Chapter Four
Sydney
I must be in shock. How the hell did the day turn
out like this? How does one girl go from having a
best friend, a boyfriend, a purse, and a roof over
her head to being heartbroken and naked, stand-
ing frozen in a strange shower, staring at the wall
for half an hour straight? I swear to God, if this is some huge elaborate birthday hoax at my expense, I’m never speaking to anyone. Ever again.
Ever.
However, I know it’s not a hoax. A hoax is just
wishful thinking. I knew the second I walked
through the front door and headed straight for
Hunter that everything Ridge had said was true. I
flat-out asked Hunter if he was sleeping with
Tori, and the looks on both of their faces would
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have been comical if they didn’t completely
crush my heart and deplete my trust in one fell
swoop. I wanted to sink to the floor and cry when
he couldn’t deny it. Instead, I walked calmly to
my bedroom and began packing my things.
Tori came into the room, crying. She tried to
tell me it meant nothing, that sex had always
been a casual thing between them, even before
they met me. Hearing her say it meant nothing to
them hurt worse than anything. If it meant
something to either of them, at least I could
vaguely understand their betrayal. But the fact
that she was claiming it meant nothing, yet it still
happened, hurt me more than anything else she
could have possibly said at that moment. I’m
pretty sure that’s when I punched her.
It doesn’t help matters that I lost my job just
minutes after Ridge told me about Hunter and
Tori. I think it’s frowned upon in most libraries
when student workers begin crying and throwing
books at the wall in the middle of their shift. But
I can’t help the fact that I happened to be
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stocking the romance section the second I found
out my boyfriend of two years was sleeping with
my roommate. The sappy, romantic covers on the
cart in front of me just really pissed me off.
I turn the water off in Ridge’s shower and step
out, then get dressed.
I feel better physically after finally getting into
dry clothes, but my heart is growing heavier and
heavier with each passing minute. The more time
that passes by, the more my reality begins to sink
in. In the course of just two hours, I’ve lost the
entire last two years of my life.
That’s a lot of time to invest in two people
who were supposed to be the most trusted people
in my life. I’m not sure if I would have ended up
marrying Hunter or if he would have been the
father of any future children of mine, but it hurts
to know that I trusted him enough to possibly fill
those roles, and he ended up being the opposite
of who I thought he was.
I think the fact that I misjudged him pisses me
off more than the fact that he cheated on me. If I
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can’t even accurately judge the people closest to
me, then I can’t trust anyone. Ever. I hate them for taking that away from me. Now, no matter
who comes into my life after this, I’ll always be
skeptical.
I walk back into the living room, and all the
lights are out except for a lamp beside the couch.
I look at my phone, and it’s barely after nine.
Several texts came through while I was in the
shower, so I take a seat on the couch and scroll
through them.
Hunter: Please call me. We need to talk.
Tori: I’m not mad at you for hitting me.
Please call me.
Hunter: I’m worried about you. Where are
you?
Ridge: I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.
Are you okay?
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Hunter: I’ll bring your purse to you. Just
tell me where you are.
I drop the phone onto the coffee table and sink
back onto the couch. I have no idea what I’m go-
ing to do. Of course, I never want to speak to
either of them again, but where does that put me?
I can’t afford my own apartment right now, since
financial aid doesn’t come in for another month. I
don’t have enough money in savings to put down
a deposit plus get all the utilities turned on until
then. The majority of the friends I’ve made since
I’ve been going to school here still live in dorms,
so staying with them is out of the question. I’m
basically left with two options: Call my parents,
or enter into some odd plural relationship with
Hunter and Tori in order to save money.
Neither option is one I’m willing to entertain
tonight. I’m just thankful that Ridge allowed me
to stay at his place. At least I’m saving money on
a hotel room. I have no idea where I’ll go when I
wake up in the morning, but that’s still a good
twelve hours away. Until then, I’ll just continue
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to hate the entire universe while I feel sorry for
myself.
