Maybe Now (Maybe #2)

by Colleen Hoover

  I love how I feel when I’m near her. Full of adrenaline, like I’m in the middle of a nighttime skydive. But even though I’m full of adrenaline and I’m touching her hair and she smiled at me when I walked in the door, I can see in her eyes that my chute is about to fail and I’m about to free fall alone with nothing ahead of me but an ugly impact.

  Her gaze flits away for a moment. She pulls her oxygen mask to her mouth and inhales a cycle of air. When she pulls it away, she forces another smile. “How old is your child?”

  I narrow my eyes, wondering how she knows that about me. But the quietness in the room reveals the answer. Everything happening outside this door can be heard very clearly.

  I pull my hand from her hair and lower it to her hand that’s resting on her pillow. I trace a soft circle around where the IV is taped to her skin. “He’s eleven.”

  She smiles again. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.”

  I shake my head. “It’s fine. I wasn’t trying to hide that I have a kid. I just didn’t know how to bring it up on a first date. I’m a little protective of him, so I feel like I should guard that part of my life until I’m positive it’s something I want to share.”

  Maggie nods in understanding, flipping her hand over. She lets me trace the skin on top of her wrist for a moment. She watches my fingers as they trickle over her palm, down her wrist, until they reach the IV. Then she looks back up at me again. “What’s his name?”

  “Justice.”

  “That’s a great name.”

  I smile. “He’s a great kid.”

  I continue touching her hand, but it’s quiet for a while. I don’t want to delve even deeper into this conversation because I know it’s going to go where I don’t want it to go. But at the same time, if I don’t keep talking, she might take the floor and begin to tell me, once again, why she doesn’t want any part of this.

  “His mother’s name is Chrissy,” I say, filling the void. “We started dating because we had a lot in common. We both wanted to go to med school. We had both been accepted to UT. But then I got her pregnant senior year. She gave birth to Justice a week before our high school graduation.”

  I stop tracing her skin and slide my fingers through hers. I love that she lets me. I love the feel of her hand wrapped around mine.

  “It’s impressive that the two of you had a newborn in high school and still somehow managed to become doctors.”

  I appreciate that she recognizes how hard that was for us. “There was a stretch during her pregnancy where I looked into other careers. Easier ones. But the first time I laid eyes on him, I knew that I never wanted him to think he was a hindrance to our lives in any way, simply because we had him so young. We did everything we could to make sure we stuck to our goals. It was a challenge, two teenagers trying to make it through pre-med with an infant. But Chrissy’s mom was—is—a lifesaver. We couldn’t have done it without her.”

  Maggie squeezes my hand a little when I finish talking. It’s gentle and sweet, like she’s silently saying, Good job. “What kind of father are you?”

  No one’s ever asked me to evaluate my own ability as a parent. I think about it for a moment and then answer the question with complete honesty. “An insecure one,” I admit. “With most jobs, you know right away if you’re going to be good at them or not. But with parenting, you don’t really know if you’re good at it until the child is grown. I’m constantly worried I’m doing everything wrong and there’s no way to know until it’s too late.”

  “I think your worry about whether you’re a good father is testament that you shouldn’t worry.”

  I shrug. “Maybe so. But even still, I worry. Always will.”

  There’s a moment of hesitation on her face when I mention how much I worry about him. I want to take it back. I don’t want her to think I have too much on my plate. I want her to think about right now and right now only. Not tomorrow or next week or next year. But she is. I can see it in the way she’s staring at me—wondering how she could possibly feel okay with fitting herself somewhere in my life. And I can see in the way she looks away from me and focuses on everything but me that she doesn’t see herself fitting in at all.

  She was already hesitant when she thought my biggest concern outside of work was if the weather was right for skydiving. And even though she showed up at my office today, ready to give it a chance, I can see that finding out about Justice has not only changed her mind, but filled her with even more resolve than she held as she was kicking me out of her house.

