Maybe Someday (Maybe #1)(43)

But it feels so good. His words feel good, his closeness feels good, his eyes searching mine make my heart go haywire, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how something that feels like this can be so wrong.

I’m not a bad person.

Ridge isn’t a bad person.

How can two good people who both have such good intentions end up with feelings, derived from all the goodness, that are so incredibly bad?

Ridge’s expression grows more concerned, and he pulls his gaze away from mine and picks up his phone.

Ridge: Are you okay?

Ha. Am I okay? Yeah. That’s why my palms are sweating and my chest is heaving and I’m clenching the sheet beside me on the bed so I don’t do something to him with these hands that I’ll never forgive myself for.

I nod, then gently push him aside as I stand up and walk to the bathroom. I shut the door behind me and lean against it, closing my eyes and silently repeating the mantra in my head that I’ve been repeating for weeks now.

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.

Ridge

After several minutes, she finally walks back into her bedroom. She smiles at me, walks to the bed, and picks up her phone.

Sydney: Sorry. I felt sick.

Me: You okay?

Sydney: Yeah. Just needed water, I guess. I love the lyrics, Ridge. They’re perfect. Do we need to run through them again, or can we call it a night?

I really would like to run through them again, but she looks tired. I’d also give anything to feel her sing them again, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I already beat up my conscience enough while I was writing the rest of the lyrics down. However, the fact that I was more than likely writing about her didn’t seem to stop me, because the only thing on my mind was the simple fact that I was actually writing. I haven’t been able to write lyrics in months, and in just a matter of minutes, it was as if a fog lifted and the words began to flow effortlessly. I would have kept going if I didn’t feel I’d already gone way too far.

Me: We’ll call it a night. I’m really happy with this one, Syd.

She smiles, and I pick up my guitar and head to my room.

I spend the next several minutes adding a final verse to the song, transferring her lyrics into the music program on my laptop, and filling in the guitar chords. Once it’s all entered, I hit send, close it out, and text Brennan.

Me: Just sent you a very rough draft with lyrics. I really want Sydney to hear this one, so if you have time this week to work up a rough acoustic, send it over. I think it’ll be good for her to finally be able to hear something she created come to life.

Brennan: Looking at it now. I hate to admit this, but I think you were right about her. She really was sent to earth just for us.

Me: Starting to seem that way.

Brennan: Give me an hour. Not busy, so I’ll see what we can work up.

An hour? He’s sending it tonight? I immediately text Sydney.

Me: Try not to fall asleep. I might have a little surprise for you after a while.

Sydney: Um, . . . okay?

• • •

Forty-five minutes later, I get an e-mail with an attachment from Brennan that says, Rough cut, Maybe Someday. I open it on my phone, find a set of earbuds in the kitchen drawer, and head to Sydney’s room. She opens the door after I knock and lets me into her room. I walk over to sit on her bed and motion to the spot on the mattress beside me. She looks at me questioningly but walks to the bed. I hand her the earbuds and pat her pillow, so she lies down and places them in her ears. She continues to watch me warily, as if I’m about to pull an elaborate prank on her.

I scoot down next to her and prop myself up on my elbow, then hit play. I set the phone down between us and watch her.

A few seconds pass, and her head swings in my direction. An “Oh, my God” passes her lips, and she’s looking at me as if I’ve just given her the world.

And it feels pretty damn good.

She smiles and puts her hand over her mouth as her eyes fill with tears. She tilts her face back up to the ceiling, more than likely because she’s embarrassed by her emotional reaction. She shouldn’t be. It’s exactly what I was hoping to see.

I continue to watch her as she listens, and her face conveys a mixture of emotions. She smiles, then exhales, then closes her eyes. When the song ends, she looks at me and mouths, “Again.”

I smile and hit play on my phone again. I continue to watch her, but the second her lips begin moving and I realize she’s singing along to the song, my smile is washed away by a sudden emotion I didn’t expect to feel at all.

Jealousy.

Never in all my life and in all my years of living in a world of silence have I wanted to hear something as much as I want to hear her sing right now. I want to hear her so bad it physically hurts. The walls of my chest feel as if they’re closing in on my heart, and I don’t even realize that my hand has moved to her chest until she turns to me, startled. I shake my head, not wanting her to stop. She nods slightly, but the beat of her heart against my hand is increasing by the second. I can feel the vibration of her voice against my palm, but the material between my hand and her skin hinders my ability to feel her the way I want to. I move my hand upward, until it’s at the base of her throat, and then I slide it up even farther, until my fingers and palm are flush against her neck. I scoot closer to her so that my chest is pressed against her side, because the overwhelming need to hear her has completely taken over, and I don’t allow myself to think about where the invisible lines are drawn.