And what better way to feel sorry for myself
than while getting drunk?
I need alcohol. Bad.
I walk to the kitchen and begin to scan the cab-
inets. I hear the door to Ridge’s bedroom open. I
glance over my shoulder at him as he comes out
of his room.
His hair is definitely light brown. Take that,
Tori.
He’s in a faded T-shirt and jeans, and he’s
barefoot, eyeing me inquisitively as he makes his
way into the kitchen. I feel a little embarrassed
for being caught rummaging through his cabin-
ets, so I turn away from him before he sees me
blush.
“I need a drink,” I say. “You got any alcohol?”
He’s staring down at his phone, texting again.
He either can’t do two things at once, or he’s up-
set because I had an attitude with him today.
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“I’m sorry if I was a bitch to you, Ridge, but
you have to admit, my response was a little justi-
fied considering the day I’ve had.”
He casually slips his phone into his pocket and
looks at me from across the bar, but he chooses
not to respond to my half-assed apology. He
purses his lips and cocks an eyebrow.
I’d like to smack that cocky eyebrow back
down where it belongs. What the hell is his prob-
lem? The worst thing I did to him was flip him
off.
I roll my eyes and shut the last cabinet, then
walk back to the couch. He’s really being a jerk,
considering my situation. From the little time
I’ve known him, I was under the impression that
he was actually a nice guy, but I’d almost rather
go back to my own apartment with Tori and
Hunter.
I pick up my phone, expecting another text
from Hunter, but it’s from Ridge.
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Ridge: If you aren’t going to look at me
when you speak, you might want to stick
to texting.
I read the text several times, trying to make
sense of it, but no matter how many times I read
it, I don’t understand it. I grow concerned that
maybe he’s a little weird and I need to leave. I
look at him, and he’s watching me. He can see
the confusion on my face, but he still doesn’t ex-
plain himself. Instead, he resumes texting. When
my phone receives another message, I look at the
screen.
Ridge: I’m deaf, Sydney.
Deaf?
Oh.
Wait. Deaf?
But how? We’ve had so many conversations.
The last few weeks of knowing him and talk-
ing to him flash through my memory, and I can’t
recall a single time I’ve actually heard him speak.
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Is that why Bridgette thought I was deaf?
I stare at my phone, sinking into a heap of em-
barrassment. I’m not sure how to feel about this.
I’m sure that feeling betrayed isn’t a fair re-
sponse, but I can’t help it. I feel I need to tack
this onto the “Ways the world can betray Sydney
on her birthday” list. Not only did he not tell me
he knew my boyfriend was screwing around on
me, but he also failed to mention that he’s deaf?
Not that being deaf is something he should feel
obliged to tell me. I just . . . I don’t know. I feel a little hurt that he didn’t share that fact with me.
Me: Why didn’t you tell me you were
deaf?
Ridge: Why didn’t you tell me you could
hear?
I tilt my head as I read his text and flood with
even more humiliation. He makes a very good
point.
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Oh, well. At least he won’t hear me cry myself
to sleep tonight.
Me: Do you have any alcohol?
Ridge reads my text and laughs, then nods. He
walks to the cabinet below the sink and pulls out
a container of Pine-Sol. He takes two glasses out
of the cabinet, then proceeds to fill them with . . .
cleaning liquid?
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
When he doesn’t turn around, I slap myself in
the forehead, remembering he can’t hear me.
This will take some getting used to. I walk to
where he’s standing. When he sets the Pine-Sol
down on the counter and picks up both glasses, I
grab the bottle of cleaning solution and read it,
then arch an eyebrow. He laughs and hands me a
glass. He sniffs his drink, then motions for me to
do the same. I hesitantly bring it to my nose and
am met with the burning scent of whiskey. He
holds the glass out, clinks it to mine, and we both
down our shots. I’m still recovering from the
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awful taste when he picks up his phone and texts
me again.
Ridge: Our other roommate has an issue
with alcohol, so we have to hide it from
him.
