Maybe Someday (Maybe #1)(81)

? ? ?

My light flicks on. Seconds later, my shoulders are being violently shaken. I smile through the grogginess, knowing by Warren’s presence alone that I’ve got him right where I want him. I turn over and look up at him.

“Something wrong?” I sign.

“Where are they?”

“Where are what?”

“My condoms, Ridge. Where the hell did you hide my condoms?”

I knew that if stealing his keys didn’t work, then stealing his condoms would. I’m just glad he thought to put on shorts before leaving Bridgette in his bed and storming into my room.

“You want your condoms?” I sign. “Tell me where she lives.”

Warren runs his palms over his face, and from the looks of it, I think he’s groaning. “Forget it. I’ll go to the store and buy new ones.”

Before he turns to walk out of my room, I sit up on the bed. “How do you plan on driving to the store? I have your keys, remember?”

He pauses for a second, and then his face relaxes when he’s hit with a new epiphany. “I’ll take Bridgette’s car.”

“Good luck finding her keys.”

Warren stares at me hard for several seconds, then finally slumps his shoulders and turns toward my dresser. He grabs a pen and paper and writes something down, wads it up, and throws it at me. “Here’s her address, asshole. Now, give me my keys.”

I unfold the paper and double-check to make sure he actually wrote an address down. I reach behind my nightstand, and grab his box of condoms, and toss it to him.

“That should do you for now. I’ll tell you where your keys are after I confirm that this is really her address.”

Warren pulls one of the condoms out of the box and tosses it at me.

“Take this with you when you go, because that’s definitely her address.” He turns and leaves the room, and no sooner is he gone than I’m up and dressed and heading out the front door.

I don’t even know what time it is.

I don’t even care.





Chapter Twenty Three


Sydney

Sound triggers.

They happen a lot, but mostly when I hear certain songs. Especially songs Hunter and I both loved. If I listen to a song during a particularly depressing period, then hear it later on down the road, it brings back all the old feelings associated with that song. There are songs I used to love that now I absolutely refuse to listen to. They trigger memories and feelings I don’t want to experience again.

My text tone has become one of those sound triggers.

Namely, Ridge’s text tone. It’s very distinct, a snippet from the demo of our song “Maybe Someday.” I assigned it to him after I heard the song for the first time. I’d like to say that sound trigger is a negative one, but I’m not so sure it is. The kiss I experienced with him during the song certainly led to negative feelings of guilt, but the kiss itself still turns my heart into a hot mess just thinking about it. And I think about it a lot. Way more than I should.

In fact, I’m thinking about it right now as the snippet of our song pours from the speakers of my cell phone, indicating that I’m receiving a text.

From Ridge.

I honestly never expected to hear this sound again.

I roll over on my bed and stretch my arm to the nightstand, my now-trembling fingers grasping at my phone. Knowing that I’ve received a text from him has once again wreaked havoc with my organs, and they’ve forgotten how to function properly. I pull the phone to my chest and close my eyes, too nervous to read his words.

Beat, beat, pause.

Contract, expand.

Inhale, exhale.

I slowly open my eyes and hold up the phone, then unlock the screen.

Ridge: Are you home?

Am I home?

Why would he care if I were home? He doesn’t even know where I live. Besides, he made it pretty clear where his heart’s loyalty resided when he told me to move out three weeks ago.

But I am home, and despite my better judgment, I want him to know I’m home. I’m tempted to respond with my address and tell him to come find out for himself whether or not I’m home.

Instead, I go with something safer. Something less telling.

Me: Yes.

I pull the covers off and sit up on the edge of the bed, watching my phone, too afraid even to blink.

Ridge: You’re not answering the door. Am I at the wrong apartment?

Oh, God.

I hope he’s at the wrong apartment. Or maybe I hope he’s at the right apartment. I can’t really tell, because I’m happy he’s here, but I’m pissed off that he’s here.

These conflicting feelings are exhausting.

I stand and run out of my bedroom, straight to my front door. I peer through the peephole, and sure enough, he’s at my front door.

Me: You’re outside my door, so yeah. Right apartment.

I look out the peephole again after hitting send, and he’s standing with his palm flat against the door, staring at his phone. Seeing the pained expression on his face and knowing it derives from the battle his heart is going through makes me want to swing open the door and throw my arms around him. I close my eyes and press my forehead to the door in order to give myself time to think before making any rash decisions. My heart is being pulled toward him, and I can’t think of anything I want more right now than to open this door.