Maybe Someday (Maybe, #1)(52)

Me: I thought we were writing an angry song about Hunter.

She shrugs, then begins texting me back.

Sydney: I tried. The subject of Hunter doesn’t really inspire me anymore. You don’t have to use them if you don’t like them. I can try something different.

I stare at her text, not sure how to respond. I don’t like the lyrics, but not because they aren’t good. It’s because the words she’s written down make me think she’s somehow able to read my mind.

Me: I love them.

She smiles and says, “Thank you.” She flips onto her back, and I catch myself appreciating this moment and this night and her low-cut dress way more than I probably should. When my eyes make their way back to hers, she’s watching me, plainly aware of what’s going through my head. Eyes don’t lie, unfortunately.

When neither of us breaks our gaze, I’m forced to swallow the huge lump in my throat.

Don’t get yourself in trouble, Ridge.

Thank God she sits up when she does.

Sydney: I’m not sure where you want the chorus to come in. This song is a little more upbeat than the ones I’m used to. I’ve written three different ones, but I don’t like how any of them sound. I’m stuck.

Me: Let me watch you sing it one more time.

I roll off the bed and grab the guitar, then take it back to the bed but sit on the edge this time. We turn to face each other, and I play while she sings. When we make it to the chorus, she stops singing and shrugs, letting me know this is where she’s stuck. I take her notebook and read the lyrics over a few times. I glance up at her without being too obvious about it and write the first thing that comes to mind.

And I must confess my interest


The way that you move when you’re in that dress


It’s making me feel like I want to be


The only man that you ever see


I pause from writing and look up at her again, feeling every bit of the words in this chorus. I think we both know the words we write have to do with each other, but that doesn’t seem to stop us at all. If we keep having moments like these with words that are way too honest, we’ll both end up in trouble. I quickly look back down at the paper as more lyrics begin to enter my head.

Whoa, oh, oh, oh


I’m in trouble, trouble


Whoa, oh, oh, oh


I’m in trouble now


I refuse to look up at her again while I write. I keep my mind focused on the words that somehow seem to flow from my fingertips every time we’re together. I don’t question what’s inspiring me or what they mean.

I don’t question it . . . because it’s obvious.

But it’s art. Art is just an expression. An expression isn’t the same as an act, as much as it sometimes feels that way. Writing lyrics isn’t the same as directly informing someone of your feelings.

Is it?

I keep my eyes on the paper and continue to write the words I honestly wish I didn’t feel.

I see you in places from time to time


You keep to your business and I, I keep to mine


But you know that I, I want to be


Right by your side where I ought to be


And you know that I, I want to see


The way that your eyes seem to follow me


The second I’m finished writing, I’m so worked up I don’t allow myself to witness her reaction to the words. I quickly hand her back the notebook and pull my guitar around and begin playing so she can work through the chorus.


14.


Sydney


He’s not looking at me. He doesn’t even know I’m not singing the lyrics. I can’t sing them. I’ve listened to him play this song dozens of times from his balcony, yet it never held emotion or meaning until this moment.

The fact that he can’t even look at me makes the song feel way too personal. It feels as if this song somehow just became his song to me. I turn the notebook over, not wanting to read the words anymore. This song is just one more thing that never should have happened, even though I’m positive it’s my new favorite.

Me: Do you think Brennan can make a rough cut of this one? I want to hear it.

I nudge him with my foot after I send the text, then nod toward his phone when he looks at me. He picks it up to read the text and nods. He doesn’t reply or make eye contact with me, though. I glance back down to my phone as the room grows quiet in the absence of the sound of his guitar. I don’t like how awkward things just got between us, so I attempt to make small talk to fill the void. I roll onto my back and type out a question that’s been on my mind for a while to break up the stillness around us.

Me: Why don’t you ever practice on your balcony like you used to?

This question gets me immediate eye contact from him, but it doesn’t last. His eyes flicker across my face, down my body, and finally back to his phone.

Ridge: Why would I? You’re not out there anymore.

And just like that, my defenses are down, and my willpower is shot to hell with his honest reply. I nervously pull my bottom lip in and chew on it, then slowly raise my eyes back to his. He’s looking at me as if he wishes he were a guy like Hunter who cared only about himself.

He’s not the only one wishing that.

I want to be Tori right now so much it hurts. I want to be just like her and not give a shit about my self-respect or about Maggie for just a few minutes. Long enough to allow him to do everything his lyrics make clear he wants to do.