Chapter Six
Sydney
I continue to stare at the words in the notebook.
Is he right? Did I write them because that’s
how I really feel?
I never give it much thought when I write lyr-
ics, because I’ve always felt no one would read
them, so it doesn’t matter what the meaning is
behind the words. But now that I think about it,
maybe the fact that I don’t give them much
thought proves that they really are a reflection of
how I feel. To me, lyrics are harder to write when
you have to invent the feelings behind them.
That’s when lyrics take a lot of thought, when
they aren’t genuine.
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Oh, wow. Ridge is absolutely right. I wrote
these lyrics weeks ago, long before I knew about
Hunter and Tori.
I lean back against the headboard and open my
laptop again.
Me: Okay, you win.
Ridge: It’s not a competition. Just trying
to help you see that maybe this breakup
is exactly what you needed. I don’t know
you very well, but based on the lyrics you
wrote, I’m guessing you’ve been craving
the chance to be on your own for a while
now.
Me: Well you claim not to know me very
well, but you seem to know me better
than I know myself.
Ridge: I only know what you told me in
those lyrics. Speaking of which, you feel
like running through them? I was about to
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compile them with the music to send to
Brennan and could use your ears. Pun
intended.
I laugh and elbow him.
Me: Sure. What do I do?
He stands and picks up his guitar, then nods
his head toward the balcony. I don’t want to go
out on that balcony. I don’t care if I was ready to
leave Hunter, I sure wasn’t ready to leave Tori.
And being out there will be too much of a
distraction.
I crinkle my nose and shake my head. He
glances across the courtyard at my apartment,
then pulls his lips into a tight, thin line and
slowly nods his head in understanding. He walks
over to the bed and sits on the mattress next to
me.
Ridge: I want you to sing the lyrics while I
play. I’ll watch you so I can make sure
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we’re on the same page with where they
need to be placed on the sheet music.
Me: No. I’m not singing in front of you.
He huffs and rolls his eyes.
Ridge: Are you afraid I’ll laugh at how aw-
ful you sound? I can’t HEAR YOU,
SYDNEY!
He’s smiling his irritating smile at me.
Me: Shut up. Fine.
He sets the phone down and begins playing the
song. When the lyrics are supposed to come in,
he looks up, and I freeze. Not because I’m
nervous, though. I freeze because I’m doing that
thing again where I’m holding my breath because
seeing him play is just . . . he’s incredible.
He doesn’t miss a beat when I skip my intro.
He just starts over from the beginning and plays
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the opening again. I shake myself out of my
pathetic awe and begin singing the words. I
would probably never be singing lyrics in front of
anyone one-on-one like this, but it helps that he
can’t hear me. He does stare pretty hard, though,
which is a little unnerving.
He pauses after every stanza and makes notes
on a page. I lean over and look at what he’s writ-
ing. He’s putting musical notes on blank sheet-
music paper, along with the lyrics.
He points to one of the lines, then grabs his
phone.
Ridge: What key do you sing this line in?
Me: B.
Ridge: Do you think it would sound better
if you took it a little higher?
Me: I don’t know. I guess we could try.
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He plays the second part of the song again, and
I take his advice and sing in a higher key. Sur-
prisingly, he’s right. It does sound better.
“How did you know that?” I ask.
He shrugs.
Ridge: I just do.
Me: But how? If you can’t hear, how do
you know what sounds good and what
doesn’t?
Ridge: I don’t need to hear it. I feel it.
I shake my head, not understanding. I can
maybe understand how he’s taught himself to
play a guitar. With enough practice and a good
teacher and maybe a ton of studying, it’s possible
for him to play as he does. But that doesn’t ex-
plain how he can know which key a voice should
be in and especially which key sounds better.
Ridge: What’s wrong? You look confused.
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Me: I AM confused. I don’t understand
how you can differentiate between vibra-
tions or however you say you feel it. I’m
beginning to think you and Warren are
trying to pull off the ultimate prank and
you’re only pretending to be deaf.
Ridge laughs, then scoots back on the bed until
his back meets the headboard. He sits up straight
and holds his guitar to his side. He spreads his
legs, then pats the empty spot between them.
What the hell? I hope my eyes aren’t open as
wide as I think they are. There’s no way I’m sit-
ting that close to him. I shake my head.
He rolls his eyes and picks up his phone.
Ridge: Come here. I want to show you
how I feel it. Get over yourself, and stop
thinking I’m trying to seduce you.
