Maybe Someday (Maybe #1)(43)
I nod, full of nerves and fear that he doesn’t like it. He presses his pen to the paper, next to the lyrics he crossed out. He pauses for a few seconds before writing and slowly turns to face me again. His expression is full of trepidation, and I’m curious about what’s causing it. His eyes fall from mine, slowly grazing over me until his attention is back on the page. He inhales and carefully exhales, then begins writing the new lyrics. I watch him write out the lyrics to the entire song as I follow closely along, deciphering the new lyrics he adds in himself.
MAYBE SOMEDAY
Seeing something from so far away
Get a little closer every day
Thinking that I want to make it mine
I’d run for you if I could stand
But what I want I can’t demand
’Cause what I want is you
Chorus:
And if I can’t be yours now
I’ll wait here on this ground
Till you come
Till you take me away
Maybe Someday
Maybe Someday
I try to ignore what you say
You turn to me, I turn away
But Cupid must have shot me twice
I smell your perfume on my bed
Thoughts of you invade my head
Truths are written, never said
Repeat Chorus
You say it’s wrong, but it feels right
You cut me loose, then hold on tight
Words unfinished, like our song
Nothing good can come this way
Lines are drawn, but then they fade
For her I bend, for you I break
Repeat Chorus
When he’s finished writing, he sets the pen down across the paper. His eyes turn to mine again, and I don’t know if he’s expecting me to respond to what he just wrote, but I can’t. I’m trying not to allow myself to feel as if there’s any truth behind his lyrics, but his words from the first night we wrote together flash through my head.
“They’re your words, Sydney. Words that came from you.”
He was telling me then that lyrics have truth behind them, because they come from somewhere inside the person who wrote them. I look back down at the page.
For her I bend, for you I break
Oh, my God, I can’t. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want this.
But it feels so good. His words feel good, his closeness feels good, his eyes searching mine make my heart go haywire, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out how something that feels like this can be so wrong.
I’m not a bad person.
Ridge isn’t a bad person.
How can two good people who both have such good intentions end up with feelings, derived from all the goodness, that are so incredibly bad?
Ridge’s expression grows more concerned, and he pulls his gaze away from mine and picks up his phone.
Ridge: Are you okay?
Ha. Am I okay? Yeah. That’s why my palms are sweating and my chest is heaving and I’m clenching the sheet beside me on the bed so I don’t do something to him with these hands that I’ll never forgive myself for.
I nod, then gently push him aside as I stand up and walk to the bathroom. I shut the door behind me and lean against it, closing my eyes and silently repeating the mantra in my head that I’ve been repeating for weeks now.
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.
Ridge
After several minutes, she finally walks back into her bedroom. She smiles at me, walks to the bed, and picks up her phone.
Sydney: Sorry. I felt sick.
Me: You okay?
Sydney: Yeah. Just needed water, I guess. I love the lyrics, Ridge. They’re perfect. Do we need to run through them again, or can we call it a night?
I really would like to run through them again, but she looks tired. I’d also give anything to feel her sing them again, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I already beat up my conscience enough while I was writing the rest of the lyrics down. However, the fact that I was more than likely writing about her didn’t seem to stop me, because the only thing on my mind was the simple fact that I was actually writing. I haven’t been able to write lyrics in months, and in just a matter of minutes, it was as if a fog lifted and the words began to flow effortlessly. I would have kept going if I didn’t feel I’d already gone way too far.
Me: We’ll call it a night. I’m really happy with this one, Syd.
She smiles, and I pick up my guitar and head to my room.
I spend the next several minutes transferring her lyrics into the music program on my laptop, and filling in the guitar chords. Once it’s all entered, I hit send, close it out, and text Brennan.
Me: Just sent you a very rough draft with lyrics. I really want Sydney to hear this one, so if you have time this week to work up a rough acoustic, send it over. I think it’ll be good for her to finally be able to hear something she created come to life.
Brennan: Looking at it now. I hate to admit this, but I think you were right about her. She really was sent to earth just for us.
Me: Starting to seem that way.
Brennan: Give me an hour. Not busy, so I’ll see what we can work up.
An hour? He’s sending it tonight? I immediately text Sydney.
Me: Try not to fall asleep. I might have a little surprise for you after a while.
Sydney: Um, . . . okay?