the hair off my shoulder and
gently rubs my skin, washing away the ink. He
looks incredibly guilty for making me cry, but
it’s not his fault. It’s never his fault. It’s no one’s fault. It’s both our faults.
When he’s finished rubbing away the ink, he
tosses the rag behind me onto the counter, then
pulls me against his chest. The comfort that sur-
rounds me makes this even harder. I want this all
the time. I want him all the time. I want these tiny 600/692
snippets of perfection between us to be our con-
stant reality, but that can’t happen right now. I
completely understand his earlier comment, when
he said that there are times he misses me and
times he wishes he never met me, because right
now, I’m wishing I never set foot out onto my
balcony the first time I heard his guitar.
If I never experienced how he could make me
feel, then I wouldn’t miss it after he’s gone.
I wipe my eyes and pull away from him.
There’s so much we need to discuss, so I walk to
the couch, retrieve our phones, and bring his to
him. I move away from him to lean against the
other counter while I type, but he grabs my arm
and pulls me back. He leans against the bar and
pulls my back against his chest, then wraps his
arms around me from behind. He kisses the side
of my head, then moves his lips to my ear.
“Stay here,” he says, wanting me to remain
pressed against him.
It’s crazy how being held by someone for just
a few minutes can forever change how it feels not 601/692
to be held by him. The second he releases his
hold on you, it suddenly feels as if a part of you
is missing. I guess he feels it, too, which is why
he wants me near him.
Does he feel this way about Maggie, too?
Questions like this refuse to leave my mind.
Questions like this keep me from believing he
could ever be happy with the outcome of his situ-
ation, because he lost her in the end. I don’t want
to be someone’s second choice.
I lean my head against his shoulder and
squeeze my eyes shut, trying my best not to let
my mind go there again. However, I know I have
to go there if I ever want to find a sense of
closure.
Ridge: I wish I could read your mind.
Me: Believe me, I wish you could, too.
He laughs quietly and squeezes me tightly in
his arms. He keeps his cheek pressed against my
head as he types out another text.
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Ridge: We’ve always been able to say
whatever is on our minds. You still have
that with me, you know. You can say
whatever you need to say, Sydney. That’s
what I’ve always loved about us the most.
Why do all the words he says and writes and
texts have to pierce my heart?
I inhale a deep breath, then exhale carefully. I
open my eyes and look down at my phone, terri-
fied to ask the one question I don’t really want
the answer to. I ask it anyway, because as much
as I don’t want to know the answer, I need to know the answer.
Me: If she texted you right now and said
she made the wrong choice, would you
go? Would you walk out my front door
without thinking twice?
My head stills when the rapid rise and fall of
his chest comes to a sudden halt.
I can no longer hear his breaths.
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His grip around me loosens slightly.
My heart crumbles.
I don’t need to read an answer from him. I
don’t even need to hear it. I can feel it in every part of him.
It’s not as if I were expecting his answer to be
any different. He spent five years with her. It’s
obvious that he loves her. He’s never said
otherwise.
I was just hoping he was wrong.
I immediately break away from him and walk
swiftly toward my bedroom. I want to lock my-
self inside until he leaves. I don’t want him to see
what this does to me. I don’t want him to see that
I love him the same way he loves Maggie.
I reach my bedroom and swing open the door.
I rush inside and begin to shut the door behind
me, but he pushes the door open. He steps into
my bedroom and turns me around to face him.
His eyes are searching mine, desperately trying
to get across whatever it is he wishes he could
say. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to
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speak, but then he closes it again. He releases my
arms, then turns around and runs his hands
through his hair. He grips the back of his neck,
then kicks my bedroom door shut with a frus-
trated groan. He leans his forearm into the door
and presses his forehead against it. I do nothing
but stand still and watch him try to fight the war
within himself. The same war I’ve been fighting.
He remains in the same position while he lifts
his phone and responds to my text.
Ridge: That’s not a fair question.
Me: Yeah, well, you didn’t really put me in
a fair situation by showing up here
tonight.
He turns until his back is flat against my bed-
room door. He brings two frustrated hands to his
forehead, then lifts his leg at the knee and kicks
the door behind him. Seeing him struggle with
who he really wants is more pain than I’m will-
ing to endure. I deserve more than he can give
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me right now, and his conflict is screwing with
my heart. Screwing with my head. Everything
with him is just too much.
