Maybe Someday(75)

while she blows out a long, controlled breath.

The nervousness in her demeanor twists around

my heart and squeezes it. She brings her eyes

carefully back to mine. “Did you tell her about

me? Does she know?” Her eyes search mine for

an answer to the question she should never even

feel the need to ask.

Does she not know me by now?

“No. God, no, Maggie. Why would I do that?

That’s always been your story to tell, not mine. I

would never do that.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and she tries to blink

them away. I let my head fall back against the

headboard. This girl still has no idea how far I’ll

go for her.

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I lift my head away from the headboard and

look her hard in the eyes. “To the ends of the

earth, Maggie,” I sign, repeating our phrase to

her.

She forces a sad smile. “And back.”

Chapter Sixteen

Sydney

Someone is removing my clothes. Who in the

hell is removing my clothes?

I begin slapping away the hand that’s pulling

my shorts down past my knees. I try to remember

where I am, why I’m here, and how I got here.

Party.

Cake.

Pine-Sol.

Spilling Pine-Sol on my dress.

Changing.

Drinking more Pine-Sol.

Lots of Pine-Sol.

Watching Ridge love Maggie.

God, he loves her so much. I saw it in the way

he watches her from across the room. I saw it in

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the way he touches her. In the way he communic-

ates with her.

I can still smell the alcohol. I can still taste it

as I slide my tongue over my lips.

I danced . . .

I drank more Pine-Sol . . .

Oh! The drinking game. I invented my own

solitary drinking game, where every time I saw

how much Ridge loved Maggie, I downed a shot.

Unfortunately, that made for a hell of a lot of

shots.

Who in the hell is pulling off my shorts?

I try to open my eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s

working. They feel open, but it’s still dark inside

my head.

Oh, my God. I’m drunk, and someone is un-

dressing me.

I’m about to be raped!

I start kicking at the hands that are yanking the

shorts from my feet.

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“Sydney!” a girl yells. “Stop!” She’s laughing.

I focus for a few seconds and can tell the voice

belongs to Maggie.

“Maggie?”

She comes closer, and a soft hand brushes

back my hair as the bed dips down next to me. I

squeeze my eyes shut, then force them wide open

several times, until I finally begin to adjust to the dark. She puts her hands on my shirt and attempts

to unbutton it.

Why in the hell is she still taking off my

clothes?

Oh, my God! Maggie wants to rape me!

I slap at her hand, and she grips my wrist.

“Sydney!” She laughs. “You’re covered in puke.

I’m trying to help you.”

Puke? Covered in it?

That explains the massive headache. But . . . it

doesn’t explain why I’m laughing. Why am I

laughing? Am I still drunk? “What time is it?” I

ask her.

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“I don’t know. Tonight, I think. Like,

midnight?”

“That’s it?”

She nods, then starts laughing with me. “You

threw up on Brennan.”

Brennan? I met Brennan?

It looks as if her eyes are trying hard to focus

on my face. “Can I tell you a secret?” she says.

I nod. “Okay, but I probably won’t remember

it, because I think I’m still drunk.”

She smiles and leans forward. She’s so pretty.

Maggie is really, really pretty. “I can’t stand

Bridgette,” she says quietly.

I laugh.

Maggie starts laughing again, too, and tries to

pull my shirt off, but she’s laughing too hard and

keeps having to pause for deep breaths.

“Are you drunk, too?” I ask her.

She inhales again, attempting to pause her

laughter, and then she exhales. “So drunk. I

thought I took your shirt off already, but your

shirt keeps coming back on, and I don’t know

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how many shirts you have, but”—she lifts the

edge of my shirt sleeve, which is still on my arm,

and looks at it in confusion—“oh, my God, I

really thought I took it off already, and here it is

again.”

I lift myself up on the bed, then help her pull

my shirt off. “Why am I already in bed if it’s

only midnight?”

She shrugs. “I have no idea what you just

said.”

She’s funny. I reach to the nightstand and turn

on the lamp. Maggie scoots off the bed and