Maybe Someday

by Colleen Hoover

  Ridge: Let’s do the whole song now. Sit up so I can watch you sing it. I want to make sure we have it perfect before I send it to Brennan.

  He starts playing the song, so I begin singing. He’s watching me closely, and the way his eyes seem to read my every movement makes me uneasy. Maybe it’s because he can’t express words through speaking, but everything else about him seems to make up for that.

  As easy as he is to read, it’s only that way when he wants to be read. Most of the time, he’s able to hold back his expressions, and I don’t know what the hell he’s thinking. He holds the crown in the nonverbal department. I’m pretty sure that with the looks he gives, if he could speak, he’d never even have to.

  I feel uncomfortable watching him watch me sing, so I close my eyes and try to recall the lyrics as he continues to play the song. It’s awkward singing them with him only a few feet away. When I wrote the lyrics the first time, he was playing his guitar but was a good two hundred yards away on his balcony. Still, though, as much as I tried to pretend I was writing them about Hunter at the time, I knew I was imagining Ridge singing them all along.

  A LITTLE BIT MORE

  Why don’t you let me

  Take you away

  We can live like you wanted

  From place to place

  I’ll be your home

  We can make our own

  ’Cause together makes it pretty hard to be alone

  We can have everything we ever wanted

  And just a little bit more

  Just a little bit more

  His guitar stops, so naturally, I stop. I open my eyes, and he’s watching me with one of his expressionless expressions.

  I take that back. This expression isn’t expressionless at all. He’s thinking. I can tell by the squint in his eyes that he’s coming up with an idea.

  He glances away in order to pick up his phone.

  Ridge: Do you mind if I try something?

  Me: As long as you promise never again to propose a question by asking if I mind if you can try something.

  Ridge: Nice try, but that made no sense.

  I laugh, then look up at him. I nod softly, scared of what he’s about to “try.” He sits up on his knees and leans forward, placing both hands on my shoulders. I attempt to hold in my gasp, but it’s a failed attempt. I don’t know what he’s doing or why he’s getting so close to me, but holy crap.

  Holy crap.

  Why is my heart spazzing out right now?

  He pushes me until I’m flat on his mattress. He reaches behind him and picks up his guitar, then lays it on the other side of me. He lies down next to me.

  Calm down, heart. Please. Ridge has supersonic senses, and he’ll feel you beating through the vibrations of the mattress.

  Ridge scoots closer to me and by the way he’s hesitating, it makes me think he’s unsure if I’ll allow him any closer.

  I will. I absolutely will.

  He’s staring at me now, contemplating his next move. I can tell he’s not about to make a pass at me. Whatever he’s about to do is making him way more apprehensive than if he were just planning to kiss me. He’s eyeing my neck and chest as if he’s searching for a particular part of me. His eyes stop on my abdomen, pause, then fall back to his phone.

  Oh, Lord. What is he about to do? Put his hands on me? Does he want to feel me sing this song? Feeling requires touching, and touching requires hands. His hands. Feeling me.

  Ridge: Do you trust me?

  Me: I don’t trust anyone anymore. My trust has been completely depleted this week.

  Ridge: Can you replenish your trust for about five minutes? I want to feel your voice.

  I inhale, then look at him—lying next to me—and I nod. He sets down his phone without breaking my gaze. He’s watching me as if he’s warning me to stay calm, but it’s having the exact opposite effect. I’m sort of panicked right now.

  He scoots closer and slides his arm under the back of my neck.

  Oh.

  Now he’s even closer.

  Now his face is hovering over mine. He reaches across my body and pulls the guitar flush against my side, bringing it closer to us. He’s still eyeing me with a look that seems intended to produce a calming effect.

  It doesn’t. It doesn’t calm me down at all.

  He lowers his head to my chest, then presses his cheek against my shirt.

  Oh, this is great. Now he definitely feels how spastic my heart is beating right now. I close my eyes and want to die of embarrassment, but I don’t have time for that, because he begins strumming the strings of the guitar next to me. I realize he’s playing with both hands, one from underneath my head and one over me. His head is against my chest, and I can feel his hair brush my neck. He’s pretty much sprawled across me in order to reach his guitar with both arms.

  Oh, my dear sweet baby Jesus in a wicker basket.

  How does he expect me to sing?

