Maybe Now (Maybe #2)

by Colleen Hoover

  Ridge pulls his phone out and starts to text me. I go to my room and get my phone and then head back to the kitchen as I read his text.

  Ridge: I have no idea what’s been happening for the last ten minutes. No one signed a single word of any of that and it’s really hard to read lips when people are angry and moving around.

  My shoulders drop when I read his text. I feel bad that we all just excluded him while we argued around him.

  Sydney: To sum it up, Warren said you were innocent and he was guilty and Maggie was bitter and it was just a huge cluster-fuck of a slumber party.

  Ridge reads the texts and then shrugs a shoulder.

  Ridge: No matter the reason, I shouldn’t have been on Maggie’s bed without thinking about how that would make you feel. But for the record, I fell asleep during her treatment and then moved to the couch as soon as I woke up.

  Sydney: Well, it wasn’t soon enough. Because it bit you right in the ass.

  Ridge: Whoever said Karma is a bitch must have never met her. Because Karma is very friendly and she follows me around everywhere I go. Everywhere. All the time.

  I smile, but Ridge just looks so sad. I hate that we’re in the position to have to make up after another argument, and we haven’t even been together a week. I hope this isn’t any indication of how the rest of our relationship is going to go. Of course, the first argument was all his fault and he was being a tool. But this one…

  I don’t know. From what I gathered through Warren’s explanation, Ridge really is making a huge attempt at putting me first. It’s just hard when there are so many obstacles. Oh, man. Did I just refer to Maggie as an obstacle? She’s not an obstacle. Her recent behavior is the obstacle.

  Ridge: Can I please kiss you? I need to. So bad.

  I smile a little as I read his text. He must see it because he doesn’t even wait for me to look up and answer him. He just rushes toward me and lifts my face and then presses his mouth firmly to mine. He kisses me like he’s starved for me. It’s my favorite kind of kiss from him. It’s so desperate and mostly one-sided from him that the strength behind his kiss ends up forcing me backward. He continues kissing me until my back is against the living room wall. But as desperate as it is, it’s not a sensual kiss. It’s just full of need. A need to feel me and know I’m not upset. A need for reassurance. A need for forgiveness.

  After a good minute of him kissing me, he presses his forehead to mine. Still, even after I’ve let him kiss me, he seems distraught. I slide my hand up to his cheek and brush my thumb across it, bringing his eyes to mine.

  “Are you okay?”

  He inhales and then slowly exhales. He nods unconvincingly and then pulls me against him. I barely have time to wrap my arms around him when he bends down and slides an arm behind my knees and lifts me up. He carries me to the bedroom and lowers me to the bed.

  Whatever is still bothering him can wait, because his mouth is on mine again. But this time his kiss isn’t a need for my reassurance. It’s just a need for me. He pulls his shirt over his head and then stands up and slides off my pajama bottoms. Then he’s over me again, his tongue in my mouth, his hand sliding up my thigh, lifting my leg.

  I want to hear him. Since the moment I described how hot his noises were last night, I’ve been craving them all. I unzip his jeans and slip my hand inside, pulling him out and guiding him inside of me.

  His mouth is against my neck when I get his groan. It rumbles up his chest as he pushes into me, and then he sighs, softly, as he pulls out. He repeats the rhythm and I close my eyes. The entire time he makes love to me, I remain quiet and listen to the sensual sounds of Ridge.

  There are three things that produce such beautiful sounds, that countless poems have been written about them.

  Oceans, waterfalls, and rain.

  I’ve only been to the ocean once. Sounds of Cedar played a gig in Galveston two years ago and I joined them for the trip. The morning after the concert, I walked to the beach. I took my shoes off and sat down in the sand and watched the sun rise.

  I remember this feeling building inside me as I watched it. Almost like every negative emotion I’ve ever felt was evaporating with each new ray of sun that trickled out over the horizon.

  It was a feeling of complete and utter awe, like nothing I had ever experienced. And as I sat there, I realized I was in awe of something that occurs every single day, and has occurred every single day since the very first sunrise. And I thought to myself, “How can something be so magnificent when it isn’t even a thing of rarity?”

  The sun and its rise and fall is the most expected, dependable, and repetitive natural occurrence known to mankind. Yet, it is one of the few things that maintains a universal ability to render a man speechless.

  In that moment as I sat alone on the beach, my toes buried in the sand, my hands wrapped around my knees…I wondered, for the first time, if the sunrise made a sound. I was almost positive it didn’t. If it did, I was sure I would have read about it. And I was sure there would be more poetry about the sound of the sunrise than there is about oceans or waterfalls or rain.