I hesitate a few more seconds, but the agitation
on his face makes me think I’m being a little im-
mature. I crawl forward, then turn around and
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carefully sit in front of him with my back to his
chest but with several inches between us. He
pulls the guitar in front of me and wraps his other
arm around me until he’s holding it in position.
He pulls it closer, which pushes me flush against
him. Ridge reaches down to his side and picks up
his phone.
Ridge: I’m going to play a chord, and I
want you to tell me where you feel it.
I nod, and he brings his hand back to the gui-
tar. He plays a chord and repeats it a few times,
then pauses. I grab my phone.
Me: I felt it in your guitar.
He shakes his head and picks up his phone
again.
Ridge: I know you felt it in the guitar,
dummy. But where in your body did you
feel it?
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Me: Play it again.
I close my eyes this time and try to take this
seriously. I’ve asked him how he feels it, and
he’s trying to show me, so the least I can do is try
to understand. He plays the chord a few times,
and I’m really trying hard to concentrate, but I
feel the vibration everywhere, especially in the
guitar pressed against my chest.
Me: It’s hard for me, Ridge. It just feels
like it’s everywhere.
He pushes me forward, and I scoot up. He sets
the guitar down, stands up, and walks out of the
bedroom. I wait for him, curious about what he’s
doing. When he comes back, he’s holding
something in his fist. He holds his fist out, so I
hold up my palm.
Earplugs.
He slides in behind me, and I scoot back
against his chest again, then put the earplugs in. I
close my eyes and lean my head back against his
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shoulder. He wraps his arms around me and picks
up his guitar, pulling it against my chest. I can
feel his head rest lightly against mine, and the in-
timate way we’re seated suddenly registers. I’ve
never sat like this with someone I wasn’t seri-
ously dating.
It’s odd, because it seems so natural with him.
Not at all as if he’s got anything other than music
on his mind. I like that about him, because if I
were pressed up against Warren like this, I’m
positive his hands wouldn’t be on the guitar.
I can feel his arms moving slightly, so I know
he’s playing, even though I can’t hear it. I con-
centrate on the vibration and focus all my atten-
tion on the movement inside my chest. When I’m
able to pinpoint exactly where I feel it, I bring
my hand to my chest and pat it. I can feel him
nod his head, and then he continues playing.
I can still feel it in my chest, but it’s much
lower this time. I move my hand down, and he
nods again.
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I pull away from him and turn around to face
him.
“Wow.”
He lifts his shoulders and smiles shyly. It’s
adorable.
Me: This is crazy. I still don’t understand
how you can play an instrument like this,
but I know how you feel it now.
He shrugs off my compliment, and I love how
modest he is, because he clearly has more talent
than anyone I’ve ever met.
“Wow,” I say again, shaking my head.
Ridge: Stop. I don’t like compliments. It’s
awkward.
I set down my phone and we both move back
to the laptops.
Me: Well, you shouldn’t be so impressive,
then. I don’t think you realize what an
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incredible gift you have, Ridge. I know
you say you work hard at it, but so do
thousands of people who can hear, and
they can’t put together songs like you
can. I mean, I can maybe understand the
whole guitar thing now that you’ve ex-
plained it, but what about the voices? How
in the heck can you know what a voice
sounds like and what key it needs to be
in?
Ridge: Actually, I can’t differentiate the
sounds of a voice. I’ve never felt a person
sing the way I “listen” to a guitar. I can
place vocals to a song and develop melod-
ies because I’ve studied a lot of songs and
have learned which keys match up to
which notes, based on the written form of
music. It doesn’t just come naturally. I
work hard at this. I love the idea of music,
and even though I can’t hear it, I’ve
learned to understand and appreciate it in
a different way. I’ve had to work harder at
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the melodies. There are times I’ll write a
song, and Brennan will tell me we can’t
use it because it either sounds too much
like an existing song or it doesn’t actually
sound good to hearing ears like I assumed
it would.
He can downplay this all he wants, but I’m
convinced I’m sitting next to a musical genius. I
hate that he thinks his ability comes from work-
ing so hard at it. I mean, I’m sure it helps, be-
cause all talents have to be nurtured in order to
excel, even for the gifted. But his talent is mind-
blowing. It makes me hurt for him, knowing what
he could do with his gift if he could hear.
Me: Can you hear anything? At all?
He shakes his head.
Ridge: I’ve worn hearing aids before, but
they were more inconvenient than helpful.
