Maybe Now (Maybe #2)(15)
Sydney: Would you look forward to eating the same meal every single day?
Ridge: I would if I were eating it with you.
Sydney: Would you be able to drink the same drink every single day?
Ridge: If I were drinking it with you, I would still be thirsty for it on my deathbed.
Sydney: Oh, that’s a good line. Keep going.
Ridge: If I could hear music, I would listen to the same song over and over and never tire of it as long as I was listening to it with you.
I laugh.
Sydney: I see you still have the same self-deprecating deaf jokes you’ve always had.
Ridge reaches out and touches my mouth. “And you have the same beautiful smile you’ve always had.” His thumb runs over my bottom lip, but his eyes grow intense as he stares at my mouth. “Same smile…same laugh.” He pulls his hand from my mouth and lifts up. “This feels like a song,” he says. As soon as he says it, he rolls over and turns on the lamp. “Paper?” He opens my top drawer. He doesn’t find paper, but he finds a pen. He faces me with a look of urgency. “I need paper.”
I roll off the bed and walk to my desk. I grab a legal pad and a book for him to place it on. He grabs them out of my hands before I’m even seated back on the bed; then he starts writing lyrics. I’ve missed watching this so much. He writes a few sentences, and I lean over his shoulder and watch him.
Same seats on the couch
Same drinks when we go out
Same smile, same laugh
You know I’ll never get enough of that
He pauses for a moment, then he looks at me. He smiles and hands me the pen. “Your turn.” It feels like old times. I take the pen and the legal pad and think for a moment before adding my own lines.
Same clothes on the floor
Same dog at our door
Same room, same bed
I wouldn’t wish for anything instead
He’s staring at the lyrics when he hops off the bed and starts looking around the floor. “Jeans?” he says. I point to the living room. He nods, like he forgot we came to my bedroom naked. He points over his shoulder. “Guitar. My car.” He rushes out of my room, and a minute later, I hear him walk out my front door. I look at the page and read through the lyrics again. I have two more sentences written when he makes it back to my bedroom with his guitar.
When everything is changing
Baby you’re written in stone
He sets his guitar on the bed and looks over the lyrics, then motions for the pen. He tears out the lyrics and starts writing out chords and notes on another page. This is my favorite part. This is the magic—watching him hear a song that doesn’t even have sound and doesn’t even exist yet. The pen is flying over the paper frantically. He pulls the lyrics back in front of him and starts adding to them.
Feels like we made it
Got something of our own
Maybe it’s predictable
But I can’t complain
With you and me
All I need
Is more of the same
More of the same
He hands me the notepad and pen and picks up his guitar. He starts playing, and I’m reading the lyrics, wondering how he does this with such little effort. Just like that, he’s created a new song. An entire song from nothing more than a few sentences and a little inspiration.
I begin to write another verse while he plays the chords.
Same songs in the car
We never need to go too far and
I won’t leave you alone
Just stay the same baby
I’ve always known that
When everything is changing
Baby you’re written in stone
Feels like we made it
Got something of our own
Maybe it’s predictable
But I can’t complain
With you and me
All I need is more of the same
More of the same
When I finish writing the chorus again, he reads it all. Then he hands me the lyrics and leans back against my headboard. He motions for me to sit between his legs, so I crawl over and turn my back toward him as he pulls me against him and wraps his guitar around us. He doesn’t even have to ask me to sing the song. He starts playing, leaning his head against mine, and I start singing the song for him so that he can perfect it.
The first time he played for me, we were sitting like this. And just like that first day, I am completely in awe of him. His concentration is inspiring, and the way he creates such a pleasing sound that he can’t even hear makes it hard for me to focus on the lyrics. I want to turn around and watch him play. But I also like that we’re wrapped together on my bed and I’m caged against him by his guitar and every now and then, he kisses the side of my head.
I could do this every night with him and still want more of the same.
We sing and play the song about three times, and he pauses to make notes between each run-through. After the fourth and final time, he tosses the pen on the floor and then pushes his guitar to the other side of the bed. Then he turns me around so I’m straddling his lap. We’re both smiling.
It’s one thing for a person to find their passion, but it’s another thing entirely to be able to share that passion with the person you’re passionate about.