  I release her hand and bring mine back up to the side of her head, running my thumb over her cheek in order to bring her attention back to me. When she finally looks up at me, her mind is made up. I can see it in all the pieces of broken hope that are floating around in her eyes. It’s amazing how someone can convey so much in one look.

  I sigh, sliding my thumb over her lips. “Don’t ask me to leave.”

  Her eyebrows draw apart, and she looks absolutely torn between what she wants and what she knows she needs. “Jake,” she says. She doesn’t follow my name up with anything else. My name lingers in the air, heavy with weariness.

  Not only do I know I can’t change her mind, but I’m not sure I should even try to. As much as I want to see her again and as much as I want to get to know her better, it’s not fair of me to beg. She knows her situation better than anyone. She knows what she’s capable of and she knows what she wants her life to look like. I can’t argue all the reasons why she shouldn’t push me away, because I’m almost positive I’d have the same outlook if our roles were reversed.

  Maybe that’s why we’re both being so quiet. Because I understand her.

  The mood is thick in the room. It’s full of tension and attraction and disappointment. I try to imagine what it would be like to love her. Because if spending one night with her can fill a room with this much angst, I can only imagine that this is what the beginning of a maddening love would feel like.

  I’ve finally found someone I think could one day fill the void in my life, but to her, she feels that by being in my life, her absence would one day create a void. It’s ironic. Maddening.

  “Have you seen Dr. Kastner yet?”

  She nods, but doesn’t elaborate.

  “Has anything changed with your condition?”

  She shakes her head, and I can’t tell if she’s lying. She answers too quickly.

  “I’m fine. I probably need to rest, though.”

  She’s asking me to leave, but I want to tell her that even though I barely know her, I want to be here for her. I want to help her cross those last several items off her bucket list. I want to make sure she keeps living and doesn’t continue to focus on the fact that she may not have as much time as everyone else.

  But I say nothing, because who am I to assume she won’t have a completely fulfilled life if she doesn’t allow me to be a part of it? That’s something only a narcissist would think. The girl in front of me right now is the same girl who showed up alone to skydive for the first time this week. So, I will respect her choice and I will walk away for the exact same reason I was drawn to her in the first place. Because she’s an independent badass who doesn’t need me to fill a void. There are no voids in her life.

  And here I am wanting to selfishly beg her to fill mine.

  “You were on a roll with your bucket list,” I say. “Promise me you’ll knock off some more items.”

  She immediately begins to nod, and then a tear slips from her eye. She rolls her eyes like she’s embarrassed. “I can’t believe I’m crying. I barely know you.” She laughs, squeezing her eyes shut and opens them again. “I’m being so ridiculous.”

  I smile at her. “Nah. You’re crying because you know if your situation were different, you’d be falling for me right about now.”

  She lets out a sad laugh. “If my situation were different, I would have started that free fall back on Tuesday.”

  I can’t even follow that up with anything. I lift out of my cha
ir and lean forward to kiss her. She kisses me back, holding on to my face with both hands. When I pull back, I press my forehead to hers and close my eyes.

  “I almost wish I’d never met you.”

  She shakes her head. “Not me. I’m grateful I met you. You ended up fulfilling a third of my bucket list.”

  I lean away and smile at her, wishing more than anything that I was selfish enough to try to change her mind. But simply knowing the one day I spent with her meant something to her is enough for now. It has to be.

  I kiss her one last time. “I can stay until your family gets here.”

  Something changes in her expression. She hardens a little. She shakes her head and pulls her hands from my head. “I’ll be fine. You should go.”

  I nod, standing up. I don’t even know anything about her family. I know nothing about her parents, or whether she has brothers and sisters. I sort of don’t want to be here when they get here. I don’t want to meet the most important people in her life if I don’t have the chance to someday be one of them.

  I squeeze her hand one more time, looking down on her while trying to hide my regret. “I should have brought you a Twix.”

