Maybe Someday(78)

our hands away, bringing them to rest on her

stomach.

I’m looking at our hands now. She opens a flat

palm, and I do the same, and we press them

together.

I don’t know a lot about the human body, but I

would be willing to bet there’s a nerve that runs

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directly from the palm of the hand, straight to the

heart.

Our fingers are outstretched until she laces

them together, squeezing gently when our hands

connect completely, weaving together.

It’s the first time I’ve ever held her hand.

We stare at our hands for what feels like an

eternity. Every feeling and every nerve are

centered in our palms, in our fingers, in our

thumbs, occasionally brushing back and forth

over one another.

Our hands mold together perfectly, just like the

two of us.

Sydney and me.

I’m convinced that people come across others

in life whose souls are completely compatible

with their own. Some refer to them as soul mates.

Some refer to it as true love. Some people believe

their souls are compatible with more than one

person, and I’m beginning to understand how

true that might be. I’ve known since the moment

I met Maggie years ago that our souls were

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compatible, and they are. That’s not even a

question.

However, I also know that my soul is compat-

ible with Sydney’s, but it’s also so much more

than that. Our souls aren’t just compat-

ible—they’re perfectly attuned. I feel everything

she feels. I understand things she never even has

to say. I know that what she needs is exactly

what I could give her, and what she’s wishing she

could give me is something I never even knew I

needed.

She understands me. She respects me. She

astounds me. She predicts me. She’s never once,

since the second I met her, made me feel as if my

inability to hear is even an inability at all.

I can also tell just by looking at her that she’s

falling in love with me. It serves as further proof

that I need to do what should have been done a

long time ago.

I very reluctantly lean forward, reach over to

her nightstand, and grab a pen. I pull my fingers

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from hers and open her palm to write on it: I need you to move out.

I close her fingers over her palm so she doesn’t

read it while I’m watching her, and I walk away,

leaving behind an entire half of my heart as I go.

Chapter Seventeen

Sydney

I watch as he closes the door behind him. I’m

clutching my hand to my chest, terrified to read

what he wrote.

I saw the look in his eyes.

I saw the heartache, the regret, the fear . . . the

love.

I keep my hand clutched tightly to my chest

without reading it. I refuse to accept that

whatever words are written on my palm will ob-

literate what little hope I had for our maybe

someday.

? ? ?

My body flinches, and my eyes flick open.
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I don’t know what just woke me up, but I was

in the middle of a dead sleep. It’s dark. I sit up on the bed and press my hand to my forehead, wincing from the pain. I don’t feel nauseated any-

more, but I’ve never in my life been this thirsty. I

need water.

I stand up and stretch my arms above my head,

then glance down to the alarm clock: 2:45 A.M.

Thank God. I could still use about three more

days of sleep to recover from this hangover.

I’m walking toward Ridge’s bathroom when

an unfamiliar feeling washes over me. I pause be-

fore reaching the door. I’m not sure why I pause,

but I suddenly feel out of place.

It feels strange, walking toward this bathroom

right now. It doesn’t feel as if I’m walking to-

ward my bathroom. It doesn’t feel as if it belongs to me at all, unlike how my bathroom felt in my

last apartment. That bathroom felt like my bathroom. As if it belonged partly to me. That apart-

ment felt like my apartment. All the furniture in it felt like my furniture.

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Nothing about this place feels like me. Other

than the belongings that were contained in the

two suitcases I brought with me that first night,

nothing else here feels even remotely like mine.

The dresser? Borrowed.

The bed? Borrowed.

Thursday-night TV? Borrowed.

The kitchen, the living room, my entire bed-

room. They all belong to other people. I feel as if

I’m just borrowing this life until I find a better

one of my own. I’ve felt as if I’ve been borrow-

ing everything since the day I moved in here.

Hell, I’m even borrowing boyfriends. Ridge

isn’t mine. He’ll never be mine. As much as that

hurts to accept, I’m so sick of this constant, on-