Me: Is his issue that he hates it?
Ridge: His issue is that he doesn’t like to
pay for it himself and he drinks everyone
else’s.
I nod, set my phone back down, grab the con-
tainer, and pour us each another shot. We repeat
the motions, downing the second one. I grimace
as the burn spreads its way down my throat and
through my chest. I shake my head, then open my
eyes.
“Can you read lips?” I ask.
He shrugs, then grabs a piece of paper and a
pen conveniently placed on the counter next to
him. Depends on the lips.
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I guess that makes sense. “Can you read
mine?”
He nods and takes the pen again. Mostly. I’ve
learned to anticipate what people are going to
say more than anything. I take most of my cues
from body language and the situations I’m in.
“What do you mean?” I ask, pushing on the
counter with my palms and hopping up onto the
bar. I’ve never met anyone who couldn’t hear be-
fore. I didn’t realize I was full of so many ques-
tions. It could be that I’m already feeling a buzz
or I just don’t want him to go back to his room
yet. I don’t want to be left alone to think about
Hunter and Tori.
Ridge sets the notepad down and picks up my
phone, then tosses it to me. He pulls one of the
bar stools out and sits on it next to where I’m
seated on the counter.
Ridge: If I’m at the store and a cashier
speaks to me, I can mostly guess what
they’re asking. Same thing with a waitress
at a restaurant. It’s pretty simple to
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gather what people are saying when it’s a
routine conversation.
Me: But what about right now? This isn’t
routine. I doubt you have many homeless
girls spend the night on your couch, so
how do you know what I’m saying?
Ridge: Because you’re basically asking me
the same questions as anyone else who
initially finds out I can’t hear. It’s the
same conversation, just different people.
This comment bothers me, because I don’t
want to seem like those kinds of people at all. It
has to get old, having to field the same questions
over and over.
Me: Well, I don’t really want to know
about it, then. Let’s change the subject.
Ridge looks up at me and smiles.
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Damn. I don’t know if it’s the whiskey or the
fact that I’ve been single for two hours, but that
smile does some serious flirting with my
stomach.
Ridge: Let’s talk about music.
“Okay,” I say with a nod.
Ridge: I wanted to talk to you about this
tonight. You know, before I ruined your
life and all that. I want you to write lyrics
for my band. For the songs I have written
and maybe some future songs if you’re up
for it.
I pause before responding to him. My initial
response is to ask him about his band, because
I’ve been dying to see this guy perform. My
second response is to ask him how the hell he can
play a guitar if he can’t hear, but again, I don’t
want to be one of “those people.” My third re-
sponse is to automatically say no, because
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agreeing to give someone lyrics is a lot of pres-
sure. Pressure I don’t really want right now, since
my life has pretty much taken a nosedive today.
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think I want to
do that.”
Ridge: We would pay you.
That gets my attention. I suddenly feel an op-
tion three making its way into the picture.
Me: What kind of pay are we talking
about? I still think you’re insane for want-
ing me to help you write lyrics, but you
may have caught me at a very desperate
and destitute moment, being as though
I’m homeless and could use some extra
money.
Ridge: Why do you keep referring to your-
self as homeless? Do you not have a place
to stay?
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Me: Well, I could stay with my parents,
but that would mean I’d have to transfer
schools my senior year, and it would put
me about two semesters behind. I could
also stay with my roommate, but I don’t
know how much I’d like to hear her
screwing my boyfriend of two years at
night while I try to sleep.
Ridge: You’re a smartass.
Me: Yeah, I guess I’ve got that going for
me.
Ridge: You can stay here. We’re kind of in
search of a fourth roommate. If it means
you’ll help us with the songs, you can stay
for free until you get back on your feet.
I read the text twice, slowly. I shake my head.
Ridge: Just until you can get your own
place.
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Me: No. I don’t even know you. Besides,
your Hooters girlfriend already hates me.
Ridge laughs at that comment.
Ridge: Bridgette is not my girlfriend. And
she’s hardly ever here, so you don’t have
to worry about her.
