Maybe Someday (Maybe #1)(58)

She crawls her way up my body until she’s face-to-face with me, and then she sits back on her heels, straddling me. She cocks an eyebrow and tilts her head. “You were checking out her ass.”

Shit.

I was hoping that moment had come and gone.

I laugh and cup my hands around Maggie’s backside and scoot her a little closer. I let go and bring my hands back around in front of her and answer her. “I walked out of my room to a rear end pointed toward my bedroom door. I’m a guy. Guys notice things like that, unfortunately.” I kiss her mouth, then pull back.

She’s not smiling. “She’s really nice,” Maggie signs. “And pretty. And funny. And talented. And . . .”

The insecurity in her words makes me feel like a jerk, so I grab her hands and still them. “She’s not you,” I tell her. “No one can ever be you, Maggie. Ever.”

She smiles halfheartedly and places her palms on the sides of my face and slowly runs them down to my neck. She leans forward and presses her mouth to mine with so much force I can feel the fear rolling off of her.

Fear that I put there.

I grab her face and kiss her with everything I have, doing all I can to erase her worries. The last thing this girl needs is something else to stress her out.

When she breaks apart from me, her features are still full of every single negative emotion I’ve spent the past five years helping her drown out.

“Ridge?” She pauses, then drops her eyes while she blows out a long, controlled breath. The nervousness in her demeanor twists around my heart and squeezes it. She brings her eyes carefully back to mine. “Did you tell her about me? Does she know?” Her eyes search mine for an answer to the question she should never even feel the need to ask.

Does she not know me by now?

“No. God, no, Maggie. Why would I do that? That’s always been your story to tell, not mine. I would never do that.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and she tries to blink them away. I let my head fall back against the headboard. This girl still has no idea how far I’ll go for her.

I lift my head away from the headboard and look her hard in the eyes. “To the ends of the earth, Maggie,” I sign, repeating our phrase to her.

She forces a sad smile. “And back.”

16.

Sydney

Someone is removing my clothes. Who in the hell is removing my clothes?

I begin slapping away the hand that’s pulling my shorts down past my knees. I try to remember where I am, why I’m here, and how I got here.

Party.

Cake.

Pine-Sol.

Spilling Pine-Sol on my dress.

Changing.

Drinking more Pine-Sol.

Lots of Pine-Sol.

Watching Ridge love Maggie.

God, he loves her so much. I saw it in the way he watches her from across the room. I saw it in the way he touches her. In the way he communicates with her.

I can still smell the alcohol. I can still taste it as I slide my tongue over my lips.

I danced . . .

I drank more Pine-Sol . . .

Oh! The drinking game. I invented my own solitary drinking game, where every time I saw how much Ridge loved Maggie, I downed a shot. Unfortunately, that made for a hell of a lot of shots.

Who in the hell is pulling off my shorts?

I try to open my eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s working. They feel open, but it’s still dark inside my head.

Oh, my God. I’m drunk, and someone is undressing me.

I’m about to be raped!

I start kicking at the hands that are yanking the shorts from my feet.

“Sydney!” a girl yells. “Stop!” She’s laughing. I focus for a few seconds and can tell the voice belongs to Maggie.

“Maggie?”

She comes closer, and a soft hand brushes back my hair as the bed dips down next to me. I squeeze my eyes shut, then force them wide open several times, until I finally begin to adjust to the dark. She puts her hands on my shirt and attempts to unbutton it.

Why in the hell is she still taking off my clothes?

Oh, my God! Maggie wants to rape me!

I slap at her hand, and she grips my wrist. “Sydney!” She laughs. “You’re covered in puke. I’m trying to help you.”

Puke? Covered in it?

That explains the massive headache. But . . . it doesn’t explain why I’m laughing. Why am I laughing? Am I still drunk? “What time is it?” I ask her.

“I don’t know. Tonight, I think. Like, midnight?”

“That’s it?”

She nods, then starts laughing with me. “You threw up on Brennan.”

Brennan? I met Brennan?

It looks as if her eyes are trying hard to focus on my face. “Can I tell you a secret?” she says.

I nod. “Okay, but I probably won’t remember it, because I think I’m still drunk.”

She smiles and leans forward. She’s so pretty. Maggie is really, really pretty. “I can’t stand Bridgette,” she says quietly.

I laugh.

Maggie starts laughing again, too, and tries to pull my shirt off, but she’s laughing too hard and keeps having to pause for deep breaths.

“Are you drunk, too?” I ask her.

She inhales again, attempting to pause her laughter, and then she exhales. “So drunk. I thought I took your shirt off already, but your shirt keeps coming back on, and I don’t know how many shirts you have, but”—she lifts the edge of my shirt sleeve, which is still on my arm, and looks at it in confusion—“oh, my God, I really thought I took it off already, and here it is again.”