I have profound hearing loss, so they
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didn’t help at all when it came to hearing
voices or my guitar. When I used them, I
could tell there were noises, but I couldn’t
decipher them. In all honesty, hearing
aids were a constant reminder that I
couldn’t hear. Without them, I don’t even
think about it.
Me: What made you want to learn guitar,
knowing you would never be able to hear
it?
Ridge: Brennan. He wanted to learn when
we were kids, so we learned together.
Me: The guy who used to live here? How
long have you known him?
Ridge: 21 years. He’s my little brother.
Me: Is he in your band?
Ridge glances at me in confusion.
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Ridge: Have I not told you about our
band?
I shake my head.
Ridge: He’s the singer. He also plays
guitar.
Me: When do you play next? I want to
watch.
He laughs.
Ridge: I don’t play. It’s kind of complic-
ated. Brennan insists that I have as much
stake in the ownership of the band as he
does because I write the majority of the
music, which is why I refer to myself as
being part of the band sometimes. I think
it’s ridiculous, but he’s convinced we
wouldn’t be where we are at this point
without me, so I agree to it for now. But
with the success I think he’s about to
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have, I’ll make him renegotiate eventu-
ally. I don’t like feeling as though I’m tak-
ing advantage of him.
Me: If he doesn’t feel that way, then you
definitely shouldn’t feel that way. And why
don’t you play with them?
Ridge: I have a few times. It’s kind of dif-
ficult, not being able to hear everything
else going on with the band during a
song, so I feel like I throw them off when
I play with them. Besides, they’re on tour
right now, and I can’t travel, so I’ve just
been sending him the stuff I write.
Me: Why can’t you tour with them? Don’t
you work from home?
Ridge: Other obligations. But next time
they’re in Austin, I’ll take you.
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I’ll take you. I think I like that part of his message a little too much.
Me: What’s the name of the band?
Ridge: Sounds of Cedar.
I slam my laptop shut and swing my eyes to
his. “Shut up!” He nods, then reaches down
and opens my laptop again.
Ridge: You’ve heard of us?
Me: Yes. Everyone on campus has heard
of your band, considering they played al-
most every single weekend last year.
Hunter loves you guys.
Ridge: Ah. Well, this is the first time I’ve
ever wished we had one less fan. So
you’ve seen Brennan play?
Me: I only went with Hunter once, and it
was one of the last shows, but yes. I think
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I may have most of the songs on my
phone, actually.
Ridge: Wow. Small world. We are close to
a record deal. That’s why I’ve been
stressing so much about these songs. And
why you need to help me.
Me: OMG! I just realized I’m writing lyrics
for SOUNDS OF CEDAR!!!
I slide my laptop over, then roll onto my stom-
ach and squeal into the mattress while I kick my
legs up and down.
Holy crap! This is too cool.
I compose myself, ignoring Ridge’s laughter,
then sit up straight again and grab my laptop.
Me: So you wrote most of those songs?
He nods.
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Me: Did you write the lyrics to the song
“Something”?
He nods again. I seriously can’t believe this is
happening right now. Knowing he wrote those
lyrics and now I’m sitting here next to him is ex-
citing me way too much.
Me: I’m about to listen to your song.
Since you get to decipher my lyrics, it’s
my turn to decipher yours.
Ridge: I wrote that song two years ago.
Me: Still. It came from you. From some-
where inside you, Ridge. ;)
He picks up a pillow and throws it at my head.
I laugh and scroll through the music folder on my
phone until I find the song, and I hit play.
SOMETHING
I keep on wondering why
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I can’t say ’bye to you
And the only thing I can
think of is the truth
It’s hard to start over
Keep checkin’ that rearview, too
But something’s coming
Something right for you
Just wait a bit longer
You’ll find something you wanted
Something you needed
Something you want to have repeated
Oh, that feeling’s all right
You’ll find that if you listen
Between all the kissing
What made it work
Wound up missing
Oh, that seems about right
I guess I thought that we would
Always stay the same
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And I can tell that you find
Somebody to blame
And I know in my heart,
In my mind, it’s all a game
Our hopes and wishes
Won’t relight the flame
Just wait a bit longer
You’ll find something you wanted
Something you needed
Something you want to have repeated
Oh, that feeling’s all right
You’ll find that if you listen
Between all the kissing
What made it work
Wound up missing
Oh, that seems about right
You don’t ever have to wonder
’Cause you will always know
That what we had was for sure
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For sure
Now that thing is no more
No more
You’ll find what you wanted
You’ll find what you needed
You’ll find what you wanted
You’ll find what you needed
You’ll find what you needed
When the song ends, I sit back up on the bed. I
would ask him about the lyrics and the meaning
behind them right now, but I’m not sure I want
to. I want to listen to it again without him watch-
ing me, because it’s really hard to concentrate
when he’s staring at me. He’s resting his chin in
his hands, casually watching me. I try to hide my
grin, but it’s hard. I see a smile spread across his
lips before he looks down at his phone.