Me: I want you to leave. I can’t be around
you anymore. It terrifies me that you’re
wishing I were her.
He hangs his head and stares at the floor for
several moments while I continue to stare at him.
He isn’t denying that he’d rather be with Maggie
right now. He isn’t making excuses or telling me
he could love me more than he loves her.
He’s completely quiet . . . because he knows
I’m right.
Me: I need you to leave. Please. And if
you really care about me, you won’t come
back.
He slowly turns and faces me. His eyes lock
with mine, and I’ve never seen more emotions
flash through them than in this moment.
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“No,” he says firmly.
He begins walking toward me, and I begin
backing away from him. He’s shaking his head
pleadingly. He reaches me just as my legs meet
my bed, and then he grabs my face between his
hands and presses his lips to mine.
I shake my head and push against his chest. He
steps away from me and winces, looking even
more frustrated with his inability to communicate
with me. His eyes search the room for whatever
will help him convince me I’m wrong, but I
know nothing can help our situation. He just
needs to realize this, too.
He looks down at my bed, then back at me. He
grabs my hand and pulls me around to the side of
the bed. He places his hands on my shoulders and
pushes me down until I’m seated. I have no idea
what he’s doing, so I don’t resist.
Yet.
He continues to lower me until I’m lying with
my back flat on the bed. He stands straight up
and removes his T-shirt. Before he even has it
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completely over his head, I’m already attempting
to roll off the bed. If he thinks sex will fix our
situation, he’s not as smart as I thought he was.
“No,” he says again when he sees me trying to
escape.
The sheer conviction in his voice causes me to
freeze, and I fall back against my mattress again.
He kneels down on the bed, grabs a pillow, and
lays it beside my head. He lies down next to me,
and my whole body tenses from his close prox-
imity. He picks up his phone.
Ridge: Listen to me, Sydney.
I stare at the text in anticipation of what he’ll
type next. When I notice that he’s not even tex-
ting me a follow-up, I look at him. He shakes his
head and pulls my phone from my hands, then
tosses it beside him. He takes my hand and places
it over his heart.
“Here,” he says, patting my hand. “Listen to
me here.”
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My chest tightens when I realize what he
wants me to do. He pulls me to him, and I will-
ingly allow it. He gently lowers my head to his
heart as he adjusts himself beneath me and helps
me get comfortable.
I relax against his chest, finding the rhythm of
his heartbeat.
Beat, beat, pause.
Beat, beat, pause.
Beat, beat, pause.
It’s absolutely beautiful.
The way it sounds is beautiful.
The way it cares is beautiful.
The way it loves is beautiful.
He presses his lips to the top of my head.
I close my eyes . . . and I cry.
Ridge
I hold her against me for so long I’m not even
sure if she’s awake. I still have so much I want to
say to her, but I don’t want to move. I love the
way she feels when we’re wrapped together like
this. I’m afraid if I move, she’ll come to her
senses again and ask me to leave.
It’s barely been three weeks since Maggie and
I broke up. When Sydney asked if I’d take Mag-
gie back, I didn’t answer, but only because I
know she wouldn’t believe my answer.
I love Maggie, but I honestly don’t think Mag-
gie and I are best for each other anymore. I know
exactly where we went wrong. The beginning of
our relationship was romantic to the point where
it was almost fictionalized. We were nineteen
years old. We barely knew each other. The way
we waited for an entire year only built up
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feelings that weren’t based on anything except
false hopes and idealized love.
By the time Maggie and I were finally able to
be together, I think we were more in love with
the idea of us, rather than with the actual us. Of
course, I loved her. I still love her. But until I met Sydney, I had no idea how much my love for
Maggie was built up from my desire to swoop in
and save her.
Maggie was right. I’ve done nothing for the
past five years but try to be the hero who protects
her. The problem? Heroines don’t need
protecting.
When Sydney put me on the spot earlier, I
wanted to tell her no, that I wouldn’t take Maggie
back. When she said she was terrified that I was
wishing she were Maggie, I wanted to grab hold
of her and prove to her how I’ve never, not once,
wished I were anywhere else when I’m with her.