Me: This is too weird.
Ridge: What other option do you have? I
saw you didn’t even have cab fare earlier.
You’re pretty much at my mercy.
Me: I have cab fare. I left my purse in my
apartment, and I didn’t want to go back
up to get it, so I didn’t have a way to pay
the driver.
Ridge frowns when he reads my text.
Ridge: I’ll go with you to get it if you need
it.
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I look up at him. “Are you sure?” I ask.
He smiles and walks toward the front door, so
I follow him.
Ridge
It’s still raining out, and I know she just put on
dry clothes after her shower, so once we reach
the bottom of the stairwell, I pull my phone out
and text her.
Me: Wait here so you don’t get wet again.
I’ll go get it myself.
She reads the text and shakes her head, then
looks back up at me. “No. I’m going with you.”
I can’t help but appreciate the fact that she
doesn’t respond to my being deaf the way I ex-
pect her to. Most people become uneasy once
they aren’t sure how to communicate with me.
The majority of them raise their voices and talk
slowly, sort of like Bridgette. I guess they think
being louder will somehow miraculously make
me hear again. However, it does nothing but
force me to contain my laughter while they talk
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to me as if I’m an idiot. Granted, I know people
don’t do it to be disrespectful. It’s just simple ig-
norance, and that’s fine. I’m so used to it I don’t
even notice anymore.
However, I did notice Sydney’s reaction . . .
because there really wasn’t one. As soon as she
found out, she just propped herself up on the
counter and continued talking to me, even though
she moved from speaking to texting. And it helps
that she’s a fast texter.
We run across the courtyard until we reach the
base of the stairs that lead up to her apartment. I
begin walking up and notice that she’s frozen at
the bottom of the stairs. The look in her eyes is
nervous, and I instantly feel bad for not realizing
how hard this must be for her. I know she’s prob-
ably hurting a lot more than she’s letting on.
Learning that your best friend and your boyfriend
have betrayed you has to be difficult, and it
hasn’t even been a day since she found out. I
walk back down the stairs and grab her hand,
then smile at her reassuringly. I tug on her hand;
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she takes a deep breath and walks with me up the
stairs. She taps me on the shoulder before we
reach her door, and I turn around.
“Can I wait here?” she says. “I don’t want to
see them.”
I nod, relieved that her lips are easy to read.
“But cow well you ass therefore my bird?” she
says.
Or I think that’s what she said. I laugh, knowing I more than likely completely misread her
lips. She says it again when she sees the confu-
sion on my face, but I still don’t understand her. I
hold up my phone so she can text me.
Sydney: But how will you ask them for my
purse?
Yeah. I was a little off on that one.
Me: I’ll get your purse, Sydney. Wait
here.
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She nods. I type out a text as I walk to the
front door and knock. A minute passes, and no
one comes to the door, so I knock again, with
more force, thinking maybe my first knock was
too soft to be heard. The doorknob turns, and
Sydney’s friend appears in the doorway. She eyes
me curiously for a second, then glances behind
her. The door opens wider, and Hunter appears,
eyeing me suspiciously. He says something that
looks like “Can I help you?” I hold up the text
that says I’m here for Sydney’s purse, and he
looks down and reads it, then shakes his head.
“Who the hell are you?” he says, apparently
not liking the fact that I’m here on Sydney’s be-
half. The girl disappears from the doorway, and
he opens the door even farther, then folds his
arms over his chest and glares at me. I motion to
my ear and shake my head, letting him know that
I can’t hear what he’s saying.
He pauses, then throws his head back and
laughs and disappears from the doorway. I glance
to Sydney, who is standing nervously at the top
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of the stairs, watching me. Her face is pale, and I
give her a wink, letting her know everything is
okay. Hunter comes back, slaps a piece of paper
against the door, and writes on it. He holds the
paper up for me to read.
Are you f*cking her?