  I try to calm down by regulating my breathing, but it’s hard when we’re positioned like this. As usual when I miss an intro, he seamlessly starts the song over again from the beginning. When he reaches the point where I come in, I begin singing. Sort of. It’s really quiet, because I’m still waiting for air to find its way back into my lungs.

  After the first few lines, I find a steadiness to my voice. I close my eyes and do my best to imagine I’m simply sitting up on his bed right now the way I have been for the last hour.

  I’ll bring my suitcase

  You bring that old map

  We can live by the book

  Or we can never go back

  Feeling the breeze

  Never felt so right

  We’ll watch the stars

  Until they fade into light

  We can have everything we ever wanted

  And just a little bit more

  Just a little bit more

  He finishes the last chord but doesn’t move. His hands remain stilled on his guitar. His ear remains firmly pressed against my chest. My breaths are heavier now that I’ve just sung an entire song, and his head rises with each intake of air.

  He sighs a deep sigh, then lifts his head and rolls onto his back without making eye contact with me. We lie in silence for a few minutes. I’m not sure why he’s being so unresponsive, but I’m too nervous to make any sudden movements. His arm is still underneath me, and he’s making no effort to remove it, so I’m not even sure if he’s finished with this little experiment yet.

  I’m also not sure I’d even be able to move.

  Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. What are you doing?

  I absolutely, positively, do not want to be having this reaction right now. It’s been a week since I broke up with Hunter. The very last thing I want—or even need—is to develop a crush on this guy.

  However, I’m thinking that may have happened before this week.

  Crap.

  I tilt my head and look at him. He’s watching me, but I can’t tell what his face is trying to convey. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s thinking, Oh, hey, Sydney. Our mouths sure are close together. Let’s do them a favor and close this gap.

  His eyes drop to my mouth, and I’m incredibly impressed with my telepathic abilities. His full lips are slightly parted as he quietly takes in several slow, deep breaths.

  I can actually hear him breathing, which surprises me, because that’s another of his sounds that he keeps complete and total control over. I like that he can’t seem to control it right now. As much as I claim to want to be unattached from guys and independent and strong, the only thing I’m thinking is how much I wish he would take complete and total control over me. I want him to dominate this situation by rolling on top of me and forcing that incredible mouth onto mine, rendering me completely dependent on him for breath.

  My phone receives a text, interrupting my clearly overactive imagination. Ridge closes his eyes and turns to face the opposite direction. I sigh, knowing he didn’t even hear the text, so turning away was of his own accord. Wh
ich means I’m feeling pretty awkward right now for just having that rich internal dialogue sweep through my mind. I reach behind my head and feel around until I find my phone.

  Hunter: Are you ready to talk yet?

  I roll my eyes. Way to ruin the moment, Hunter. I was hoping that after days of avoiding his texts and phone calls, he would finally get a clue. I shake my head and text him back.

  Me: Your behavior is bordering on harassment. Stop contacting me. We’re done.

  Ridge

  Stop with the guilt trip, Ridge. You didn’t do anything wrong. You aren’t doing anything wrong. Your heart is beating like this simply because you’ve never felt anyone sing before. It was overwhelming. You had a normal reaction to an overwhelming event. That’s all.

  My eyes are still closed, and my arm is still underneath her. I should move it, but I’m still trying to recover.

  And I really want to hear another song.

  This might be making her uncomfortable, but I have to get her to push through her discomfort, because I can’t think of any other situation where I’ll be able to do this.

  Me: Can I play another one?

  She’s holding her phone, texting someone who’s not me. I wonder if she’s texting Hunter, but I don’t peek at her phone, as much as I want to.

  Sydney: Okay. The first one didn’t do anything for you?

  I laugh. I think it did a little too much, in more ways than I’d like to admit. I’m almost positive it was also obvious to her by the end of the song, with the way I was pressed against her. But feeling her voice and what it was doing to all the other parts of me was way more important than what she was doing to me.

  Me: I’ve never “listened” to anyone like that before. It was incredible. I don’t even know how to describe it. I mean, you were here, and you were the one singing, so I guess you don’t really need me to describe it. But I don’t know. I wish you could have felt that.

  Sydney: You’re welcome, I guess. I’m not really doing anything profound here.

  Me: I’ve always wanted to feel someone sing one of my songs, but it would be a little awkward doing this with one of the guys in the band. Know what I mean?

