Maybe Someday

Chapter Six

Sydney

I continue to stare at the words in the notebook.

Is he right? Did I write them because that’s how I really feel?

I never give it much thought when I write lyrics, because I’ve always felt no one would read them, so it doesn’t matter what the meaning is behind the words. But now that I think about it, maybe the fact that I don’t give them much thought proves that they really are a reflection of how I feel. To me, lyrics are harder to write when you have to invent the feelings behind them. That’s when lyrics take a lot of thought, when they aren’t genuine.

Oh, wow. Ridge is absolutely right. I wrote these lyrics weeks ago, long before I knew about Hunter and Tori.

I lean back against the headboard and open my laptop again.

Me: Okay, you win.

Ridge: It’s not a competition. Just trying to help you see that maybe this breakup is exactly what you needed. I don’t know you very well, but based on the lyrics you wrote, I’m guessing you’ve been craving the chance to be on your own for a while now.

Me: Well you claim not to know me very well, but you seem to know me better than I know myself.

Ridge: I only know what you told me in those lyrics. Speaking of which, you feel like running through them? I was about to compile them with the music to send to Brennan and could use your ears. Pun intended.

I laugh and elbow him.

Me: Sure. What do I do?

He stands and picks up his guitar, then nods his head toward the balcony. I don’t want to go out on that balcony. I don’t care if I was ready to leave Hunter, I sure wasn’t ready to leave Tori. And being out there will be too much of a distraction.

I crinkle my nose and shake my head. He glances across the courtyard at my apartment, then pulls his lips into a tight, thin line and slowly nods his head in understanding. He walks over to the bed and sits on the mattress next to me.

Ridge: I want you to sing the lyrics while I play. I’ll watch you so I can make sure we’re on the same page with where they need to be placed on the sheet music.

Me: No. I’m not singing in front of you.

He huffs and rolls his eyes.

Ridge: Are you afraid I’ll laugh at how awful you sound? I can’t HEAR YOU, SYDNEY!

He’s smiling his irritating smile at me.

Me: Shut up. Fine.

He sets the phone down and begins playing the song. When the lyrics are supposed to come in, he looks up, and I freeze. Not because I’m nervous, though. I freeze because I’m doing that thing again where I’m holding my breath because seeing him play is just . . . he’s incredible.

He doesn’t miss a beat when I skip my intro. He just starts over from the beginning and plays the opening again. I shake myself out of my pathetic awe and begin singing the words. I would probably never be singing lyrics in front of anyone one-on-one like this, but it helps that he can’t hear me. He does stare pretty hard, though, which is a little unnerving.

He pauses after every stanza and makes notes on a page. I lean over and look at what he’s writing. He’s putting musical notes on blank sheet-music paper, along with the lyrics.

He points to one of the lines, then grabs his phone.

Ridge: What key do you sing this line in?

Me: B.

Ridge: Do you think it would sound better if you took it a little higher?

Me: I don’t know. I guess we could try.

He plays the second part of the song again, and I take his advice and sing in a higher key. Surprisingly, he’s right. It does sound better.

“How did you know that?” I ask.

He shrugs.

Ridge: I just do.

Me: But how? If you can’t hear, how do you know what sounds good and what doesn’t?

Ridge: I don’t need to hear it. I feel it.

I shake my head, not understanding. I can maybe understand how he’s taught himself to play a guitar. With enough practice and a good teacher and maybe a ton of studying, it’s possible for him to play as he does. But that doesn’t explain how he can know which key a voice should be in and especially which key sounds better.

Ridge: What’s wrong? You look confused.

Me: I AM confused. I don’t understand how you can differentiate between vibrations or however you say you feel it. I’m beginning to think you and Warren are trying to pull off the ultimate prank and you’re only pretending to be deaf.

Ridge laughs, then scoots back on the bed until his back meets the headboard. He sits up straight and holds his guitar to his side. He spreads his legs, then pats the empty spot between them.

What the hell? I hope my eyes aren’t open as wide as I think they are. There’s no way I’m sitting that close to him. I shake my head.

He rolls his eyes and picks up his phone.

Ridge: Come here. I want to show you how I feel it. Get over yourself, and stop thinking I’m trying to seduce you.