Jesus, what a prick. I motion for the pen and
paper, and he hands them to me. I write my re-
sponse and hand it back to him. He looks down at
the paper, and his jaw tightens. He crumples up
the paper, drops it to the floor, and then, before I
can react, his fist is coming at me.
I accept the hit, knowing I should have been
prepared for it. The girl reappears, and I can tell
she’s screaming, although I have no idea whom
she’s screaming at or what she’s saying. As soon
as I take a step back from the doorway, Sydney is
in front of me, rushing into the apartment. My
eyes follow her as she runs down the hallway,
disappears into a room, and comes back out
clutching a purse. The girl steps in front of her
and places her hands on Sydney’s shoulders, but
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Sydney pulls her arm back, makes a fist, and
punches the girl in the face.
Hunter tries to step in front of Sydney to block
her from leaving, so I tap him on the shoulder.
When he turns around, I punch him square in the
nose, and he stumbles back. Sydney’s eyes go
wide, and she looks back at me. I grab her hand
and pull her out of the apartment, toward the
stairs.
Luckily, the rain has finally stopped, so we
both break into a run back toward my apartment.
I glance behind me a couple of times to make
sure neither of them is following us. Once we
make it back across the courtyard and up my
stairs, I swing open the door and step aside so she
can run in. I shut the door behind us and bend
over, clasping my knees with my hands to catch
my breath.
What an a*shole. I’m not sure what Sydney
saw in him, but the fact that she dated him makes
me question her judgment a little bit.
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I glance up at her, expecting to see her in tears,
but instead, she’s laughing. She’s sitting on the
floor, attempting to catch her breath, laughing
hysterically. I can’t help but smile, seeing her re-
action. And the fact that she punched that girl
right in the face without a moment’s hesitation?
I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s tougher than I
first thought.
She looks up at me and inhales a calming
breath, then mouths the words thank you, while holding up her purse. She stands up and brushes
the wet hair out of her face, then walks to the kit-
chen and opens a few drawers until she finds a
dishtowel and pulls it out. She wets it under the
faucet, turns around, and motions me over. When
I reach her, I lean against the counter while she
takes my chin and angles my face to the left. She
presses the towel to my lip, and I wince. I didn’t
even realize it was hurting until she touched it.
She pulls the rag back, and there’s blood on it, so
she rinses it under the faucet and puts it back up
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to my mouth. I notice that her own hand is red. I
take it and inspect it. It’s already swelling.
I pull the rag from her hand and wipe the rest
of the blood off my face, then grab a ziplock bag
out of the cabinet, go to the freezer, and fill it
with ice. I take her hand and press the ice onto it,
letting her know she needs to keep it there. I lean
against the counter next to her and pull my phone
out.
Me: You hit her good. Your hand is
already swelling.
She texts me with one hand, keeping the ice on
top of the other as she rests it on the counter.
Sydney: It could be because that wasn’t
the first time I’ve punched her today. Or it
could also be swollen because you aren’t
the first one to punch Hunter today.
Me: Wow. I’m impressed. Or terrified. Is
three punches your daily average?
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Sydney: Three punches is now my lifetime
average.
I laugh.
She shrugs and sets her phone down, then pulls
the ice off her hand and brings it back up to my
mouth. “Your lip is swelling,” she says.
My hands are clenching the countertop behind
me. I become increasingly uneasy with how com-
fortable she is with all this. Thoughts of Maggie
flash through my head, and I can’t help but won-
der if she’d be okay with this scenario if she were
to walk through the front door right now.
I need a distraction.
Me: You want birthday cake?
She smiles and nods.
Me: I probably shouldn’t drive, since
you’ve turned me into a raging alcoholic
tonight, but if you feel like walking, Park’s
Diner makes a damn good dessert, and
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it’s less than a mile from here. Pretty sure
the rain is over.
“Let me change,” she says, motioning to her
clothes. She pulls clothes from her suitcase, then
heads to the bathroom. I put the top on the Pine-
Sol and hide it back under the cabinet.