Maybe Someday (Maybe #1)(27)
“You’re a dream crusher,” he signs, falling back against the couch at the same moment I receive a text.
Sydney: Can I ask you a question?
Me: As long as you promise never again to start a question off with whether or not you can propose a question.
Sydney: Okay, asshole. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, but I’m curious. What did he write on that paper when we went to get my purse? And what did you write back that made him hit you?
Me: I agree that you shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, but I’m honestly shocked it’s taken you this long to ask me about it.
Sydney: Well?
Ugh. I hate writing it verbatim, but she wants to know, so . . .
Me: He wrote, “Are you fucking her?”
Sydney: OMG! What a prick!
Me: Yep.
Sydney: So what did you say back to him that made him punch you?
Me: I wrote, “Why do you think I’m here for her purse? I gave her a hundred for tonight, and now she owes me change.”
I reread the text, and I’m not so sure it sounds as funny as I thought it did.
My eyes dart up to her bedroom door, which is now swinging open. She runs into the living room, directly toward the couch. I don’t know if it’s the look on her face or the hands that are coming at me, but I immediately cover my head and duck behind Warren. He doesn’t really like being used as a human shield, though, so he jumps off the couch. She continues slapping at my arms until I’m curled up in a fetal position on the couch. I’m trying not to laugh, but she hits like a girl. This is nothing compared to what I saw her do to Tori.
She backs away, and I reluctantly uncover my head. She marches back to her room, and I watch as she slams her door.
Warren is now standing next to the couch with his hands on his hips. He looks at me, then looks back at Sydney’s door. He puts his palms up and shakes his head, then retreats into his bedroom.
I should probably apologize to her. It was just a joke, but I guess I can see how it would piss her off. I knock on her door a couple of times. She doesn’t open it, so I text her.
Me: Can I come in?
Sydney: That depends. Do you have any bills smaller than a hundred this time?
Me: It seemed funny at the time. I’m sorry.
A few seconds pass, and then her door opens and she steps aside. I raise my eyebrows and smile, attempting to look innocent. She shoots me a dirty look and walks back to her bed.
Sydney: It wasn’t what I would have wanted you to say, but I can see why you said it. He’s a jerk, and I probably would have wanted to piss him off in that moment, too.
Me: He is a jerk, but I probably should have responded differently. I’m sorry.
Sydney: Yes, you should have. Maybe instead of insinuating that I was a whore, you could have gone with “If I could only be so lucky.”
I laugh at her comment, then offer up another alternative answer.
Me: I could have gone with “Only when you’re being faithful to her. Which is never.”
Sydney: Or you could have said, “No, I’m not. I’m madly in love with Warren.”
At least she’s making jokes about it. I really do feel sort of bad for saying that to him, but it felt oddly appropriate at the time.
Me: We didn’t really get any work done last night. Are you in the mood to make beautiful music together?
Chapter Seven
Sydney
Ridge puts down his guitar for the first time in more than an hour. We haven’t texted at all, because we’ve been on a roll. It’s pretty cool how well we seem to work together. He plays a song over and over while I lie across his bed with a notebook in front of me. I write down the lyrics as they come to me, most of the time crumpling up the paper, chucking it across the room, and starting over. But I’ve finished lyrics for almost an entire song tonight, and he’s only crossed out two lines he didn’t like. I’d say that’s progress.
There’s something about these moments when we’re writing music that I absolutely love. All my worries and thoughts about everything wrong in my life seem to go away for the short times we write together. It’s nice.
Ridge: Let’s do the whole song now. Sit up so I can watch you sing it. I want to make sure we have it perfect before I send it to Brennan.
He starts playing the song, so I begin singing. He’s watching me closely, and the way his eyes seem to read my every movement makes me uneasy. Maybe it’s because he can’t express words through speaking, but everything else about him seems to make up for that.
As easy as he is to read, it’s only that way when he wants to be read. Most of the time, he’s able to hold back his expressions, and I don’t know what the hell he’s thinking. He holds the crown in the nonverbal department. I’m pretty sure that with the looks he gives, if he could speak, he’d never even have to.
I feel uncomfortable watching him watch me sing, so I close my eyes and try to recall the lyrics as he continues to play the song. It’s awkward singing them with him only a few feet away. When I wrote the lyrics the first time, he was playing his guitar but was a good two hundred yards away on his balcony. Still, though, as much as I tried to pretend I was writing them about Hunter at the time, I knew I was imagining Ridge singing them all along.
A LITTLE BIT MORE