Maybe Someday(9)

Him: Will you send them to me?

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Oh, God. Hell, no.

Me: Hell, no.

Him: Please?

Me: No.

Him: Pretty please?

Me: No, thank you.

Him: What’s your name?

Me: Sydney. Yours?

Him: Ridge.

Ridge. That fits him. Musical-artisty-moody

type.

Me: Well, Ridge, I’m sorry, but I don’t

write lyrics that anyone would want to

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hear. Do you not write lyrics to your own

songs?

He begins to text, and it’s a really long text.

His fingers move swiftly over his phone while he

types. I’m afraid I’m about to receive an entire

novel from him. He looks up at me just as my

phone vibrates.

Ridge: I guess you could say I’m having a

bad case of writer’s block. Which is why I

really, really wish you would just send me

the lyrics you sing while I’m playing. Even

if you think they’re stupid, I want to read

them. You somehow know every single

song I play, even though I’ve never

played them for anyone except when I

practice out here.

How does he know I know all his songs? I

bring a hand up to my cheek when I feel it flush,

knowing he’s been watching me a lot longer than

I initially thought. I swear, I have to be the most

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unintuitive person in this entire world. I glance

up at him and he’s continuing with another text,

so I look back to my phone and wait for it.

Ridge: I can see it in the way your whole

body responds to the guitar. You tap your

feet, you move your head. And I’ve even

tried to test you by slowing down the song

every once in a while to see if you would

notice, and you always do. Your body

stops

responding

when

I

change

something up. So just by watching you, I

can tell you have an ear for music. And

since you sing in the shower, it probably

means you’re an okay singer. Which also

means that maybe there’s a chance you

have a talent for writing lyrics. So,

Sydney, I want to know what your lyrics

are.

I’m still reading when another text comes

through.

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Ridge: Please. I’m desperate.

I inhale a deep breath, wishing more than any-

thing that this conversation had never started. I

don’t know how in the hell he can come to all

these conclusions without my ever having no-

ticed him watching me. In a way, it eases my em-

barrassment over the fact that he saw me watch-

ing him. But now that he wants to know what lyrics I made up, I’m embarrassed for an entirely

different reason. I do sing, but not well enough to

do anything with it professionally. My passion is

mostly for music itself, not at all for performing

it. And as much as I do love writing lyrics, I’ve

never shared anything I’ve written. It seems too

intimate. I’d almost rather he had sent me a vul-

gar, flirtatious come-on.

I jump when my phone vibrates again.

Ridge: Okay, we’ll make a deal. Pick one

song of mine, and send me the lyrics to

just that one song. Then I’ll leave you

alone. Especially if they’re stupid.

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I laugh. And cringe. He’s not going to let up.

I’m going to have to change my number.

Ridge: I know your phone number now,

Sydney. I’m not giving up until you send

me lyrics to at least one song.

Jesus. He’s not going away.

Ridge: And I also know where you live.

I’m not above begging on my knees at

your front door.

Ugh!

Me: Fine. Stop with the creepy threats.

One song. But I’ll have to write the lyrics

down while you play it first, because I’ve

never written them out before.

Ridge: Deal. Which song? I’ll play it right

now.

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Me: How would I tell you which song,

Ridge? I don’t know the names of any of

them.

Ridge: Yeah, me, neither. Hold up your

hand when I get to the one you want me

to play.

He puts down his phone and picks up his gui-

tar, then begins playing one of the songs. It’s not

the one I want him to play, though, so I shake my

head. He switches to another song, and I continue

to shake my head until the familiar chords to one

of my favorites meets my ears. I hold up my

hand, and he grins, then starts the song over from

the beginning. I pull my notebook in front of me

and pick up my pen, then begin to write down the

lyrics I’ve put to it.

He has to play the song three times before I fi-

nally get them all out. It’s almost dark now, and

it’s hard to see, so I pick up my phone.