Maybe Someday(8)

Sydney

I’m mindlessly tapping my feet and singing along

to his music with my made-up lyrics when he

stops playing mid-song. He never stops mid-

song, so naturally, I glance in his direction. He’s

leaning forward, staring right at me. He holds up

his index finger, as if to say, Hold on, and he sets his guitar beside him and runs into his apartment.

What the hell is he doing?

And oh, my God, why does the fact that he’s

acknowledging me make me so nervous?

He comes back outside with paper and a mark-

er in his hands.

He’s writing. What the hell is he writing?

He holds up two sheets of paper, and I squint

to get a good look at what he’s written.

48/692

A phone number.

Shit. His phone number?

When I don’t move for several seconds, he

shakes the papers and points at them, then points

back to me.

He’s insane. I’m not calling him. I can’t call

him. I can’t do that to Hunter.

The guy shakes his head, then grabs a fresh

sheet of paper and writes something else on it,

then holds it up.

Text me.

When I still don’t move, he flips the paper

over and writes again.

I have a ?

A question. A text. Seems harmless enough.

When he holds up the papers with his phone

number again, I pull out my phone and enter his

phone number. I stare at the screen for a few

seconds, not really knowing what to say in the

text, so I go with:

Me: What’s your question?

49/692

He looks down at his phone, and I can see him

smile when he receives my text. He drops the pa-

per and leans back in his chair, typing. When my

phone vibrates, I hesitate a second before looking

down at it.

Him: Do you sing in the shower?

I shake my head, confirming my initial suspi-

cion. He’s a flirt. Of course he is, he’s a

musician.

Me: I don’t know what kind of question

that is, but if this is your attempt at flirt-

ing, I’ve got a boyfriend. Don’t waste your

time.

I hit send and watch him read the text. He

laughs, and this irritates me. Mostly because his

smile is so . . . smiley. Is that even a word? I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s as if his

whole face smiles right along with his mouth. I

wonder what that smile looks like up close.

50/692

Him: Believe me, I know you have a boy-

friend, and this is definitely not how I flirt.

I just want to know if you sing in the

shower. I happen to think highly of people

who sing in the shower and need to know

the answer to that question in order to

decide if I want to ask you my next

question.

I read the lengthy text, admiring his fast typ-

ing. Guys aren’t normally as skilled as girls when

it comes to speed-texting, but his replies are al-

most instantaneous.

Me: Yes, I sing in the shower. Do you sing

in the shower?

Him: No, I don’t.

Me: How can you think highly of people

who sing in the shower if you don’t sing in

the shower?

51/692

Him: Maybe the fact that I don’t sing in

the shower is why I think highly of people

who do sing in the shower.

This conversation isn’t going anywhere.

Me: Why did you need this vital piece of

information from me?

He stretches his legs out and props his feet up

on the edge of the patio, then stares at me for a

few seconds before returning his attention to his

phone.

Him: I want to know how you’re singing

lyrics to my songs when I haven’t even

added lyrics to them yet.

My cheeks instantly heat from embarrassment.

Busted.

I stare at his text, then glance up at him. He’s

watching me, expressionless.

52/692

Why the hell didn’t I think that he could see

me sitting out here? I never thought he would no-

tice me singing along to his music. Hell, until last

night, I never thought he even noticed me. I in-

hale, wishing I’d never made eye contact with

him to begin with. I don’t know why I find this

embarrassing, but I do. It seems as if I’ve in-

vaded his privacy in some way, and I hate that.

Me: I tend to favor songs with lyrics, and

I was tired of wondering what the lyrics to

your songs were, so I guess I made up a

few of my own.

He reads the text, then glances up at me

without a hint of his infectious smile. I don’t like

his serious glances. I don’t like what they do to

my stomach. I also don’t like what his smiley

smile does to my stomach. I wish he would stick

to a simple, unattractive, emotionless expression,

but I’m not sure he’s capable of that.