Ridge: Why do I feel like you’re fangirling
right now?
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Probably because I am.
Me: I’m not fangirling. Don’t flatter your-
self. I’ve witnessed how evil you can be
with your revenge schemes, and I’ve been
exposed to your severe alcoholism, so I’m
not as enamored with you as I could be.
Ridge: My father was a severe alcoholic.
Your jokes are a little off-putting.
I look up at him apologetically and with a hint
of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I was kidding.”
Ridge: I’m kidding, too.
I kick him in the knee and glare at him.
Ridge: Well, sort of kidding. My father
really is a raging alcoholic, but I don’t give
a shit if you joke about it.
Me: I can’t now. You ruined the fun.
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He laughs, and it’s followed by an awkward
moment of silence. I grin and drop my eyes back
to my phone.
Me: OMG. Can I have your autograph?
He rolls his eyes.
Me: Please? And can I have my picture
taken with you? OMG, I’m in Ridge
Lawson’s bed!
I’m laughing, but Ridge isn’t finding me
amusing.
Me: Ridge Lawson, will you sign my
boobs?
He puts his laptop down beside him, leans over
to his nightstand and picks up a marker, then
turns back to me.
I don’t really want his autograph. Surely he knows I’m kidding.
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He pulls the lid off the marker, swiftly lunges
across the bed, and knocks me onto my back,
bringing the marker to my forehead.
He’s trying to sign my face?
I lift my legs and create a barrier with my
knees as I try to force his hands away.
Dammit, he’s strong.
He puts one of my hands under his knee and
locks my arm to the bed. His other arm grabs my
arm that’s pushing his face away, and he pushes
that hand to the bed, too. I’m screaming and
laughing and trying to turn my face away from
him, but every time I move, the marker moves
over my face while he tries to sign his name.
I’m unable to overpower him, so I eventually
sigh and hold my head still so he’ll stop drawing
all over my face.
He hops up, puts the lid back on the marker,
and smirks at me.
I reach over to my laptop.
Me: You are no longer my prank master.
This has officially turned into a three-way
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war. Excuse me while I go Google my
revenge.
I fold up my laptop and walk quietly out of the
room while he laughs at me. As I head through
the living room toward my bedroom, Warren
glances at me. Twice.
“Should have stayed in here and watched porn
with me,” he says, taking in the marker all over
my face.
I ignore his comment. “Ridge and I just fin-
ished discussing TV rules,” I lie. “I get
Thursdays.”
“No, you don’t,” Warren says. “Tomorrow is
Thursday. I watch Thursday-night porn on
Thursday.”
“Not anymore you don’t. Guess you should
have asked about my television habits when you
were interviewing me.”
He groans. “Fine. You can have Thursdays,
but only if you wear that dress you had on
earlier.”
I laugh. “I’m burning that dress.”
Ridge
“Why’d you give Sydney the TV tonight?” War-
ren signs. He drops onto the couch next to me.
“You know I love Thursday night. I’m off work
on Fridays.”
“I never talked to Sydney about TV nights.”
He glances toward Sydney’s bedroom door
with a scowl on his face. “What a little liar. How
did you meet her, anyway?”
“Music-related. She’s writing lyrics for the
band.”
Warren’s eyes bulge, and he straightens up on
the couch, turning to look at me as if I’ve just be-
trayed him.
“Don’t you think this is something your man-
ager should know about?”
I laugh and sign back to him. “Good point.
Hey, Warren, Sydney is officially writing lyrics
for us.”
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He frowns. “And don’t you think your man-
ager should have discussed a financial arrange-
ment with her? What percentage are we giving
her?”
“We’re not. She feels guilty taking a percent-
age while she’s not paying rent, so we’re good
for now.”
He’s standing now, glaring down at me. “How
do you know you can trust her? And what if
something happens with a song she helped write?
What if it makes the cut on the album and she
suddenly decides she wants a percentage? And
why the hell aren’t you writing the lyrics
anymore?”
I sigh. We’ve been over this so many times it’s
making my head hurt. “I can’t. You know I can’t.