I hesitate a few more seconds, but the agitation on his face makes me think I’m being a little immature. I crawl forward, then turn around and carefully sit in front of him with my back to his chest but with several inches between us. He pulls the guitar in front of me and wraps his other arm around me until he’s holding it in position. He pulls it closer, which pushes me flush against him. Ridge reaches down to his side and picks up his phone.

Ridge: I’m going to play a chord, and I want you to tell me where you feel it.

I nod, and he brings his hand back to the guitar. He plays a chord and repeats it a few times, then pauses. I grab my phone.

Me: I felt it in your guitar.

He shakes his head and picks up his phone again.

Ridge: I know you felt it in the guitar, dummy. But where in your body did you feel it?

Me: Play it again.

I close my eyes this time and try to take this seriously. I’ve asked him how he feels it, and he’s trying to show me, so the least I can do is try to understand. He plays the chord a few times, and I’m really trying hard to concentrate, but I feel the vibration everywhere, especially in the guitar pressed against my chest.

Me: It’s hard for me, Ridge. It just feels like it’s everywhere.

He pushes me forward, and I scoot up. He sets the guitar down, stands up, and walks out of the bedroom. I wait for him, curious about what he’s doing. When he comes back, he’s holding something in his fist. He holds his fist out, so I hold up my palm.

Earplugs.

He slides in behind me, and I scoot back against his chest again, then put the earplugs in. I close my eyes and lean my head back against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around me and picks up his guitar, pulling it against my chest. I can feel his head rest lightly against mine, and the intimate way we’re seated suddenly registers. I’ve never sat like this with someone I wasn’t seriously dating.

It’s odd, because it seems so natural with him. Not at all as if he’s got anything other than music on his mind. I like that about him, because if I were pressed up against Warren like this, I’m positive his hands wouldn’t be on the guitar.

I can feel his arms moving slightly, so I know he’s playing, even though I can’t hear it. I concentrate on the vibration and focus all my attention on the movement inside my chest. When I’m able to pinpoint exactly where I feel it, I bring my hand to my chest and pat it. I can feel him nod his head, and then he continues playing.

I can still feel it in my chest, but it’s much lower this time. I move my hand down, and he nods again.

I pull away from him and turn around to face him.

“Wow.”

He lifts his shoulders and smiles shyly. It’s adorable.

Me: This is crazy. I still don’t understand how you can play an instrument like this, but I know how you feel it now.

He shrugs off my compliment, and I love how modest he is, because he clearly has more talent than anyone I’ve ever met.

“Wow,” I say again, shaking my head.

Ridge: Stop. I don’t like compliments. It’s awkward.

I set down my phone and we both move back to the laptops.

Me: Well, you shouldn’t be so impressive, then. I don’t think you realize what an incredible gift you have, Ridge. I know you say you work hard at it, but so do thousands of people who can hear, and they can’t put together songs like you can. I mean, I can maybe understand the whole guitar thing now that you’ve explained it, but what about the voices? How in the heck can you know what a voice sounds like and what key it needs to be in?

Ridge: Actually, I can’t differentiate the sounds of a voice. I’ve never felt a person sing the way I “listen” to a guitar. I can place vocals to a song and develop melodies because I’ve studied a lot of songs and have learned which keys match up to which notes, based on the written form of music. It doesn’t just come naturally. I work hard at this. I love the idea of music, and even though I can’t hear it, I’ve learned to understand and appreciate it in a different way. I’ve had to work harder at the melodies. There are times I’ll write a song, and Brennan will tell me we can’t use it because it either sounds too much like an existing song or it doesn’t actually sound good to hearing ears like I assumed it would.

He can downplay this all he wants, but I’m convinced I’m sitting next to a musical genius. I hate that he thinks his ability comes from working so hard at it. I mean, I’m sure it helps, because all talents have to be nurtured in order to excel, even for the gifted. But his talent is mind-blowing. It makes me hurt for him, knowing what he could do with his gift if he could hear.

Me: Can you hear anything? At all?

He shakes his head.

Ridge: I’ve worn hearing aids before, but they were more inconvenient than helpful. I have profound hearing loss, so they didn’t help at all when it came to hearing voices or my guitar. When I used them, I could tell there were noises, but I couldn’t decipher them. In all honesty, hearing aids were a constant reminder that I couldn’t hear. Without them, I don’t even think about it.