  She laughs, then nods.

  Me: I’ll play the one we practiced last night, and then I want to play this last one again. Are you okay? If you’re tired of singing, just tell me.

  Sydney: I’m good.

  She lays down her phone, and I reposition myself against her chest. My entire body is battling itself. My left brain is telling me this is somehow wrong, my right brain is wanting to hear her sing again, my stomach is nowhere to be found, and my heart is punching itself in the face with one arm and hugging itself with the other.

  I might never have this opportunity again, so I wrap my arm over her and begin playing. I close my eyes and search for the beat of her heart, which has slowed down some since the first song. The vibration of her voice meets my cheek, and I swear my heart flinches. She feels the way I imagined a voice would feel during a song but multiplied by a thousand. I focus on how her voice blends with the vibration of the guitar, and I’m in complete awe.

  I want to feel the range of her voice, but it’s hard without using my hands to feel it. I pull my hand away from the guitar and stop playing. Just like that, she stops singing. I shake my head no and motion a circle in the air with my finger, wanting her to keep singing even though I’m no longer playing the chords.

  Her voice picks back up, and I keep my ear pressed firmly to her chest while I lay my palm flat against her stomach. Her muscles clench beneath my hand, but she doesn’t stop singing. I can feel her voice everywhere. I can feel it in my head, in my chest, against my hand.

  I relax against her and listen to the sound of a voice for the very first time.

  • • •

  I wrap my arm around Maggie’s waist and pull her in closer. I can feel her struggling beneath me, so I pull her even tighter. I’m not ready for her to go home yet. Her hand smacks my forehead, and she’s lifting me off her chest as she attempts to wiggle out from beneath me.

  I roll onto my back to let her off the bed, but instead, she’s slapping my cheeks. I open my eyes and look up to see Sydney hovering over me. Her mouth is moving, but my vision is too fogged over to see what she’s trying to say. Not to mention that the strobe light isn’t helping.

  Wait. I don’t have a strobe light.

  I sit straight up on the bed. Sydney hands me my phone and begins to text me, but my phone is dead. Did we fall asleep?

  The lights. The lights are going on and off.

  I grab Sydney’s phone out of her hand and check the time: 8:15 A.M. I also read the text she just tried to send me.

  Sydney: Someone’s at your bedroom door.

  Warren wouldn’t be up this early on a Friday. It’s his day off.

  Friday.

  Maggie.

  SHIT!

  I hurriedly jump off the bed and grab Sydney’s wrists, then swing her to her feet. She looks shocked that I’m panicking, but she needs to get the hell back to her room. I open the bathroom door and motion for her to take that route. She walks into the bathroom, then turns and heads back into my bedroom. I grab her by the shoulders and force her back into the bathroom. She slaps my hands away and points into my bedroom.

  “I want my phone!” she says, pointing toward my bed. I retrieve her phone, but before I hand it to her, I type a text on it.

  Me: I’m sorry, but I think that’s Maggie. You can’t be in here, or she’ll get the wrong idea.

  I hand her the phone, and she reads the text, then looks back up at me. “Who’s Maggie?”

  Who’s Maggie? How the hell can she not remember . . .

  Oh.

  Is it possible I’ve never mentioned Maggie to her before?

  I grab her phone again.

  Me: My girlfriend.

  She looks at the text, and her jaw tightens. She slowly brings her eyes back to mine, and she snatches the phone out of my hand, grabs the doorknob, and steps back into the bathroom. The door closes in my face.

  So was not expecting that reaction.

  But I don’t have time to respond, because my light is still flickering. I head straight to the bedroom door and unlock it, then open it.

  Warren is standing in the doorway with his arm pressed against the frame. There’s no sign of Maggie.

  My panic instantly subsides as I walk backward and fall onto my bed. That could have been ugly. I glance up at Warren, because he’s obviously here for something.

  “Why aren’t you answering my texts?” he signs from the doorway.

  “My phone died.” I reach over to my phone and place it on the charging base on the nightstand.

  “But you never let your phone die.”

  “First time for everything,” I sign.

  He nods his head, but it’s an annoying, suspicious, You’re hiding something kind of nod.

  Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.

  “You’re hiding something,” he signs.

  Or maybe I’m not being paranoid.

  “And I just checked Sydney’s room.” He arches a suspicious brow. “She