  She makes a confused face, but I don’t clarify. I step back, and she gives me a small wave. I wave back, but then I turn without saying goodbye. I walk out of the room as fast as I can.

  As someone who has craved the feeling of adrenaline my entire life, I haven’t always made the smartest decisions. Adrenaline makes you do stupid shit without putting too much thought into your actions.

  It was stupid of me at thirteen to crash my first dirt bike because I wanted to know what it felt like to break a bone.

  It was stupid of me at eighteen to have sex with Chrissy when we didn’t have a condom, simply because it felt thrilling and we ignorantly assumed we were immune to the consequences.

  It was stupid of me at twenty-three to jump backward off a cliff I wasn’t familiar with in Cancun, relishing in the buzz of not knowing if there were rocks beneath the surface of the water.

  And it would be stupid of me at twenty-nine to beg a girl to jump head-first into a situation that might end up being that maddening love I’ve been craving my whole life. When a person sinks into a love that deep, they don’t come back out of it, even when it ends. It’s like quicksand. You’re in it forever, no matter what.

  I think Maggie knows that. And I’m positive that’s why she’s pushing me away again.

  She wouldn’t push someone away so adamantly if she weren’t scared her death would also kill them. I can take that assumption with me as I go, at least. The assumption that she saw something in us that had enough potential that she felt the need to end it before we both sank.

  I’m at the sink straining pasta, watching Sydney walk around the kitchen and living room as she points at things and signs them. I correct her when she’s wrong, but she’s mostly been right. She points at the lamp and signs, “Lamp.” Then the couch. The pillow, the table, the window. She points at the towel on her head and signs, “Towel.”

  When I nod, she grins and then pulls the towel off her head. Her damp hair falls around her shoulders, and I’ve imagined more times than I’d like to admit what her hair smells like fresh out of the shower. I walk over to her and wrap my arms around her, pressing my face against her head so I can inhale the scent of her.

  Then I go back to the stove, leaving her standing in the living room, looking at me like I’m weird. I shrug as I pour the Alfredo sauce into the pan of noodles. Someone grips my shoulder from behind me, and I know immediately that it’s Warren. I glance at him.

  “Is there enough for me and Bridgette?”

  I don’t know why we didn’t do this at Sydney’s apartment. It’s a lot more peaceful over there for me, and I can’t even hear. I can only imagine how much more peaceful it is for Sydney.

  “There’s plenty,” I sign, realizing just how much I need to take Sydney out on a real date. I need to get her out of this apartment. I will tomorrow. I’ll take her on a twelve-hour date tomorrow. We’ll eat lunch and then go to the movies and then dinner and we won’t have to see Warren and Bridgette at all.

  I’m taking the garlic bread out of the stove when Sydney rushes to the bathroom. At first, it concerns me that she just ran to the bathroom, but then I remember our phones are still on the counter. She must have a phone call.

  She returns a moment later to the kitchen with her phone to her ear. She’s laughing as she talks to someone. Probably her mother.

  I want to meet her parents. Sydney hasn’t told me a whole lot about them, other than her father is a lawyer and her mother has always been a stay-at-home mom. But she doesn’t seem put out when she speaks to them. The only people I’ve met in her life are Hunter and Tori—and I’d like to forget I ever met them—but her family is different. They’re her people, so I want to know them, even if it’s to tell them they’ve raised an exceptional woman who I love with all my heart.

  Sydney smiles at me and signs, “Mom,” as she points to her phone. Then she slides my phone across the bar to me. I press the home button and see that I have a missed call and a voicemail. It’s rare that I get phone calls, because everyone who knows me knows I can’t answer the phone. I usually only receive text messages.

  I open my voicemail app to read the transcription, but it says, “Transcription not available.” I put my phone in my pocket and wait for Sydney to finish her phone call. I’ll just have her listen to the voicemail and let me know what it says.