Me: What made you want to learn guitar, knowing you would never be able to hear it?

Ridge: Brennan. He wanted to learn when we were kids, so we learned together.

Me: The guy who used to live here? How long have you known him?

Ridge: 21 years. He’s my little brother.

Me: Is he in your band?

Ridge glances at me in confusion.

Ridge: Have I not told you about our band?

I shake my head.

Ridge: He’s the singer. He also plays guitar.

Me: When do you play next? I want to watch.

He laughs.

Ridge: I don’t play. It’s kind of complicated. Brennan insists that I have as much stake in the ownership of the band as he does because I write the majority of the music, which is why I refer to myself as being part of the band sometimes. I think it’s ridiculous, but he’s convinced we wouldn’t be where we are at this point without me, so I agree to it for now. But with the success I think he’s about to have, I’ll make him renegotiate eventually. I don’t like feeling as though I’m taking advantage of him.

Me: If he doesn’t feel that way, then you definitely shouldn’t feel that way. And why don’t you play with them?

Ridge: I have a few times. It’s kind of difficult, not being able to hear everything else going on with the band during a song, so I feel like I throw them off when I play with them. Besides, they’re on tour right now, and I can’t travel, so I’ve just been sending him the stuff I write.

Me: Why can’t you tour with them? Don’t you work from home?

Ridge: Other obligations. But next time they’re in Austin, I’ll take you.

I’ll take you. I think I like that part of his message a little too much.

Me: What’s the name of the band?

Ridge: Sounds of Cedar.

I slam my laptop shut and swing my eyes to his. “Shut up!” He nods, then reaches down and opens my laptop again.

Ridge: You’ve heard of us?

Me: Yes. Everyone on campus has heard of your band, considering they played almost every single weekend last year. Hunter loves you guys.

Ridge: Ah. Well, this is the first time I’ve ever wished we had one less fan. So you’ve seen Brennan play?

Me: I only went with Hunter once, and it was one of the last shows, but yes. I think I may have most of the songs on my phone, actually.

Ridge: Wow. Small world. We are close to a record deal. That’s why I’ve been stressing so much about these songs. And why you need to help me.

Me: OMG! I just realized I’m writing lyrics for SOUNDS OF CEDAR!!!

I slide my laptop over, then roll onto my stomach and squeal into the mattress while I kick my legs up and down.

Holy crap! This is too cool.

I compose myself, ignoring Ridge’s laughter, then sit up straight again and grab my laptop.

Me: So you wrote most of those songs?

He nods.

Me: Did you write the lyrics to the song “Something”?

He nods again. I seriously can’t believe this is happening right now. Knowing he wrote those lyrics and now I’m sitting here next to him is exciting me way too much.

Me: I’m about to listen to your song. Since you get to decipher my lyrics, it’s my turn to decipher yours.

Ridge: I wrote that song two years ago.

Me: Still. It came from you. From somewhere inside you, Ridge. ;)

He picks up a pillow and throws it at my head. I laugh and scroll through the music folder on my phone until I find the song, and I hit play.

SOMETHING

I keep on wondering why

I can’t say ’bye to you

And the only thing I can

think of is the truth

It’s hard to start over

Keep checkin’ that rearview, too

But something’s coming

Something right for you

Just wait a bit longer

You’ll find something you wanted

Something you needed

Something you want to have repeated

Oh, that feeling’s all right

You’ll find that if you listen

Between all the kissing

What made it work

Wound up missing

Oh, that seems about right

I guess I thought that we would

Always stay the same

And I can tell that you find

Somebody to blame

And I know in my heart,

In my mind, it’s all a game

Our hopes and wishes

Won’t relight the flame

Just wait a bit longer

You’ll find something you wanted

Something you needed

Something you want to have repeated

Oh, that feeling’s all right

You’ll find that if you listen

Between all the kissing

What made it work

Wound up missing

Oh, that seems about right

You don’t ever have to wonder

’Cause you will always know

That what we had was for sure

For sure

Now that thing is no more

No more

You’ll find what you wanted

You’ll find what you needed

You’ll find what you wanted

You’ll find what you needed

You’ll find what you needed

When the song ends, I sit back up on the bed. I would ask him about the lyrics and the meaning behind them right now, but I’m not sure I want to. I want to listen to it again without him watching me, because it’s really hard to concentrate when he’s staring at me. He’s resting his chin in his hands, casually watching me. I try to hide my grin, but it’s hard. I see a smile spread across his lips before he looks down at his phone.

