Maybe Someday

Maybe Someday by Colleen Hoover


Prologue

Sydney

I just punched a girl in the face. Not just any girl.

My best friend. My roommate.

Well, as of five minutes ago, I guess I should

call her my ex-roommate.

Her nose began bleeding almost immediately,

and for a second, I felt bad for hitting her. But

then I remembered what a lying, betraying whore

she is, and it made me want to punch her again. I

would have if Hunter hadn’t prevented it by step-

ping between us.

So instead, I punched him. I didn’t do any

damage to him, unfortunately. Not like the dam-

age I’d done to my hand.

Punching someone hurts a lot worse than I

imagined it would. Not that I spend an excessive

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amount of time imagining how it would feel to

punch people. Although I am having that urge

again as I stare down at my phone at the incom-

ing text from Ridge. He’s another one I’d like to

get even with. I know he technically has nothing

to do with my current predicament, but he could

have given me a heads-up a little sooner. There-

fore, I’d like to punch him, too.

Ridge: Are you OK? Do u want to come up

until the rain stops?

Of course, I don’t want to come up. My fist

hurts enough as it is, and if I went up to Ridge’s

apartment, it would hurt a whole lot worse after I

finished with him.

I turn around and look up at his balcony. He’s

leaning against his sliding-glass door; phone in

hand, watching me. It’s almost dark, but the

lights from the courtyard illuminate his face. His

dark eyes lock with mine and the way his mouth

curls up into a soft, regretful smile makes it hard

to remember why I’m even upset with him in the

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first place. He runs a free hand through the hair

hanging loosely over his forehead, revealing even

more of the worry in his expression. Or maybe

that’s a look of regret. As it should be.

I decide not to reply and flip him off instead.

He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, as if

to say, I tried, and then he goes back inside his apartment and slides his door shut.

I put the phone back in my pocket before it

gets wet, and I look around at the courtyard of

the apartment complex where I’ve lived for two

whole months. When we first moved in, the hot

Texas summer was swallowing up the last traces

of spring, but this courtyard seemed to somehow

still cling to life. Vibrant blue and purple hy-

drangeas lined the walkways leading up to the

staircases and the fountain affixed in the center of

the courtyard.

Now that summer has reached its most unat-

tractive peak, the water in the fountain has long

since evaporated. The hydrangeas are a sad, wil-

ted reminder of the excitement I felt when Tori

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and I first moved in here. Looking at the court-

yard now, defeated by the season, is an eerie par-

allel to how I feel at the moment. Defeated and

sad.

I’m sitting on the edge of the now empty ce-

ment fountain, my elbows propped up on the two

suitcases that contain most of my belongings,

waiting for a cab to pick me up. I have no idea

where it’s going to take me, but I know I’d rather

be anywhere except where I am right now.

Which is, well, homeless.

I could call my parents, but that would give

them ammunition to start firing all the We told

you so’s at me.

We told you not to move so far away, Sydney.

We told you not to get serious with that guy.

We told you if you had chosen prelaw over mu-

sic, we would have paid for it.

We told you to punch with your thumb on the

outside of your fist.

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Okay, maybe they never taught me the proper

punching techniques, but if they’re so right all

the damn time, they should have.

I clench my fist, then spread out my fingers,

then clench it again. My hand is surprisingly

sore, and I’m pretty sure I should put ice on it. I

feel sorry for guys. Punching sucks.

Know what else sucks? Rain. It always finds

the most inappropriate time to fall, like right

now, while I’m homeless.

The cab finally pulls up, and I stand and grab

my suitcases. I roll them behind me as the cab

driver gets out and pops open the trunk. Before I

even hand him the first suitcase, my heart sinks

as I suddenly realize that I don’t even have my

purse on me.

Shit.

I look around, back to where I was sitting on

the suitcases, then feel around my body as if my

purse will magically appear across my shoulder.

But I know exactly where my purse is. I pulled it

off my shoulder and dropped it to the floor right

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before I punched Tori in her overpriced, Camer-