I wanted to tell her the only regret I have is not
realizing sooner which one of them I was better
for. Which girl I made more sense with. Which
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girl I grew to love in a realistic, natural way, not
in an idealized sense.
I didn’t say anything because I’m terrified she
won’t understand. I’ve chosen Maggie over her
time and time again, and it’s my own fault that
I’ve put doubt into Sydney’s head. And even
though I know that the scenario she’s painting
could never happen because Maggie and I both
accept that it’s over, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t take Maggie back. However, my decision
wouldn’t be because I want to be with Maggie
more. It wouldn’t even be because I love Maggie
more. But how do I possibly convince Sydney of
that when it’s hard for me to comprehend?
I don’t want Sydney ever to feel like my
second choice, when I know in my heart that
she’s the right choice. The only choice.
I keep my arm around her, and I pick up my
phone. She lifts her head and rests her chin on
my chest, looking up at me. I hand her back her
phone, and she takes it, then turns away from me
and presses her ear against my heart again.
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Me: Do you want to know why I needed
you to listen to me?
She doesn’t respond with a text. She just nods
her head yes, remaining pressed against my
chest. One of her hands is slowly tracing up and
down from my waist to my arm. The feel of her
hands against my skin is something I never want
to become a memory. I lower my left hand to the
back of her head and stroke her hair.
Me: It’s kind of a long explanation. Do you
have a notebook I can write in?
She nods and slides off me. She reaches into
her nightstand and takes out a notebook and a
pen. I readjust myself against her headboard. She
hands me the notebook but doesn’t move closer
to me. I grab her wrist and part my legs, then mo-
tion for her to lie against me while I write. She
crawls toward me and wraps her arms around my
waist, pressing her ear to my heart again. I put
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my arms around her and prop the notebook on
my knee, resting my cheek on top of her head.
I wish there was an easier way for us to com-
municate so all the things I have to say to her
could be instant. I wish I could look into her eyes
and tell her exactly how I feel and what’s on my
mind, but I can’t, and I hate that for us. Instead, I lay my heart out on paper. She remains still
against my chest while I take almost fifteen
minutes to gather my thoughts and get them all
down for her. When I’m finished, I hand her the
notebook. She readjusts herself until her back is
pressed against my chest. I keep my arms around
her and hold her while she reads the letter.
Sydney
I have no idea what to expect from the words
he’s just written, but as soon as he hands me the
paper I begin to soak every sentence up as
quickly as my eyes can scan them. The fact that a
barrier exists in the way we communicate makes
every word I receive from him, in whatever form,
something I feel the need to consume as quickly
as possible.
I don’t know if I’m actually more aware of my
own heartbeat than other people are of theirs,
but I tend to believe I am. The fact that I can’t hear the world around me leaves me to focus
more on the world inside me. Brennan told me
the only time he’s aware of his own heartbeat is
when it’s quiet and he’s being still. That’s not the case for me, because it’s always quiet in my
world. I’m always aware of my heartbeat. Al-
ways. I know its pattern. I know its rhythm. I
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know what makes it speed up and slow down, and
I even know when to expect that. Sometimes I feel my heart react before my brain has the chance to.
The reactions of my heart have always been
something I was able to predict . . . until a few months ago.
The first night you walked out onto your bal-
cony was the first night I noticed the change. It was subtle, but it was there. Just an extra little skip. I brushed it off because I didn’t want to
think it had anything to do with you. I liked how loyal my heart was to Maggie, and I didn’t want
my loyalty to her to change.
But then, the first time I saw you singing along
to one of my songs, it happened again. Only that
time, it was more obvious. It would speed up a
little faster every time I saw your lips moving. It would start beating in places I never felt my
heart beat before. That first night I saw you
singing, I had to get up and go inside to finish
playing, because I didn’t like how you made my
heart feel. For the first time, I felt as though I 616/692
had absolutely no control over it, and that made
me feel horrible.
The first time I walked out of my bedroom to
find you standing in my apartment, soaking wet
from the rain—my God, I didn’t know hearts
could beat like that. I knew my heart like the back of my hand, and nothing had ever made it react
like you did. I put the blankets on the couch for you as quickly as I could, pointed you in the direction of the bathroom, and immediately went
back to my bedroom. I’ll spare you the details of what I had to do while you were in my shower in
order to calm myself down after seeing you up
close for the first time.
