Maybe Someday

by Colleen Hoover

  He grabs the phone and puts it to his ear. “She has CFRD,” he yells hastily into the phone. “Stage two CF.”

  CFRD?

  I follow him to the bathroom and watch as he signs to Ridge while holding the phone in the palm of his hand, away from his ear. Ridge signs something back, and Warren runs into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, reaches toward the back of the second shelf, and pulls out a bag. He runs with it to the bathroom and drops to his knees next to Ridge. He lets the phone fall to the floor and shoves it aside with his knee.

  “Warren, she has questions!” I yell, confused about why he tossed the phone aside.

  “We know what to do until they get here, Syd,” he says. He pulls a syringe from the bag and hands it to Ridge. Ridge pulls the lid off of it and injects Maggie in the stomach.

  “Is she diabetic?” I ask, watching helplessly as Warren and Ridge silently converse. I’m ignored, but I don’t expect anything different. They’re in what looks like familiar territory for both of them, and I’m too confused to keep watching. I turn around and lean against the wall, then squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to calm myself. A few silent moments pass, and then there’s banging at the door.

  Warren is running toward the door before I can even react. He lets the paramedics inside, and I step out of the way, watching as everyone in the room around me seems to know what the hell is going on.

  I continue to back out of everyone’s way until my calves meet the couch, and I fall down onto it.

  They lift Maggie onto the gurney and begin pushing her toward the front door. Ridge walks swiftly behind them. Warren comes from Ridge’s bedroom and tosses him a pair of shoes. Ridge puts them on, then signs something else to Warren and slips out the door behind the gurney.

  I watch as Warren rushes to his room. He reemerges with a shirt and shoes on and his baseball cap in hand. He grabs his keys off the bar and heads back into Ridge’s bedroom. He comes back out with a bag of Ridge’s things and heads for the front door.

  “Wait!” I yell. Warren turns to look at me. “His phone. He’ll need his phone.” I rush to the bathroom, grab Ridge’s phone from the floor, and take it back to Warren.

  “I’m coming with you,” I say, slipping my foot into a shoe by the front door.

  “No, you’re not.”

  I look up at him, somewhat in shock at the harshness of his voice as I slip my other shoe on. He begins to pull the door shut on me, and I slap a palm against it.

  “I’m coming with you!” I say again, more determined this time.

  He turns and looks at me with hardened eyes. “He doesn’t need you there, Sydney.”

  I have no idea what he means by that, but his tone pisses me off. I push against his chest and step outside with him. “I’m coming,” I say with finality.

  I walk down the stairs just as the ambulance begins to pull away. Ridge is standing with his hands clasped behind his head, watching as it leaves. Warren makes it to the bottom of the stairs, and as soon as Ridge sees him, they both rush toward Ridge’s car. I follow them.

  Warren climbs into the driver’s seat, Ridge into the passenger seat. I open the door to the backseat and pull it shut behind me.

  Warren pulls out of the parking lot and speeds until we’re caught up to the ambulance.

  Ridge is terrified. I can see it in the way his arms are wrapped around himself and he’s shaking his knee, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt, chewing on the corner of his bottom lip.

  I still have no idea what’s wrong with Maggie, and I’m scared that she might not be okay. It still doesn’t feel like my business, and I’m definitely not about to ask Warren what’s going on.

  The nervousness seeping from Ridge is making my heart ache for him. I move to the edge of the backseat and reach forward, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. He lifts his hand to mine and grabs it, then squeezes it tightly.

  I want to help him, but I can’t. I don’t know how. All I can think about is how completely helpless I feel, how much he’s hurting, and how scared I am that he might lose Maggie, because it’s so painfully obvious how that would kill him.

  He brings his other hand up to mine, which is still gripping his shoulder. He squeezes both of his hands around mine desperately, then tilts his face toward his shoulder. He kisses the top of my hand, and I feel a tear fall against my skin.

  I close my eyes and press my forehead against the back of his seat, and I cry.

  • • •

  We’re in the waiting room.

  Well, Warren and I are in the waiting room. Ridge has been with Maggie since we arrived an hour ago, and Warren hasn’t spoken a single word to me.

  Which is why I’m not speaking to him. He obviously has an issue, and I’m not really in the mood to defend myself, because I’ve done absolutely nothing to Warren that should even require defending.

  I slouch back in my chair and pull up the search browser on my phone, curious to know about what Warren said to the 911 operator.

  I type CFRD into the search box and hit enter. My eyes are pulled to the very first result: Managing cystic fibrosis–related diabetes.

  I click on the link, and it explains the different types of diabetes but doesn’t explain much more. I’ve heard of cystic fibrosis but don’t know enough about it to know how it affects Maggie. I click a link on the left of the page that says, What is cystic fibrosis? My heart begins to pound and my tears are flowing as I take in the same words that stick out on every single page, no matter how many pages I click.

