Maybe Someday

by Colleen Hoover

  staying with them is out of the question. I’m basically left with two options: Call my parents, or enter into some odd plural relationship with Hunter and Tori in order to save money.

  Neither option is one I’m willing to entertain tonight. I’m just thankful that Ridge allowed me to stay at his place. At least I’m saving money on a hotel room. I have no idea where I’ll go when I wake up in the morning, but that’s still a good twelve hours away. Until then, I’ll just continue to hate the entire universe while I feel sorry for myself.

  And what better way to feel sorry for myself than while getting drunk?

  I need alcohol. Bad.

  I walk to the kitchen and begin to scan the cabinets. I hear the door to Ridge’s bedroom open. I glance over my shoulder at him as he comes out of his room.

  His hair is definitely light brown. Take that, Tori.

  He’s in a faded T-shirt and jeans, and he’s barefoot, eyeing me inquisitively as he makes his way into the kitchen. I feel a little embarrassed for being caught rummaging through his cabinets, so I turn away from him before he sees me blush.

  “I need a drink,” I say. “You got any alcohol?”

  He’s staring down at his phone, texting again. He either can’t do two things at once, or he’s upset because I had an attitude with him today.

  “I’m sorry if I was a bitch to you, Ridge, but you have to admit, my response was a little justified considering the day I’ve had.”

  He casually slips his phone into his pocket and looks at me from across the bar, but he chooses not to respond to my half-assed apology. He purses his lips and cocks an eyebrow.

  I’d like to smack that cocky eyebrow back down where it belongs. What the hell is his problem? The worst thing I did to him was flip him off.

  I roll my eyes and shut the last cabinet, then walk back to the couch. He’s really being a jerk, considering my situation. From the little time I’ve known him, I was under the impression that he was actually a nice guy, but I’d almost rather go back to my own apartment with Tori and Hunter.

  I pick up my phone, expecting another text from Hunter, but it’s from Ridge.

  Ridge: If you aren’t going to look at me when you speak, you might want to stick to texting.

  I read the text several times, trying to make sense of it, but no matter how many times I read it, I don’t understand it. I grow concerned that maybe he’s a little weird and I need to leave. I look at him, and he’s watching me. He can see the confusion on my face, but he still doesn’t explain himself. Instead, he resumes texting. When my phone receives another message, I look at the screen.

  Ridge: I’m deaf, Sydney.

  Deaf?

  Oh.

  Wait. Deaf?

  But how? We’ve had so many conversations.

  The last few weeks of knowing him and talking to him flash through my memory, and I can’t recall a single time I’ve actually heard him speak.

  Is that why Bridgette thought I was deaf?

  I stare at my phone, sinking into a heap of embarrassment. I’m not sure how to feel about this. I’m sure that feeling betrayed isn’t a fair response, but I can’t help it. I feel I need to tack this onto the “Ways the world can betray Sydney on her birthday” list. Not only did he not tell me he knew my boyfriend was screwing around on me, but he also failed to mention that he’s deaf?

  Not that being deaf is something he should feel obliged to tell me. I just . . . I don’t know. I feel a little hurt that he didn’t share that fact with me.

  Me: Why didn’t you tell me you were deaf?

  Ridge: Why didn’t you tell me you could hear?

  I tilt my head as I read his text and flood with even more humiliation. He makes a very good point.

  Oh, well. At least he won’t hear me cry myself to sleep tonight.

  Me: Do you have any alcohol?

  Ridge reads my text and laughs, then nods. He walks to the cabinet below the sink and pulls out a container of Pine-Sol. He takes two glasses out of the cabinet, then proceeds to fill them with . . . cleaning liquid?

  “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

  When he doesn’t turn around, I slap myself in the forehead, remembering he can’t hear me. This will take some getting used to. I walk to where he’s standing. When he sets the Pine-Sol down on the counter and picks up both glasses, I grab the bottle of cleaning solution and read it, then arch an eyebrow. He laughs and hands me a glass. He sniffs his drink, then motions for me to do the same. I hesitantly bring it to my nose and am met with the burning scent of whiskey. He holds the glass out, clinks it to mine, and we both down our shots. I’m still recovering from the awful taste when he picks up his phone and texts me again.

  Ridge: Our other roommate has an issue with alcohol, so we have to hide it from him.

  Me: Is his issue that he hates it?

  Ridge: His issue is that he doesn’t like to pay for it himself and he drinks everyone else’s.

  I nod, set my phone back down, grab the container, and pour us each another shot. We repeat the motions, downing the second one. I grimace as the burn spreads its way down my throat and through my chest. I shake my head, then open my eyes.

  “Can you read lips?” I ask.

  He shrugs, then grabs a piece of paper and a pen conveniently placed on the counter next to him. Depends on the lips.

  I guess that makes sense. “Can you read mine?”

  He nods and takes the pen again. Mostly. I’ve learned to anticipate what people are going to say more than anything. I take most of my cues from body language and the situations I’m in.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, pushing on the counter with my palms and hopping up onto the bar. I’ve never met anyone who couldn’t hear before. I didn’t realize I was full of so many questions. It could be that I’m already feeling a buzz or I just don’t want him to go back to his room yet. I don’t want to be left alone to think about Hunter and Tori.

