Maybe Someday(119)

ting up there so much it hurts.

“Hey, Syd,” Warren says into the microphone.

I inhale a slow, calming breath, then open my

eyes and hesitantly look up at him. “Remember a

few months ago when I told you sometimes we

have to have really bad days in order to keep the

good ones in perspective?”

I think I nod. I can’t really feel my body

anymore.

“Well, this is one of the good days. This is one

of the really good days.” He raises his hand in the

air and motions to my table. “Somebody get that

girl a shot of whatever will help loosen her up.”

He moves the microphone to the stool next to

him, and my eyes are glued to the empty chairs.

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Someone lays a shot on the table in front of me,

and I instantly grab it and down it. I drop the shot

glass back onto the table and look up just in time

to see them walk onto the stage. Brennan is first,

and Ridge is right behind him, carrying a guitar.

Oh, my God. He looks incredible. It’s the first

time I’ve ever seen him on a stage. I’ve been

wanting to watch him perform since the first mo-

ment I heard his guitar on my balcony and here I

am, about to watch my fantasy become reality.

He looks the same as he did the last time I saw

him, just . . . incredible. I guess he looked incred-

ible back then, too. I just didn’t feel right allow-

ing myself to admit it when I knew he wasn’t

mine. I must feel okay about it now, because holy

crap. He’s beautiful. He carries himself with such

confidence and I can definitely see why. His

arms look as if they were built for the sole pur-

pose of carrying a guitar. It molds to him so nat-

urally, it’s as if it’s an extension of him. There

isn’t a shadow of guilt clouding his eyes like

there always was in the past. He’s smiling, like

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he’s excited for what’s about to happen. His en-

igmatic smile lights up his face and his face

lights up the entire room. At least it seems that

way to me. He glances over the audience several

times as he makes his way toward his seat, but he

doesn’t immediately spot me.

He takes a seat on the center stool, and Bren-

nan sits to the left of him, Warren to his right. He

signs to Warren, and Warren points at me. Ridge

looks out into the audience and finds me. My

hands are clamped over my mouth, and my el-

bows are propped up on the table. He smiles and

gives me a nod and my heart crashes to the floor.

I can’t smile or wave or nod back at him. I’m too

nervous to move.

Brennan leans forward and speaks into the mi-

crophone. “We’ve got a few new songs—”

His voice is cut off when Ridge pulls the mi-

crophone away from him and leans in toward it.

“Sydney,” Ridge says into the microphone,

“some of these songs I wrote with you. Some of

these songs I wrote for you.”

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I can hear a small difference in the way he

speaks now. I’ve never heard him say so much at

once out loud. He also seems to enunciate a little

more clearly than the few times he’s spoken to

me in the past, like the subject in the photograph

is slightly more in focus. It’s obvious he’s been

working on it, and knowing he’s continued to

talk out loud makes my eyes tear up without even

having heard a song yet.

“If you aren’t ready to say the word, that’s

fine,” he says. “I’ll wait as long as you need me

to. I just hope you don’t mind this interruption to-

night.” He pushes the microphone away, then

looks down to his guitar. Brennan leans into the

microphone and looks at me.

“He can’t hear what I’m saying right now, so

I’ll take this opportunity to tell you Ridge is full

of shit. He doesn’t want to wait anymore. He

wants you to say the word more than he wants

air. So please, for the sake of all that is holy, say the word tonight.”

I laugh as I wipe a tear from my eye.

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Ridge plays the opening chords to “Trouble,”

and I finally realize why Warren made me wear

this dress. Brennan leans forward and begins to

sing, and I remain completely immobile as War-

ren signs every word to the song while Ridge

keeps his focus on the fingers strumming his gui-

tar. Watching the three of them together, seeing

the beauty they can create from a few words and

guitars, is mesmerizing.

Ridge

When the song ends, I look up at her.

She’s crying, but those tears are accompanied

by a smile, and that’s exactly what I was hoping I

would see when I looked up from my guitar. See-

ing her for the first time since I kissed her good-