  Genetic disorder of the lungs.

  Life-threatening.

  Shortened life expectancy.

  No known cure.

  Survival rates into mid- and upper thirties.

  I can’t read any more through all the tears I’m crying for Maggie. For Ridge.

  I close the browser on my phone, and my eyes are pulled to my hand. I take in the unread words in Ridge’s handwriting across my palm.

  I need you to move out.

  Ridge

  Both Warren and Sydney spring to their feet when I round the corner to the waiting room.

  “How is she?” Warren signs.

  “Better. She’s awake now.”

  Warren nods, and Sydney is looking back and forth between us.

  “The doctor says the alcohol and dehydration probably caused her . . .” I stop signing, because Warren’s lips are pressed into a firm line as he watches my explanation.

  “Verbalize for her,” I sign, nodding my head toward Sydney.

  Warren turns and looks at Sydney, then refocuses his attention on me. “This doesn’t concern her,” he signs silently.

  What the hell is his problem?

  “She’s worried about Maggie, Warren. It does concern her. Now, verbalize what I’m saying for her.”

  Warren shakes his head. “She’s not here for Maggie, Ridge. She doesn’t care how Maggie’s doing. She’s only worried about you.”

  I bury my anger, then slowly step forward and stand directly in front of him. “Verbalize for her. Now.”

  Warren sighs but doesn’t turn toward Sydney. He stares straight at me as he both signs and verbalizes for us. “Ridge says Maggie’s okay. She’s awake.”

  Sydney’s entire body relaxes as her hands go to the back of her head and relief washes over her. She says something to him, and he closes his eyes, takes a quick breath, then opens them.

  “Sydney wants to know if either of you need anything. From the apartment.”

  I look at Sydney and shake my head. “They’re keeping her overnight to monitor her blood sugar. I’ll come by tomorrow if we need anything. I’m staying a few days at her house.”

  Warren verbalizes again, and Sydney nods.

  “You two head back and get some rest.”

  Warren nods. Sydney steps forward and gives me a tight hug, then backs away.

  Warren begins to turn toward the exit, but I grab his arm and make him look at me again. “I don’t know why you’re upset w
ith her, Warren, but please don’t be a jerk to her. I’ve done that enough already.”

  He nods, and they turn to leave. Sydney looks back over her shoulder and smiles a painful smile. I turn and walk back to Maggie’s room.

  The head of her bed is slightly raised now, and she looks up at me. There’s an IV drip in her arm, replenishing her fluids. Her head slowly rolls across her pillow as her eyes follow me across the room.

  “I’m sorry,” she signs.

  I shake my head, not even remotely wanting or needing any type of apology from her. “Stop. Don’t feel bad. Like you always say, you’re young. Young people do crazy things like get drunk and have hangovers and puke for twelve hours straight.”

  She laughs. “Yes, but like you always say, probably not young people with life-threatening conditions.”

  I smile as I reach her bed, then scoot a chair close to it and take a seat. “I’m going back to San Antonio with you. I’ll stay a few days until I feel better about leaving you alone.”

  She sighs and turns her head, looking straight up to the ceiling. “I’m fine. It was just an insulin issue.” She turns back to face me. “You can’t baby me every time this happens, Ridge.”

  My jaw clenches at “baby me.” “I’m not babying you, Maggie. I’m loving you. I’m taking care of you. There’s a difference.”

  She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m so tired of having this same conversation over and over.”

  Yeah. So am I.

  I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest while I stare at her. Her refusal of help has been understandable up to this point, but she’s not a teenager anymore, and I can’t understand why she won’t allow things to progress with us.

  I lean forward, touching her arm so she’ll look at me and listen. “You need to stop being so hell-bent and determined to have your independence. If you don’t take better care of yourself, these brief one-night hospital stays will be a thing of the past, Maggie. Let me take care of you. Let me be there for you. I constantly worry myself sick. Your internship is causing you so much stress, not to mention the thesis. I understand why you want to live a normal life and do all the things other people our age do, like go to college and have a career.” I pause to run my hands through my hair and focus on the point I want to make. “If we lived together, I could do so much more for you. Things would be easier for both of us. And when things like this happen, I’ll be there to help you so you don’t convulse alone on the bathroom floor until you die!”

  Breathe, Ridge.

  Okay, that was harsh. Way too harsh.

  I roll my neck and look down at the floor, because I’m not ready for her to respond yet. I close my eyes and try to hold back my frustration. “Maggie,” I sign, looking at her tear-soaked eyes. “I . . . love . . . you. And I am so scared that one of these days, I won’t be able to walk out of the hospital with you still in my arms. And it’ll be my own fault for allowing you to continue to refuse my help.”