  Ridge sets the notepad down and picks up my phone, then tosses it to me. He pulls one of the bar stools out and sits on it next to where I’m seated on the counter.

  Ridge: If I’m at the store and a cashier speaks to me, I can mostly guess what they’re asking. Same thing with a waitress at a restaurant. It’s pretty simple to gather what people are saying when it’s a routine conversation.

  Me: But what about right now? This isn’t routine. I doubt you have many homeless girls spend the night on your couch, so how do you know what I’m saying?

  Ridge: Because you’re basically asking me the same questions as anyone else who initially finds out I can’t hear. It’s the same conversation, just different people.

  This comment bothers me, because I don’t want to seem like those kinds of people at all. It has to get old, having to field the same questions over and over.

  Me: Well, I don’t really want to know about it, then. Let’s change the subject.

  Ridge looks up at me and smiles.

  Damn. I don’t know if it’s the whiskey or the fact that I’ve been single for two hours, but that smile does some serious flirting with my stomach.

  Ridge: Let’s talk about music.

  “Okay,” I say with a nod.

  Ridge: I wanted to talk to you about this tonight. You know, before I ruined your life and all that. I want you to write lyrics for my band. For the songs I have written and maybe some future songs if you’re up for it.

  I pause before responding to him. My initial response is to ask him about his band, because I’ve been dying to see this guy perform. My second response is to ask him how the hell he can play a guitar if he can’t hear, but again, I don’t want to be one of “those people.” My third response is to automatically say no, because agreeing to give someone lyrics is a lot of pressure. Pressure I don’t really want right now, since my life has pretty much taken a nosedive today.

  I shake my head. “No. I don’t think I want to do that.”

  Ridge: We would pay you.

  That gets my att
ention. I suddenly feel an option three making its way into the picture.

  Me: What kind of pay are we talking about? I still think you’re insane for wanting me to help you write lyrics, but you may have caught me at a very desperate and destitute moment, being as though I’m homeless and could use some extra money.

  Ridge: Why do you keep referring to yourself as homeless? Do you not have a place to stay?

  Me: Well, I could stay with my parents, but that would mean I’d have to transfer schools my senior year, and it would put me about two semesters behind. I could also stay with my roommate, but I don’t know how much I’d like to hear her screwing my boyfriend of two years at night while I try to sleep.

  Ridge: You’re a smartass.

  Me: Yeah, I guess I’ve got that going for me.

  Ridge: You can stay here. We’re kind of in search of a fourth roommate. If it means you’ll help us with the songs, you can stay for free until you get back on your feet.

  I read the text twice, slowly. I shake my head.

  Ridge: Just until you can get your own place.

  Me: No. I don’t even know you. Besides, your Hooters girlfriend already hates me.

  Ridge laughs at that comment.

  Ridge: Bridgette is not my girlfriend. And she’s hardly ever here, so you don’t have to worry about her.

  Me: This is too weird.

  Ridge: What other option do you have? I saw you didn’t even have cab fare earlier. You’re pretty much at my mercy.

  Me: I have cab fare. I left my purse in my apartment, and I didn’t want to go back up to get it, so I didn’t have a way to pay the driver.

  Ridge frowns when he reads my text.

  Ridge: I’ll go with you to get it if you need it.

  I look up at him. “Are you sure?” I ask.

  He smiles and walks toward the front door, so I follow him.

  Ridge

  It’s still raining out, and I know she just put on dry clothes after her shower, so once we reach the bottom of the stairwell, I pull my phone out and text her.

  Me: Wait here so you don’t get wet again. I’ll go get it myself.

  She reads the text and shakes her head, then looks back up at me. “No. I’m going with you.”

  I can’t help but appreciate the fact that she doesn’t respond to my being deaf the way I expect her to. Most people become uneasy once they aren’t sure how to communicate with me. The majority of them raise their voices and talk slowly, sort of like Bridgette. I guess they think being louder will somehow miraculously make me hear again. However, it does nothing but force me to contain my laughter while they talk to me as if I’m an idiot. Granted, I know people don’t do it to be disrespectful. It’s just simple ignorance, and that’s fine. I’m so used to it I don’t even notice anymore.

  However, I did notice Sydney’s reaction . . . because there really wasn’t one. As soon as she found out, she just propped herself up on the counter and continued talking to me, even though she moved from speaking to texting. And it helps that she’s a fast texter.

  We run across the courtyard until we reach the base of the stairs that lead up to her apartment. I begin walking up and notice that she’s frozen at the bottom of the stairs. The look in her eyes is nervous, and I instantly feel bad for not realizing how hard this must be for her. I know she’s probably hurting a lot more than she’s letting on. Learning that your best friend and your boyfriend have betrayed you has to be difficult, and it hasn’t even been a day since she found out. I walk back down the stairs and grab her hand, then smile at her reassuringly. I tug on her hand; she takes a deep breath and walks with me up the stairs. She taps me on the shoulder before we reach her door, and I turn around.