Ridge: Why do I feel like you’re fangirling right now?

Probably because I am.

Me: I’m not fangirling. Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve witnessed how evil you can be with your revenge schemes, and I’ve been exposed to your severe alcoholism, so I’m not as enamored with you as I could be.

Ridge: My father was a severe alcoholic. Your jokes are a little off-putting.

I look up at him apologetically and with a hint of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I was kidding.”

Ridge: I’m kidding, too.

I kick him in the knee and glare at him.

Ridge: Well, sort of kidding. My father really is a raging alcoholic, but I don’t give a shit if you joke about it.

Me: I can’t now. You ruined the fun.

He laughs, and it’s followed by an awkward moment of silence. I grin and drop my eyes back to my phone.

Me: OMG. Can I have your autograph?

He rolls his eyes.

Me: Please? And can I have my picture taken with you? OMG, I’m in Ridge Lawson’s bed!

I’m laughing, but Ridge isn’t finding me amusing.

Me: Ridge Lawson, will you sign my boobs?

He puts his laptop down beside him, leans over to his nightstand and picks up a marker, then turns back to me.

I don’t really want his autograph. Surely he knows I’m kidding.

He pulls the lid off the marker, swiftly lunges across the bed, and knocks me onto my back, bringing the marker to my forehead.

He’s trying to sign my face?

I lift my legs and create a barrier with my knees as I try to force his hands away.

Dammit, he’s strong.

He puts one of my hands under his knee and locks my arm to the bed. His other arm grabs my arm that’s pushing his face away, and he pushes that hand to the bed, too. I’m screaming and laughing and trying to turn my face away from him, but every time I move, the marker moves over my face while he tries to sign his name.

I’m unable to overpower him, so I eventually sigh and hold my head still so he’ll stop drawing all over my face.

He hops up, puts the lid back on the marker, and smirks at me.

I reach over to my laptop.

Me: You are no longer my prank master. This has officially turned into a three-way war. Excuse me while I go Google my revenge.

I fold up my laptop and walk quietly out of the room while he laughs at me. As I head through the living room toward my bedroom, Warren glances at me. Twice.

“Should have stayed in here and watched porn with me,” he says, taking in the marker all over my face.

I ignore his comment. “Ridge and I just finished discussing TV rules,” I lie. “I get Thursdays.”

“No, you don’t,” Warren says. “Tomorrow is Thursday. I watch Thursday-night porn on Thursday.”

“Not anymore you don’t. Guess you should have asked about my television habits when you were interviewing me.”

He groans. “Fine. You can have Thursdays, but only if you wear that dress you had on earlier.”

I laugh. “I’m burning that dress.”

Ridge

“Why’d you give Sydney the TV tonight?” Warren signs. He drops onto the couch next to me. “You know I love Thursday night. I’m off work on Fridays.”

“I never talked to Sydney about TV nights.”

He glances toward Sydney’s bedroom door with a scowl on his face. “What a little liar. How did you meet her, anyway?”

“Music-related. She’s writing lyrics for the band.”

Warren’s eyes bulge, and he straightens up on the couch, turning to look at me as if I’ve just betrayed him.

“Don’t you think this is something your manager should know about?”

I laugh and sign back to him. “Good point. Hey, Warren, Sydney is officially writing lyrics for us.”

He frowns. “And don’t you think your manager should have discussed a financial arrangement with her? What percentage are we giving her?”

“We’re not. She feels guilty taking a percentage while she’s not paying rent, so we’re good for now.”

He’s standing now, glaring down at me. “How do you know you can trust her? And what if something happens with a song she helped write? What if it makes the cut on the album and she suddenly decides she wants a percentage? And why the hell aren’t you writing the lyrics anymore?”