It’s just for a little while, until I get over my
block. And calm down, she’s agreed to sign over
anything she helps with.”
He drops back onto the couch, frustrated. “Just
don’t add any more people to our band without
consulting me first, okay? I feel like I’m being
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shut out when you don’t include me.” He folds
his arms across his chest and pouts.
“Is sweet little Warren pouting?” I lean for-
ward and wrap my arms around him, and he tries
to shove me off. I climb on top of him and kiss
his cheek, and he starts hitting me in the arm, try-
ing to pull away from my grasp. I laugh and let
go of his face, then look up at Sydney, who just
walked into the room. She’s staring at us. Warren
slides his hand up my thigh and lays his head on
my shoulder. I reach up and pat his cheek while
we both stare up at her, straight-faced. She
shakes her head slowly and walks back into her
bedroom.
As soon as her bedroom door closes, we
separate.
“I wish I hated Bridgette a little more than I do
at night, because Sydney definitely needs me,”
Warren signs.
I laugh, knowing Sydney is more than likely
swearing off guys based on the week she’s had.
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“That girl doesn’t need anything other than the
opportunity to be alone for a while.”
Warren shakes his head. “No, that girl defin-
itely needs me. I wonder how I can pull off an
elaborate prank that involves her agreeing to
have sex with me.”
“Bridgette,” I remind him. I don’t know why I
remind him. I never remind him about Bridgette
when he talks about other girls.
“You’re a dream crusher,” he signs, falling
back against the couch at the same moment I re-
ceive a text.
Sydney: Can I ask you a question?
Me: As long as you promise never again
to start a question off with whether or not
you can propose a question.
Sydney: Okay, a*shole. I know I shouldn’t
be thinking about him at all, but I’m curi-
ous. What did he write on that paper
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when we went to get my purse? And what
did you write back that made him hit you?
Me: I agree that you shouldn’t be thinking
about him at all, but I’m honestly shocked
it’s taken you this long to ask me about it.
Sydney: Well?
Ugh. I hate writing it verbatim, but she wants
to know, so . . .
Me: He wrote, “Are you f*cking her?”
Sydney: OMG! What a prick!
Me: Yep.
Sydney: So what did you say back to him
that made him punch you?
Me: I wrote, “Why do you think I’m here
for her purse? I gave her a hundred for
tonight, and now she owes me change.”
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I reread the text, and I’m not so sure it sounds
as funny as I thought it did.
My eyes dart up to her bedroom door, which is
now swinging open. She runs into the living
room, directly toward the couch. I don’t know if
it’s the look on her face or the hands that are
coming at me, but I immediately cover my head
and duck behind Warren. He doesn’t really like
being used as a human shield, though, so he
jumps off the couch. She continues slapping at
my arms until I’m curled up in a fetal position on
the couch. I’m trying not to laugh, but she hits
like a girl. This is nothing compared to what I
saw her do to Tori.
She backs away, and I reluctantly uncover my
head. She marches back to her room, and I watch
as she slams her door.
Warren is now standing next to the couch with
his hands on his hips. He looks at me, then looks
back at Sydney’s door. He puts his palms up and
shakes his head, then retreats into his bedroom.
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I should probably apologize to her. It was just
a joke, but I guess I can see how it would piss her
off. I knock on her door a couple of times. She
doesn’t open it, so I text her.
Me: Can I come in?
Sydney: That depends. Do you have any
bills smaller than a hundred this time?
Me: It seemed funny at the time. I’m
sorry.
A few seconds pass, and then her door opens
and she steps aside. I raise my eyebrows and
smile, attempting to look innocent. She shoots
me a dirty look and walks back to her bed.
Sydney: It wasn’t what I would have
wanted you to say, but I can see why you
said it. He’s a jerk, and I probably would
have wanted to piss him off in that mo-
ment, too.
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Me: He is a jerk, but I probably should
have responded differently. I’m sorry.
Sydney: Yes, you should have. Maybe in-
stead of insinuating that I was a whore,
you could have gone with “If I could only
be so lucky.”
I laugh at her comment, then offer up another
alternative answer.
Me: I could have gone with “Only when
you’re being faithful to her. Which is
never.”
Sydney: Or you could have said, “No, I’m
not. I’m madly in love with Warren.”
At least she’s making jokes about it. I really do
feel sort of bad for saying that to him, but it felt
oddly appropriate at the time.
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Me: We didn’t really get any work done
last night. Are you in the mood to make
beautiful music together?