  I turn off the stove and the oven and set plates out at the table, along with the pans of food. Warren and Bridgette both magically appear as soon as dinner is ready. They’re like clockwork. They disappear when it’s time to clean or pay bills, but show up every time there’s food to be eaten. If they ever move out, they’re both going to starve.

  Maybe I should move out. Let them have this apartment and see how fun it is having to pay bills on time. One of these days I will. I’ll move in with Sydney, but not yet. Not until I’ve met everyone in her family and not until she’s had the chance to live on her own for a while like she’s always wanted.

  Sydney ends her phone call and sits down at the table next to me. I slide my phone to her and point to the voicemail. “Can you listen to that?”

  She asked me earlier this afternoon to start signing everything I say to her, so I do. It’ll help her learn faster. I grab her plate as she listens to the voicemail, and I fill it with pasta. I throw a piece of garlic bread on it and set it in front of her, just as she pulls the phone away from her ear.

  She stares at the screen for a second and then looks at Warren before looking at me. I’ve never seen this look on her face before. I’m not sure how to read it. She looks hesitant, worried, and somehow sick, and I don’t like it.

  “What is it?”

  She slides my phone back to me and grabs the glass of water I made for her. “Maggie,” she says, forcing my heart to a stop. She says something else, but she doesn’t sign it and I’m not able to read her lips. I swing my eyes to Warren and he signs what Sydney just said.

  “It was the hospital. Maggie was admitted today.”

  Everything sort of just stops. I say sort of because Bridgette is still making her plate of food, ignoring everything happening. I glance at Sydney again, and she’s taking a drink of her water, avoiding my gaze. I look at Warren, and he’s staring at me like I should know what to do.

  I don’t know why he’s acting like it’s my choice to direct this scene. Maggie is his friend, too. I look at him expectantly and then say, “Call her.”

  Sydney looks at me, and I’m looking at her, and I have no fucking idea how to handle this situation. I don’t want to seem too worried, but there’s no way I can find out Maggie is in the hospital and not be worried. But I’m equally concerned about how this is making Sydney feel. I sigh and reach for Sydney’s hand under the table while I wait for Warren to get in touch with Maggie. Sydney slides her fingers through mine, but
then props her other arm on the table, covering her mouth with her hand. She turns her attention to Warren, just as he stands up and starts talking into the phone. I watch him and wait. Sydney watches him and waits. Bridgette scoops up a huge portion of pasta with her bread and takes a bite.

  Sydney’s leg is bouncing up and down. My pulse is pounding even faster than her leg. Warren’s conversation is dragging, taking what feels like forever to finish. I don’t know what is being said, but in the middle of the conversation, Sydney winces and then pulls her hand from mine and excuses herself from the table. I get up to follow her, just as Warren ends the call.

  Now I’m standing in the middle of the living room about to rush after Sydney, but Warren starts to sign. “She passed out at a doctor’s office today. They’re keeping her overnight.”

  I blow out a breath of relief. The hospitalizations for her diabetes are the best-case scenarios. It’s when she contracts a virus or a cold that it usually ends up taking weeks for her to recover.

  I can tell by the look on Warren’s face that he’s not finished speaking yet. There’s something he hasn’t said. Something he said to Maggie that upset Sydney enough for her to walk away. “What else?” I ask him.

  “She was crying,” he says. “She sounded…scared. But she wouldn’t tell me more than that. I told her we’re on our way.”

  Maggie wants us there.

  Maggie never wants us there. She always feels like she’s inconveniencing us.

  Something else must have happened.

  I cover my mouth with my hand, my thoughts frozen.

  I turn to walk toward my bedroom, but Sydney is standing in the doorway with her shoes on and her purse over her shoulder. She’s leaving.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not leaving because I’m mad. I just need to process all this.” She waves her hand flippantly around the room, then drops it to her side. She doesn’t leave, though. She simply stands there, confused.