Maybe Someday (Maybe #1)(87)

His eyes are searching mine, desperately trying to get across whatever it is he wishes he could say. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak, but then he closes it again. He releases my arms, then turns around and runs his hands through his hair. He grips the back of his neck, then kicks my bedroom door shut with a frustrated groan. He leans his forearm into the door and presses his forehead against it. I do nothing but stand still and watch him try to fight the war within himself. The same war I’ve been fighting.

He remains in the same position while he lifts his phone and responds to my text.

Ridge: That’s not a fair question.

Me: Yeah, well, you didn’t really put me in a fair situation by showing up here tonight.

He turns until his back is flat against my bedroom door. He brings two frustrated hands to his forehead, then lifts his leg at the knee and kicks the door behind him. Seeing him struggle with who he really wants is more pain than I’m willing to endure. I deserve more than he can give me right now, and his conflict is screwing with my heart. Screwing with my head. Everything with him is just too much.

Me: I want you to leave. I can’t be around you anymore. It terrifies me that you’re wishing I were her.

He hangs his head and stares at the floor for several moments while I continue to stare at him. He isn’t denying that he’d rather be with Maggie right now. He isn’t making excuses or telling me he could love me more than he loves her.

He’s completely quiet . . . because he knows I’m right.

Me: I need you to leave. Please. And if you really care about me, you won’t come back.

He slowly turns and faces me. His eyes lock with mine, and I’ve never seen more emotions flash through them than in this moment.

“No,” he says firmly.

He begins walking toward me, and I begin backing away from him. He’s shaking his head pleadingly. He reaches me just as my legs meet my bed, and then he grabs my face between his hands and presses his lips to mine.

I shake my head and push against his chest. He steps away from me and winces, looking even more frustrated with his inability to communicate with me. His eyes search the room for whatever will help him convince me I’m wrong, but I know nothing can help our situation. He just needs to realize this, too.

He looks down at my bed, then back at me. He grabs my hand and pulls me around to the side of the bed. He places his hands on my shoulders and pushes me down until I’m seated. I have no idea what he’s doing, so I don’t resist.

Yet.

He continues to lower me until I’m lying with my back flat on the bed. He stands straight up and removes his T-shirt. Before he even has it completely over his head, I’m already attempting to roll off the bed. If he thinks sex will fix our situation, he’s not as smart as I thought he was.

“No,” he says again when he sees me trying to escape.

The sheer conviction in his voice causes me to freeze, and I fall back against my mattress again. He kneels down on the bed, grabs a pillow, and lays it beside my head. He lies down next to me, and my whole body tenses from his close proximity. He picks up his phone.

Ridge: Listen to me, Sydney.

I stare at the text in anticipation of what he’ll type next. When I notice that he’s not even texting me a follow-up, I look at him. He shakes his head and pulls my phone from my hands, then tosses it beside him. He takes my hand and places it over his heart.

“Here,” he says, patting my hand. “Listen to me here.”

My chest tightens when I realize what he wants me to do. He pulls me to him, and I willingly allow it. He gently lowers my head to his heart as he adjusts himself beneath me and helps me get comfortable.

I relax against his chest, finding the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Beat, beat, pause.

Beat, beat, pause.

Beat, beat, pause.

It’s absolutely beautiful.

The way it sounds is beautiful.

The way it cares is beautiful.

The way it loves is beautiful.

He presses his lips to the top of my head.

I close my eyes . . . and I cry.





Ridge

I hold her against me for so long I’m not even sure if she’s awake. I still have so much I want to say to her, but I don’t want to move. I love the way she feels when we’re wrapped together like this. I’m afraid if I move, she’ll come to her senses again and ask me to leave.

It’s barely been three weeks since Maggie and I broke up. When Sydney asked if I’d take Maggie back, I didn’t answer, but only because I know she wouldn’t believe my answer.

I love Maggie, but I honestly don’t think Maggie and I are best for each other anymore. I know exactly where we went wrong. The beginning of our relationship was romantic to the point where it was almost fictionalized. We were nineteen years old. We barely knew each other. The way we waited for an entire year only built up feelings that weren’t based on anything except false hopes and idealized love.

By the time Maggie and I were finally able to be together, I think we were more in love with the idea of us, rather than with the actual us. Of course, I loved her. I still love her. But until I met Sydney, I had no idea how much my love for Maggie was built up from my desire to swoop in and save her.

Maggie was right. I’ve done nothing for the past five years but try to be the hero who protects her. The problem? Heroines don’t need protecting.