  “Can I wait here?” she says. “I don’t want to see them.”

  I nod, relieved that her lips are easy to read.

  “But cow well you ass therefore my bird?” she says.

  Or I think that’s what she said. I laugh, knowing I more than likely completely misread her lips. She says it again when she sees the confusion on my face, but I still don’t understand her. I hold up my phone so she can text me.

  Sydney: But how will you ask them for my purse?

  Yeah. I was a little off on that one.

  Me: I’ll get your purse, Sydney. Wait here.

  She nods. I type out a text as I walk to the front door and knock. A minute passes, and no one comes to the door, so I knock again, with more force, thinking maybe my first knock was too soft to be heard. The doorknob turns, and Sydney’s friend appears in the doorway. She eyes me curiously for a second, then glances behind her. The door opens wider, and Hunter appears, eyeing me suspiciously. He says something that looks like “Can I help you?” I hold up the text that says I’m here for Sydney’s purse, and he looks down and reads it, then shakes his head.

  “Who the hell are you?” he says, apparently not liking the fact that I’m here on Sydney’s behalf. The girl disappears from the doorway, and he opens the door even farther, then folds his arms over his chest and glares at me. I motion to my ear and shake my head, letting him know that I can’t hear what he’s saying.

  He pauses, then throws his head back and laughs and disappears from the doorway. I glance to Sydney, who is standing nervously at the top of the stairs, watching me. Her face is pale, and I give her a wink, letting her know everything is okay. Hunter comes back, slaps a piece of paper against the door, and writes on it. He holds the paper up for me to read.

  Are you fucking her?

  Jesus, what a prick. I motion for the pen and paper, and he hands them to me. I write my response and hand it back to him. He looks down at the paper, and his jaw tightens. He crumples up the paper, drops it to the floor, and then, before I can react, his fist is coming at me.

  I accept the hit, knowing I should have been prepared for it. The girl reappears, and I can tell she’s screaming, although I have no idea whom she’s screaming at or what she’s saying. As soon as I take a step back from the doorway, Sydney is in front of me, rushing into the apartment. My eyes follow her as she runs down the hallway, disappears into a room, and comes back out clutching a purse. The girl steps in front of her and places her hands on Sydney’s shoulders, but Sydney pulls her arm back, makes a fist, and punches the girl in the face.

  Hunter tries to step in front of Sydney to block her from leaving, so I tap him on the shoulder. When he turns around, I punch him square in the nose, and he stumbles back. Sydney’s eyes go wide, and she looks back at me. I grab her hand and pull her out of the apartment, toward the stairs.

  Luckily, the rain has finally stopped, so we both break into a run back toward my apartment. I glance behind me a couple of times to make sure neither of them is following us. Once we make it back across the courtyard and up my stairs, I swing open the door and step aside so she can run in. I shut the door behind us and bend over, clasping my knees with my hands to catch my breath.

  What an asshole. I’m not sure what Sydney saw in him, but the fact that she dated him makes me question her judgment a little bit.

  I glance up at her, expecting to see her in tears, but instead, she’s laughing. She’s sitting on the floor, attempting to catch her breath, laughing hysterically. I can’t help but smile, seeing her reaction. And the fact that she punched that girl right in the face without a moment’s hesitation? I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s tougher than I first thought.

  She looks up at me and inhales a calming breath, then mouths the words thank you, while holding up her purse. She stands up and brushes the wet hair out of her face, then walks to the kitchen and opens a few drawers until she finds a dishtowel and pulls it out. She wets it under the faucet, turns around, and motions me over. When I reach her, I lean against the counter while she takes my chin and angles my face to the left. She presses the towel to my lip, and I wince. I didn’t even realize it was hurting until she touched it. She pulls the rag back, and there’s blood on it, so she rinses it under the faucet and puts it back up to my mo
uth. I notice that her own hand is red. I take it and inspect it. It’s already swelling.

  I pull the rag from her hand and wipe the rest of the blood off my face, then grab a ziplock bag out of the cabinet, go to the freezer, and fill it with ice. I take her hand and press the ice onto it, letting her know she needs to keep it there. I lean against the counter next to her and pull my phone out.

  Me: You hit her good. Your hand is already swelling.

  She texts me with one hand, keeping the ice on top of the other as she rests it on the counter.

  Sydney: It could be because that wasn’t the first time I’ve punched her today. Or it could also be swollen because you aren’t the first one to punch Hunter today.

  Me: Wow. I’m impressed. Or terrified. Is three punches your daily average?

  Sydney: Three punches is now my lifetime average.

  I laugh.

  She shrugs and sets her phone down, then pulls the ice off her hand and brings it back up to my mouth. “Your lip is swelling,” she says.

  My hands are clenching the countertop behind me. I become increasingly uneasy with how comfortable she is with all this. Thoughts of Maggie flash through my head, and I can’t help but wonder if she’d be okay with this scenario if she were to walk through the front door right now.