Maybe Someday(45)

say that to me? Unless he thinks I like Warren.

Ridge: He’s always been a flirt, so I just

wanted to clear that up. I don’t want to

see you get hurt again. That’s all.

Me: Appreciate your concern, but it’s un-

necessary. Really. Have no interest there.

He smiles.

Me: You were right. I like Maggie.

Ridge: I knew you would. Everyone likes

Maggie. She’s very likable.

I lift my eyes and look around when a Sounds

of Cedar song begins to play. I scoot to the back

of the booth and look over the railing. Warren

and Maggie are standing by the DJ’s table, and

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Warren is interacting with the DJ while Maggie

dances around next to him.

Me: They’re playing one of your songs.

Ridge: Yeah? That always happens when

Warren’s

around.

Are

they

playing

“Getaway”?

Me: Yeah. How’d you know?

Ridge presses a flat palm to his chest and

smiles.

Me: Wow. You can differentiate your

songs like that?

He nods.

Me: What’s Maggie’s story? She commu-

nicates really well. She seems to dance

really well. Does she have a different level

of hearing loss from yours?

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Ridge: Yes, she has mild hearing loss. She

hears most things with hearing aids,

which is why she also speaks so well. And

she does dance well. I stick to slow songs

when she wants me to dance with her,

since I can’t hear them.

Me: Is that why Maggie speaks out loud

and you don’t? Because she can hear?

His eyes swing up to mine for a few seconds,

and then he looks back at his phone.

Ridge: No. I could speak if I wanted to.

I should stop. I know he’s probably annoyed

by these questions, but I’m too curious.

Me: Why don’t you, then?

He shrugs but doesn’t text me back.

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Me: No, I want to know. There has to be a

reason. It seems like it would make things

a lot easier for you.

Ridge: I just don’t. I get along fine with

how I do things now.

Me: Yes, especially when Maggie and War-

ren are around. Why would you need to

talk when they can do it for you?

I hit send before I realize I probably shouldn’t

have said that. I have noticed Maggie and Warren

do a lot of his talking for him, though. They’ve

ordered for him every time the waitress has come

by the booth, and I’ve noticed Warren do it sev-

eral times this week in different situations.

Ridge reads my text, then looks back up at me.

It seems I made him uncomfortable, and I imme-

diately regret saying what I did.

Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to

come out how it probably sounded. I just

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meant you seem to let them do things for

you that they wouldn’t necessarily have to

do if you would speak for yourself.

My explanation seems to bother him even

more than the initial text. I feel as if I’m digging

myself a hole.

Me: Sorry. I’ll stop. It’s not my place to

judge your situation, because I obviously

can’t put myself in your shoes. I was just

trying to understand.

He looks at me and pulls the corner of his bot-

tom lip into his mouth. I’ve noticed he does this

when he’s thinking hard about something. The

way he continues to stare at me makes my throat

go dry. I break his gaze, pull the straw into my

mouth, and take a sip of my soda. When I look

back at him, he’s texting again.

Ridge: I was nine when I stopped

verbalizing.

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His text does more to my stomach than his

stare did. I don’t know why.

Me: You used to talk? Why did you stop?

Ridge: It might take me a while to text

the explanation.

Me: It’s fine. You can tell me about it at

home when we have our laptops.

He scoots to the edge of the booth and peers

over the balcony. I follow his gaze down to Mag-

gie and Warren, who are still both hovering

around the DJ booth. When he sees that they’re

still occupied, he moves away from the railing

and leans forward across the table, resting his el-

bows in front of him as he begins to text.

Ridge: They don’t look like they’re ready

to leave, so I guess we have time now.

Brennan and I didn’t luck out in the par-

ent department. They both had issues

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with addiction. They might still have

them, but we wouldn’t know, because we

haven’t spoken to either of them in years.

My mother spent most of our childhood in

bed, doped up on pain pills. Our father

spent most of our childhood in bars. When