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 until his fingers fall away from me.
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 surrounds me makes this even harder. I want this all the time. I want him all the time. I want these tiny snippets of perfection between us to be our constant 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 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 situation, 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.
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, terrified 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.
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 myself 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 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 frustrated 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 bedroom 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 willing to endure. I deserve more than he can give 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.
“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 completely over his head, I’m already attempting to r
oll 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 proximity. 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 texting 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.”
My chest tightens when I realize what he wants me to do. He pulls me to him, and I willingly 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 Maggie 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 Maggie 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 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 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.
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 motion 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 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 communicate 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. Always. I know its pattern. I know its rhythm. I 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 balcony 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 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 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 attraction 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 fantasized 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 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 overpowered 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 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 beside 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.
Maybe Someday Page 29