I sigh. We’ve been over this so many times it’s making my head hurt. “I can’t. You know I can’t. It’s just for a little while, until I get over my block. And calm down, she’s agreed to sign over anything she helps with.”

He drops back onto the couch, frustrated. “Just don’t add any more people to our band without consulting me first, okay? I feel like I’m being shut out when you don’t include me.” He folds his arms across his chest and pouts.

“Is sweet little Warren pouting?” I lean forward and wrap my arms around him, and he tries to shove me off. I climb on top of him and kiss his cheek, and he starts hitting me in the arm, trying to pull away from my grasp. I laugh and let go of his face, then look up at Sydney, who just walked into the room. She’s staring at us. Warren slides his hand up my thigh and lays his head on my shoulder. I reach up and pat his cheek while we both stare up at her, straight-faced. She shakes her head slowly and walks back into her bedroom.

As soon as her bedroom door closes, we separate.

“I wish I hated Bridgette a little more than I do at night, because Sydney definitely needs me,” Warren signs.

I laugh, knowing Sydney is more than likely swearing off guys based on the week she’s had. “That girl doesn’t need anything other than the opportunity to be alone for a while.”

Warren shakes his head. “No, that girl definitely needs me. I wonder how I can pull off an elaborate prank that involves her agreeing to have sex with me.”

“Bridgette,” I remind him. I don’t know why I remind him. I never remind him about Bridgette when he talks about other girls.

“You’re a dream crusher,” he signs, falling back against the couch at the same moment I receive a text.

Sydney: Can I ask you a question?

Me: As long as you promise never again to start a question off with whether or not you can propose a question.

Sydney: Okay, asshole. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, but I’m curious. What did he write on that paper when we went to get my purse? And what did you write back that made him hit you?

Me: I agree that you shouldn’t be thinking about him at all, but I’m honestly shocked it’s taken you this long to ask me about it.

Sydney: Well?

Ugh. I hate writing it verbatim, but she wants to know, so . . .

Me: He wrote, “Are you fucking her?”

Sydney: OMG! What a prick!

Me: Yep.

Sydney: So what did you say back to him that made him punch you?

Me: I wrote, “Why do you think I’m here for her purse? I gave her a hundred for tonight, and now she owes me change.”

I reread the text, and I’m not so sure it sounds as funny as I thought it did.

My eyes dart up to her bedroom door, which is now swinging open. She runs into the living room, directly toward the couch. I don’t know if it’s the look on her face or the hands that are coming at me, but I immediately cover my head and duck behind Warren. He doesn’t really like being used as a human shield, though, so he jumps off the couch. She continues slapping at my arms until I’m curled up in a fetal position on the couch. I’m trying not to laugh, but she hits like a girl. This is nothing compared to what I saw her do to Tori.

She backs away, and I reluctantly uncover my head. She marches back to her room, and I watch as she slams her door.

Warren is now standing next to the couch with his hands on his hips. He looks at me, then looks back at Sydney’s door. He puts his palms up and shakes his head, then retreats into his bedroom.

I should probably apologize to her. It was just a joke, but I guess I can see how it would piss her off. I knock on her door a couple of times. She doesn’t open it, so I text her.

Me: Can I come in?

Sydney: That depends. Do you have any bills smaller than a hundred this time?

Me: It seemed funny at the time. I’m sorry.

A few seconds pass, and then her door opens and she steps aside. I raise my eyebrows and smile, attempting to look innocent. She shoots me a dirty look and walks back to her bed.

Sydney: It wasn’t what I would have wanted you to say, but I can see why you said it. He’s a jerk, and I probably would have wanted to piss him off in that moment, too.

Me: He is a jerk, but I probably should have responded differently. I’m sorry.

Sydney: Yes, you should have. Maybe instead of insinuating that I was a whore, you could have gone with “If I could only be so lucky.”

I laugh at her comment, then offer up another alternative answer.

Me: I could have gone with “Only when you’re being faithful to her. Which is never.”

Sydney: Or you could have said, “No, I’m not. I’m madly in love with Warren.”

At least she’s making jokes about it. I really do feel sort of bad for saying that to him, but it felt oddly appropriate at the time.

Me: We didn’t really get any work done last night. Are you in the mood to make beautiful music together?