My physical reaction to you didn’t worry me.
Physical reactions are normal, and at that point, my heart still belonged to Maggie. My heartbeats
were all for Maggie. They always had been, but
the more time I spent with you, the more you
started to unintentionally infiltrate and steal
some of those heartbeats. I did everything I could to prevent it from happening. For a while, I
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convinced myself that I was stronger than my
heart, which is why I allowed you to stay. I
thought what I felt for you was nothing but at-
traction and that if I let myself have you in my
fantasies enough, that would suffice in reality.
However, I soon realized that the way I fantas-
ized about you wasn’t at all how guys normally
fantasize about girls they’re attracted to. I didn’t imagine myself stealing kisses from you when no
one was around. I didn’t imagine myself sliding
into your bed in the middle of the night and doing to you all the things we both wished I would do.
Instead, I was imagining what it would feel like if you fell asleep in my arms. I was imagining what
it would feel like to wake up next to you in the
morning. I was imagining your smiles and your
laughter and even how good it would feel to be
able to comfort you when you cried.
The trouble I had gotten myself into became
obvious the night I put those headphones in your
ears and watched you sing the song we created
together. Watching those words pass your lips
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and knowing I couldn’t hear them and feeling
how much my heart ached for us in that moment,
I knew what was happening was so much more
than I could control. My strength was over-
powered by my weakness for you. The second my
lips touched yours, my heart split completely in
two. Half of it belonged to you from that point on.
Every other beat of my heart was for you.
I knew I should have asked you to leave that
night, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The
thought of saying good-bye to you hurt way too
much. I had planned on asking you to move out
the next day, but once we talked through
everything, the ease with which we dealt with our situation gave me more excuses to ignore it.
Knowing we were both fighting it gave me hope
that I could give back to Maggie the part of my
heart I had lost to you.
The weekend of Warren’s party was when I
realized it was too late. I spent the entire night of the party trying not to watch you. Trying not to
be obvious. Trying to keep my attention focused
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on Maggie, where it should have been. However,
all the effort and denial in the world couldn’t
have saved me from what happened the next day.
When I walked into your room and sat down be-
side you on the bed, I felt it.
I felt you give me a piece of your heart.
And Sydney, I wanted it. I wanted your heart
more than I’ve ever wanted anything. The second
I reached down and held your hand in mine, it
happened. My heart made its choice, and it chose
you.
My relationship with Maggie was a great one,
and I never want to disrespect what I had with
her. When I told you I’ve loved her since the mo-
ment I met her and that I’d love her until the moment I die, I was being honest. I have always
loved her, I do love her, and I always will love
her. She’s an incredible person who deserves so
much more than what life has handed her, and it
pisses me off to this day when I think about it. I would switch my fate with hers in a second if I
had that option. Unfortunately, life doesn’t work 620/692
that way. Fate doesn’t work that way. So even
after I knew I had found in you what I would nev-
er find in my relationship with Maggie, it still
wasn’t enough. No matter how much I cared for
you or how deep my feelings for you ran, it would have never been enough to get me to leave Maggie. If I couldn’t change her fate, I was at least going to give her the best damn life I could give her. Even if it meant sacrificing aspects of my
own, I would have done it without pause, and I
never would have regretted it. Not even for a
second.
However, until three weeks ago, I didn’t real-
ize that the best life I could give her was a life without me in it. She needed the opposite of what I could offer her, and I know that now. She knows that now. And we accept it.
So when you ask if I would choose her over
you, you’re presenting a situation that I can’t
give you a straight answer to. Because yes, at
this point, I probably would walk away from you
if she asked me to. The majority of my loyalty still 621/692
lies with her. But if you’re asking who I need
more? Who I want to be with more? Who my
heart craves more? My heart decided that for me
a long time ago, Sydney.
When I’ve read the last word, I pull the note-
book against my chest and cry. He slides me off
of him until I’m on my back, and he hovers over
me, guiding my eyes up to meet his.
“It’s you,” he says aloud. “My heart . . . wants
you.”
A sob breaks free from my chest when I hear
his words. I immediately grab his shoulders and
lift myself up, pressing my lips to the area dir-
ectly over his heart. I kiss him over and over, si-
lently thanking him for giving me reassurance
that I haven’t been in this alone.