  Her bottom lip is quivering, so she tucks it into her mouth and bites it. “Sometime in the next ten or fifteen years, Ridge, that will be your reality. You are going to walk out of the hospital without me, because no matter how much you want to be my hero, I can’t be saved. You can’t save me from this. We both know you’re one of the few people I have in this world, so until the day comes when I can absolutely no longer take care of myself, I refuse to become your burden. Do you know what that does to me? To know that I’ve put that much pressure on you? I’m not living alone simply because I crave independence, Ridge. I want to live alone because . . .”

  Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and she pauses to wipe them away. “I want to live alone because I just want to be the girl you’re in love with . . . for as long as we can draw that out. I don’t want to be your burden or your responsibility or your obligation. The only thing I want is to be the love of your life. That’s all. Please, just let that be enough for now. Let it be enough until the time comes when you really do have to go to the ends of the earth for me.”

  A sob breaks free from my chest, and I reach forward and press my lips to hers. I grip her face desperately between my hands and lift my leg onto the bed. She wraps her arms around me as I pull the rest of my body on top of hers and do whatever I can to shield her from the unfairness of this evil, goddamned world.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sydney

  I close the door to Ridge’s car and follow Warren up the stairs toward the apartment. Neither of us said a word to each other on the drive home from the hospital. The rigidness in his jaw said all he needed to say, which was, more or less, Don’t speak to me. I spent the drive with my focus out the window and my questions lodged in my throat.

  We walk into the apartment, and he tosses his keys onto the bar as I shut the door behind me. He doesn’t even turn around to look at me as he stalks off toward his bedroom.

  “Good night,” I say. I might have said it with a little bit of sarcastic bite, but at least I’m not screaming, “Screw you, Warren!” which is kind of what I feel like saying.

  He pauses, then turns around to face me. I watch him nervously, because whatever he’s about to say to me isn’t “good night.” His eyes narrow as he tilts his head, shaking it slowly. “Can I ask you a question?” he finally says, eyeing me with curiosity.

  “As long as you promise never again to begin a question by asking whether or not you can propose a question.”

  I want to laugh at my use of Ridge’s comment, but Warren doesn’t even crack a smile. It only makes things much more awkward. I shift on my feet. “What’s your question, Warren?” I say with a sigh.

  He folds his arms over his chest and walks toward me. I swallow my nervousness as he leans forward to speak to me, barely a foot away. “Do you just need someone to fuck you?”

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  Expand, contract.

  Beat beat, pause. Beat beat, pause.

  “What?” I say, dumbfounded. I’m positive I didn’t hear him right.

  He lowers his head a few inches until he’s at eye level with me. “Do you just need someone to fuck you?” he says, with more precise enunciation this time. “Because if that’s all it is, I’ll bend you over the couch right now and fuck you so hard you’ll never think about Ridge again.” He continues to stare at me, cold and heartless.

  Think before you react, Sydney.

  For several seconds, all I can do is shake my head in disbelief. Why would he say that? Why would he say something so disrespectful to me? This isn’t Warren. I don’t know who this asshole is standing in front of me, but it definitely isn’t Warren.

  Before I allow myself time to think, I react. I pull my arm back, then make four punches my lifetime average as my fist meets his cheek.

  Shit.

  That hurt.

  I look up at him, and his hand is covering his cheek. His eyes are wide, and he’s looking at me with more surprise than pain. He takes a step back, and I keep my eyes focused hard on his.

  I grab my fist and pull it up to my chest, pissed that I’m going to have another hurt hand. I wait before going to the kitchen to get ice for it, though. I might need to hit him again.

  I’m confused by his obvious anger toward me for the past twenty-four hours. My mind rushes through anything I could have said or done to him that would make him feel this much hatred toward me.

  He sighs and tilts his head back, pulling his hands through his hair. He gives no explanation for his hateful words, and I try to understand them, but I can’t. I’ve done nothing to him to warrant something that harsh.

  Maybe that’s his problem, though. Perhaps the fact that I’ve done nothing to him—or with him—is what’s pissing him off like this.

  “Is this jealousy?” I ask. “Is that what’s making you this evil, wretched excuse for a human being? Because I never slept with you?”

  He takes a step forward, and I immediately back up until I fall down onto the couch. He bends down, bringin
g himself to my eye level.

  “I don’t want to screw you, Sydney. And I am definitely not jealous.” He pushes himself away from the couch. Away from me.

  He’s scaring the living shit out of me, and I want to pack my suitcases and leave tonight and never, ever see any of these people again.

  I begin crying into my hands. I hear him sigh heavily, and he drops down onto the couch beside me. I pull my feet up and turn my knees away from him, curling into the far corner of the couch. We sit like this for several minutes, and I want to stand up and run to my room, but I don’t. I feel as if I’d have to ask permission, because I don’t even know if I have a room here anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally says, breaking the silence with something other than my crying. “God, I’m sorry. I just . . . I’m trying to understand what the hell you’re doing.”

  I wipe my face with my shirt and glance at him. His face is a jumbled mixture of sadness and sorrow, and I don’t understand anything he’s