Maybe Someday(53)

and begin playing the opening to a new song I’ve

been working on. I haven’t finished it yet, but

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I’m hoping that with her help, we’ll make some

headway tonight.

I play the song several times, and she watches

me some of the time, then writes some of the

time. She uses her hands to tell me to pause or

back up or move on to the next chorus or to re-

start the song altogether. I keep a close eye on

her while I play, and we continue this dance for

more than an hour. She does a lot of scratching

out and makes a heck of a lot of faces that I’m

not sure convey that she’s having any fun.

She eventually sits up and tears the paper out

of the notebook, then wads it up and tosses it into

the trash can. She slaps her notebook shut and

shakes her head.

Sydney: I’m sorry, Ridge. Maybe I’m just

exhausted, but it’s not clicking right now.

Can we try this again tomorrow night?

I nod, doing my best to hide my disappoint-

ment. I don’t like seeing her frustrated. She takes

her laptop and notebook and starts to walk back

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toward her bedroom. She turns back around and

mouths, “Good night.”

As soon as she disappears, I’m off the bed and

digging through the trash can. I pull out her

wadded-up sheet of paper and take it back to my

bed and unfold it.

Watching him from here

So far away

Want him closer than my heart can take

I want him here I want

Maybe one of these days Someday

There are random sentences, some marked out,

some not. I read all of them, attempting to work

my way around them.

I’d run for him you, if I could stand

But I can’t make that demand

I can’t be his right now

Why can’t he take me away

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Reading her words feels like an invasion of her

privacy. But is it? Technically, we’re in this to-

gether, so I should be able to read what she’s

writing as she writes it.

But there’s something different about this

song. It’s different because this song doesn’t

sound like it’s about Hunter.

This song sounds a little like it could be about

me.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I should not be pick-

ing up my phone right now, and I should defin-

itely not be contemplating how to persuade her to

help me finish this song tonight.

Me: Don’t be mad, but I’m reading your

lyrics. I think I know where your frustra-

tion is coming from.

Sydney: Could it be coming from the fact

that I suck at writing lyrics and a few

songs is all I had in me?

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I pick up my guitar and head to her bedroom. I

knock and open her door, assuming she’s still de-

cent since she just left my room two minutes ago.

I walk to her bed and sit, then grab her notebook

and pen and place her lyrics on top of the note-

book. I write a note and hand it to her.

You have to remember the band you’re writing

lyrics for is all guys. I know it’s hard to write from a male point of view, since you’re obviously not male. If you stop writing this song from your own point of view and try to feel it from a different point of view, the lyrics might come. Maybe

it’s been hard because you know a guy will be

singing it, but the feelings are coming from you.

Just flip it around and see what happens.

She reads my note, then picks up the pen and

shifts back on her bed. She looks at me and nods

her head toward my guitar, indicating that she’ll

give it a try. I scoot off the bed and onto the

floor, then stand my guitar upright and pull it

against my chest. When I’m working out chords

to a new song, it helps to play this way

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sometimes so I can feel the vibrations more

clearly.

I close my eyes, lean my head against the gui-

tar, and begin playing.

Chapter Eleven

Sydney

Oh, God. He’s doing that thing again. The mes-

merizing thing.

When I’ve seen him play his guitar like this in

the past, it was before I knew he couldn’t hear

himself play. I thought maybe he just played this

way to get a different angle on the strings, but

now I know he does it so he can feel the music

better. I don’t know why, but knowing this makes

me love watching him even more.

I should probably be working on the lyrics, but

I watch him play the entire song without once

opening his eyes. When he finishes, I quickly

glance down to my notebook, because I know

he’s about to open his eyes and look up at me. I

pretend I’m writing, and he flips his guitar

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around the correct way, then leans back against

my dresser and begins playing the song again.