11.
Sydney
Oh, God. He’s doing that thing again. The mesmerizing thing.
When I’ve seen him play his guitar like this in the past, it was before I knew he couldn’t hear himself play. I thought maybe he just played this way to get a different angle on the strings, but now I know he does it so he can feel the music better. I don’t know why, but knowing this makes me love watching him even more.
I should probably be working on the lyrics, but I watch him play the entire song without once opening his eyes. When he finishes, I quickly glance down to my notebook, because I know he’s about to open his eyes and look up at me. I pretend I’m writing, and he flips his guitar around the correct way, then leans back against my dresser and begins playing the song again.
I focus on the lyrics and think about what he said. Ridge was right. I wasn’t thinking about the fact that a guy would be singing them. I was focused on pouring my feelings onto paper. I close my eyes and try to picture Ridge singing the song.
I try to imagine what it would be like to be honest about what I’m feeling for him and use that to take the lyrics a little further. I open my eyes and cross out the first line of the song, then begin rewriting the first verse.
Watching him from here
Seeing something from so far away
Get a little closer every day
Thinking that I want to make it mine
I think the real reason I’m not able to write tonight is that every line that ends up on paper is about Ridge, and I know Ridge will be able to see through it. He pulled the lyrics out of the trash and already read through them, so he has to have an idea. Still . . . he’s here, wanting me to finish the song. I focus on the second verse and try to keep his advice in mind.
I’d run to him you if I could stand
But I can’t make that demand
What I want I can’t demand
Cuz what I want is you
I continue to go through the lyrics on the page, crossing out the old lines and changing them up as Ridge plays the song several times.
If I could be his, I would wait
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
The page becomes messy and hard to read, so I set it aside and open my notebook to rewrite everything. Ridge stops playing for a few minutes while I transfer everything onto the new page. When I look up at him, he points to the page, wanting to read what I’ve written. I nod.
He walks to the bed and sits next to me, leaning in toward me to read what I’ve got so far.
I’m extremely aware that he might see right through the lyrics and know they have more to do with him than with Hunter, which causes panic to course through my veins. He pulls the notebook closer to him, but it’s still on my lap. His shoulder is pressed to mine, and his face is so close he could probably feel my breath against his cheek . . . if I were breathing. I force my eyes to fall where his have, onto the lyrics rewritten across the page on my lap.
Trying to ignore the things you say
You turn to me
I turn away
Hurts to see you every day
Smell your perfume on my bed
Thoughts of you invade my head
Truths are written, never said
Ridge picks up the pen and marks through the last line, then tilts his head to face me. He points the pen at himself and makes a writing motion in the air, indicating that he wants to change something.
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 under the old line.
Hurts to see you every day
Cupid shut his eyes and shot me twice
Smell your perfume on my bed
Thoughts of you invade my head
Truths are written, never said
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
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.
Truths are written, never said
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 adding a final verse to the song, 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?
• • •
Forty-five minutes later, I get an e-mail with an attachment from Brennan that says, Rough cut, Maybe Someday. I open it on my phone, find a set of earbuds in the kitchen drawer, and head to Sydney’s room. She opens the door after I knock and lets me into her room. I walk over to sit on her bed and motion to the spot on the mattress beside me. She looks at me questioningly but walks to the bed. I hand her the earbuds and pat her pillow, so she lies down and places them in her ears. She continues to watch me warily, as if I’m about to pull an elaborate prank on her.
I scoot down next to her and prop myself up on my elbow, then hit play. I set the phone down between us and watch her.
A few seconds pass, and her head swings in my direction. An “Oh, my God” passes her lips, and she’s looking at me as if I’ve just given her the world.
And it feels pretty damn good.
She smiles and puts her hand over her mouth as her eyes fill with tears. She tilts her face back up to the ceiling, more than likely because she’s embarrassed by her emotional reaction. She shouldn’t be. It’s exactly what I was hoping to see.
I continue to watch her as she listens, and her face conveys a mixture of emotions. She smiles, then exhales, then closes her eyes. When the song ends, she looks at me and mouths, “Again.”
I smile and hit play on my phone again. I continue to watch her, but the second her lips begin moving and I realize she’s singing along to the song, my smile is washed away by a sudden emotion I didn’t expect to feel at all.
Jealousy.
Never in all my life and in all my years of living in a world of silence have I wanted to hear something as much as I want to hear her sing right now. I want to hear her so bad it physically hurts. The walls of my chest feel as if they’re closing in on my heart, and I don’t even realize that my hand has moved to her chest until she turns to me, startled. I shake my head, not wanting her to stop. She nods slightly, but the beat of her heart against my hand is increasing by the second. I can feel the vibration of her voice against my palm, but the material between my hand and her skin hinders my ability to feel her the way I want to. I move my hand upward, until it’s at the base of her throat, and then I slide it up even farther, until my fingers and palm are flush against her neck. I scoot closer to her so that my chest is pressed against her side, because the overwhelming need to hear her has completely taken over, and I don’t allow myself to think about where the invisible lines are drawn.
The vibration of her voice stops, and I feel her swallow as she looks up at me with the exact emotions that inspired most of the lines in this song.
Say it’s wrong, but baby, it feels right.
There’s no other way to describe how I feel. I know that the way I think about her and feel about her is wrong, but I struggle so much with how right it feels when I’m with her.
She’s no longer singing. My hand is still wrapped around her throat, and her face is tilted toward mine. I slide my hand a little higher until it’s grazing her jaw. I run my finger around the cord to the earbuds and pull them away from her. I return my fingers to her jaw, slowly slipping my hand behind her neck. My palm conforms so perfectly to the back of her head it’s as if my hands were made to hold her like this. I gently pull her toward me, and she turns her body slightly toward mine. Our chests meet, and it creates a force so powerful that every other part of me is demanding to be pressed against every other part of her.