When I lower my head back to the pillow, he
lies beside me, then pulls me against him. He
touches my cheek with his hand and slowly leans
in to kiss me. His mouth caresses mine so
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carefully it feels as if he’s holding my heart in his hand and is afraid he might drop it.
As much as I’m convinced he would do
everything he could to protect my heart, I’m still
too scared to hand it over. I don’t want to give it
to him until I know it’s the only heart he’s
holding.
? ? ?
I don’t open my eyes, because I don’t want him
to know I hear him leaving. I felt him kiss me. I
felt him slide his arm out from beneath me. I
heard him pull his shirt over his head. I heard
him search for a pen. I heard him write me a let-
ter, and I heard him place it on the pillow beside
me.
I feel his hand as it presses into the mattress
beside my head. His lips meet my forehead be-
fore he pulls away and walks out my bedroom
door. When I hear the front door shut, I roll onto
my side and pull the covers over my head to
block out the sunlight. If I didn’t have to work
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today, I’d stay right here in this position and cry
myself dry.
I brush my hand across the mattress in search
of his letter. When I find it, I pull it under the
covers with me and read it.
Sydney,
A few months ago, we thought we had it all
figured out. I was with the one girl I thought I
would be with forever, and you were with a guy
you thought deserved you way more than he did.
Look at us now.
Wanting more than anything to be free to love
each other but cursed by bad timing and loyal
hearts. We both know where we want to be; we
just don’t know how to get there. Or when we should get there. I wish things were as easy as
they seemed when I was nineteen. We’d grab a
calendar and pick a date, and we’d start a count-
down until I could show up at your front door
and start loving you.
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However, I’ve learned that the heart can’t be
told when and who and how it should love. The
heart does whatever the hell it wants to do. The
only thing we can control is whether we give our
lives and our minds the chance to catch up to our hearts.
I know that’s what you want more than any-
thing. Time to catch up.
As much as I want to stay here and allow this
to begin between us, there’s something I want
from you even more than that. I want you to be
with me in the end, and I know that can’t happen
if I keep trying to rush our beginning. I know exactly why you were hesitant to let me in last
night: you aren’t ready yet. Maybe I’m not,
either. You’ve always said you wanted time to
yourself, and the last thing I want is to start a relationship with you when I’ve barely given
enough respect to the one that just ended with
Maggie.
I don’t know when you’ll be ready for me. It
might be next month or next year. Whenever it is, 625/692
just know that I have absolutely no doubt that we can make this work. I know we can. If there are
two people in this world capable of finding a way to love each other, it’s us.
Ridge
P.S. I spent most of the night watching you
sleep, so that’s one fantasy I got to check off the list. I also wrote lyrics to an entire song, which was unfortunate for Brennan. I didn’t have my
guitar, so I forced him to make a rough cut of it at five o’clock this morning so I could leave it
with you.
One of these days, I’ll play it for you, along
with all the other songs I plan to write for you
while we’re apart. Until then, I’ll be waiting
patiently.
Just say when.
I fold the letter and pull it against my chest. As
much as it hurts to know he’s walking away, I
also know that I need to let him. I asked for this.
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We need this. I need this. I need to get myself to a point where I know that we can finally be together without all the doubt running through my
head. He’s right. My mind needs to catch up to
my heart.
I run the back of my hand across my eyes, then
open my texts.
Me: Can you come over? I need your
help.
Warren: If this has to do with the fact that
I gave Ridge your address last night, I’m
sorry. He forced it out of me.
Me: This has nothing to do with that. I
need to ask you for a huge favor.
Warren: Be there when I get off work to-
night. Should I bring condoms?
Me: Funny guy.
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I close out the text to Warren and open up the
song Ridge just sent me. I reach into my drawer
for my headphones, then fall back against my pil-
low and hit play.
IT’S YOU
Baby, everything you’ve ever done
Underneath this here sun
It doesn’t even matter anymore
Oh, of this I’m sure
‘Cause you’ve taken me
Places I want to be
And you show me
Everything that I could ever
Want to see
You, you know it’s
You know it’s you
I think about you every single day
Trying to think of something better to say
Maybe hi, how are you
Not just anything will do
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‘Cause you’ve taken me
Places I want to be
And you show me
Everything that I could ever
Want to see
You, you know it’s
You know it’s you