Maybe Someday(110)

sees my doubt building, and he shakes his head to

get me to stop analyzing this moment between

us. His eyes are pleading as he strokes my cheek,

pulls me flush against him, and tries to kiss me

again, but I struggle out of his arms.

“Ridge, no,” I say. “I can’t.”

I’m still shaking my head when his hand grips

my wrist. I slide off his lap and keep walking un-

til his fingers fall away from me.

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I walk straight to the kitchen sink and dispense

soap into my hands, then begin scrubbing the ink

off my arm. I reach into a drawer and pull out a

rag, then wet it and press it to my neck. Tears are

streaming down my cheeks as I try to wash away

the reminders of what just happened between us.

The reminders are going to make him that much

harder to overcome.

Ridge comes up behind me and places his

hands on my shoulders. He turns me around to

face him. When he sees that I’m crying, his eyes

fill with apology, and he pulls the rag from my

hand. He brushes the hair off my shoulder and

gently rubs my skin, washing away the ink. He

looks incredibly guilty for making me cry, but

it’s not his fault. It’s never his fault. It’s no one’s fault. It’s both our faults.

When he’s finished rubbing away the ink, he

tosses the rag behind me onto the counter, then

pulls me against his chest. The comfort that sur-

rounds me makes this even harder. I want this all

the time. I want him all the time. I want these tiny 600/692

snippets of perfection between us to be our con-

stant reality, but that can’t happen right now. I

completely understand his earlier comment, when

he said that there are times he misses me and

times he wishes he never met me, because right

now, I’m wishing I never set foot out onto my

balcony the first time I heard his guitar.

If I never experienced how he could make me

feel, then I wouldn’t miss it after he’s gone.

I wipe my eyes and pull away from him.

There’s so much we need to discuss, so I walk to

the couch, retrieve our phones, and bring his to

him. I move away from him to lean against the

other counter while I type, but he grabs my arm

and pulls me back. He leans against the bar and

pulls my back against his chest, then wraps his

arms around me from behind. He kisses the side

of my head, then moves his lips to my ear.

“Stay here,” he says, wanting me to remain

pressed against him.

It’s crazy how being held by someone for just

a few minutes can forever change how it feels not 601/692

to be held by him. The second he releases his

hold on you, it suddenly feels as if a part of you

is missing. I guess he feels it, too, which is why

he wants me near him.

Does he feel this way about Maggie, too?

Questions like this refuse to leave my mind.

Questions like this keep me from believing he

could ever be happy with the outcome of his situ-

ation, because he lost her in the end. I don’t want

to be someone’s second choice.

I lean my head against his shoulder and

squeeze my eyes shut, trying my best not to let

my mind go there again. However, I know I have

to go there if I ever want to find a sense of

closure.

Ridge: I wish I could read your mind.

Me: Believe me, I wish you could, too.

He laughs quietly and squeezes me tightly in

his arms. He keeps his cheek pressed against my

head as he types out another text.

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Ridge: We’ve always been able to say

whatever is on our minds. You still have

that with me, you know. You can say

whatever you need to say, Sydney. That’s

what I’ve always loved about us the most.

Why do all the words he says and writes and

texts have to pierce my heart?

I inhale a deep breath, then exhale carefully. I

open my eyes and look down at my phone, terri-

fied to ask the one question I don’t really want

the answer to. I ask it anyway, because as much

as I don’t want to know the answer, I need to know the answer.

Me: If she texted you right now and said

she made the wrong choice, would you

go? Would you walk out my front door

without thinking twice?

My head stills when the rapid rise and fall of

his chest comes to a sudden halt.

I can no longer hear his breaths.

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His grip around me loosens slightly.

My heart crumbles.

I don’t need to read an answer from him. I

don’t even need to hear it. I can feel it in every part of him.

It’s not as if I were expecting his answer to be

any different. He spent five years with her. It’s

obvious that he loves her. He’s never said

otherwise.

I was just hoping he was wrong.