Maybe Someday (Maybe #1)(65)

Her bottom lip is quivering, so she tucks it into her mouth and bites it. “Sometime in the next ten or fifteen years, Ridge, that will be your reality. You are going to walk out of the hospital without me, because no matter how much you want to be my hero, I can’t be saved. You can’t save me from this. We both know you’re one of the few people I have in this world, so until the day comes when I can absolutely no longer take care of myself, I refuse to become your burden. Do you know what that does to me? To know that I’ve put that much pressure on you? I’m not living alone simply because I crave independence, Ridge. I want to live alone because . . .”

Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and she pauses to wipe them away. “I want to live alone because I just want to be the girl you’re in love with . . . for as long as we can draw that out. I don’t want to be your burden or your responsibility or your obligation. The only thing I want is to be the love of your life. That’s all. Please, just let that be enough for now. Let it be enough until the time comes when you really do have to go to the ends of the earth for me.”

A sob breaks free from my chest, and I reach forward and press my lips to hers. I grip her face desperately between my hands and lift my leg onto the bed. She wraps her arms around me as I pull the rest of my body on top of hers and do whatever I can to shield her from the unfairness of this evil, goddamned world.





Chapter Eighteen


Sydney

I close the door to Ridge’s car and follow Warren up the stairs toward the apartment. Neither of us said a word to each other on the drive home from the hospital. The rigidness in his jaw said all he needed to say, which was, more or less, Don’t speak to me. I spent the drive with my focus out the window and my questions lodged in my throat.

We walk into the apartment, and he tosses his keys onto the bar as I shut the door behind me. He doesn’t even turn around to look at me as he stalks off toward his bedroom.

“Good night,” I say. I might have said it with a little bit of sarcastic bite, but at least I’m not screaming, “Screw you, Warren!” which is kind of what I feel like saying.

He pauses, then turns around to face me. I watch him nervously, because whatever he’s about to say to me isn’t “good night.” His eyes narrow as he tilts his head, shaking it slowly. “Can I ask you a question?” he finally says, eyeing me with curiosity.

“As long as you promise never again to begin a question by asking whether or not you can propose a question.”

I want to laugh at my use of Ridge’s comment, but Warren doesn’t even crack a smile. It only makes things much more awkward. I shift on my feet. “What’s your question, Warren?” I say with a sigh.

He folds his arms over his chest and walks toward me. I swallow my nervousness as he leans forward to speak to me, barely a foot away. “Do you just need someone to fuck you?”

Breathe in, breathe out.

Expand, contract.

Beat beat, pause. Beat beat, pause.

“What?” I say, dumbfounded. I’m positive I didn’t hear him right.

He lowers his head a few inches until he’s at eye level with me. “Do you just need someone to fuck you?” he says, with more precise enunciation this time. “Because if that’s all it is, I’ll bend you over the couch right now and fuck you so hard you’ll never think about Ridge again.” He continues to stare at me, cold and heartless.

Think before you react, Sydney.

For several seconds, all I can do is shake my head in disbelief. Why would he say that? Why would he say something so disrespectful to me? This isn’t Warren. I don’t know who this asshole is standing in front of me, but it definitely isn’t Warren.

Before I allow myself time to think, I react. I pull my arm back, then make four punches my lifetime average as my fist meets his cheek.

Shit.

That hurt.

I look up at him, and his hand is covering his cheek. His eyes are wide, and he’s looking at me with more surprise than pain. He takes a step back, and I keep my eyes focused hard on his.

I grab my fist and pull it up to my chest, pissed that I’m going to have another hurt hand. I wait before going to the kitchen to get ice for it, though. I might need to hit him again.

I’m confused by his obvious anger toward me for the past twenty-four hours. My mind rushes through anything I could have said or done to him that would make him feel this much hatred toward me.

He sighs and tilts his head back, pulling his hands through his hair. He gives no explanation for his hateful words, and I try to understand them, but I can’t. I’ve done nothing to him to warrant something that harsh.

Maybe that’s his problem, though. Perhaps the fact that I’ve done nothing to him—or with him—is what’s pissing him off like this.

“Is this jealousy?” I ask. “Is that what’s making you this evil, wretched excuse for a human being? Because I never slept with you?”

He takes a step forward, and I immediately back up until I fall down onto the couch. He bends down, bringing himself to my eye level.

“I don’t want to screw you, Sydney. And I am definitely not jealous.” He pushes himself away from the couch. Away from me.

He’s scaring the living shit out of me, and I want to pack my suitcases and leave tonight and never, ever see any of these people again.