  And then I wondered what that same sunrise must feel like to those who could hear the ocean as the sun broke itself free from the constraints of the horizon. If a soundless sunrise could mean so much to me, what must it mean to those who watch it as it’s accompanied by the roll of the water?

  I cried.

  I cried…because I was deaf.

  It’s one of the few times I’ve ever felt resentful about this part of me that has limited my life so significantly. And it’s the first and only time I’ve ever cried because of it. I still remember how I felt in that moment. I was angry. I was bitter. Upset that I had been cursed with this disability that hindered me in so many ways, even though most of my days were spent not even thinking about it.

  But that day—that moment—gutted me. I wanted to feel the complete effect of that sunrise. I wanted to absorb every call of the seagulls flying overhead. I wanted the sound of the waves to enter my ears and trickle down my chest until I could feel them thrashing around in my stomach.

  I cried because I felt sorry for myself. As soon as the sun had risen fully, I stood up and walked away from the beach, but I couldn’t walk away from that feeling. The bitterness followed me throughout the entire day.

  I haven’t been back to the ocean since.

  As I sit here with my hands pressed against the tile of the shower, the spray of the water beating down on my face, I can’t help but think about that feeling. And how, until that moment, I never truly understood what Maggie probably feels on a daily basis. Bitter and hurt that she was dealt a hand in life that she’s expected to accept with grace and ease.

  It’s easy for someone on the outside to look in and think that Maggie is being selfish. That she’s not thinking about anyone’s feelings but her own. Even I think that a lot of the time. But it wasn’t until that day on the beach two years ago that I truly understood her with every part of my being.

  My being deaf limits me very little. I’m still able to do every single other thing in the world besides hear.

  But Maggie is limited in countless ways. Ways that I can’t even fathom. My one bitter day on the beach alone when I truly felt the weight of my disability is probably how Maggie feels on a daily basis. Yet those on the outside of her illness would probably look at her pattern of behavior and say that she’s ungrateful. Selfish. Despicable, even.

  And they would be right. She is all those things. But the difference between Maggie and judgmental people who aren’t Maggie is that she has every right in the world to be all those things.

  Since the day I met her, she has been fiercely independent. She hates feeling as if she’s hindering the lives of those around her. She dreams of traveling the world, of taking risks, of doing all the things her illness tells her she can’t do. She wants to feel the stress of college and a career. She wants to revel in the independence the world doesn’t think she deserves. She wants to break
free of the chains that remind her of her illness.

  And every time I want to scold her or point out everything she’s doing wrong and all the ways she’s hindering her own longevity, I only need to think back on that moment at the beach. That moment that I would have done whatever it took to be able to hear everything I was feeling.

  I would have traded years of my life for just one minute of normalcy.

  That’s exactly what Maggie’s doing. She just wants a minute of normalcy. And the only way she gets those moments of normalcy are when she ignores the weight of her reality.

  If I could rewind the clock and start yesterday over again, I would do so many things differently. I would have included Sydney in that trip. I wouldn’t have allowed Maggie to leave the hospital. And I would have sat down with her and explained to her that I want to help her. I want to be there for her. But I can’t be there for her when she refuses to be there for herself.

  Instead, I allowed every pent-up negative thought I’ve never said spill out all at once. It was truthful, yes, but the delivery was hurtful. There are much better ways to share your truth than to force it on someone so hard it injures them.

  Maggie’s feelings were hurt. Her pride was bruised. And while it’s easy for me to say her actions warranted my reaction, it doesn’t mean I don’t regret that reaction.

  I’m trying not to think about it, but it’s consuming me. And I know the only thing that can alleviate everything I’m feeling is to talk to the one person in my life who understands my feelings more than anyone. But she’s also the last person I want to subject to a discussion about Maggie.

  I turn off the water in Sydney’s shower. I’ve been in here for over half an hour, but I’m trying hard to figure out how to suppress everything I’m feeling right now. Sydney deserves a night untainted by my past relationship. This week has been tough, and she deserves one night of near perfection, where she is my sole focus and I am hers.

  And I’m going to give her that.

  I walk out of her bathroom in just a towel. Not because I’m trying to distract her from the homework she’s currently doing on her bed, but because my pants are on her bedroom floor and I need them. When I drop the towel and pull on my jeans, she looks up from her homework with the tip of her pencil in her mouth, chewing on it with a grin.

  I smile back at her because I can’t help it. She pushes her books aside and pats the bed beside her. I sit down and lean back against the headboard. She slides her leg over me and straddles me, running her hands through my wet hair. She leans forward, kissing me on the forehead, and I’m not sure if she’s ever done that before. I close my eyes as she plants soft kisses all over my face. She ends with a soft peck against my lips.

  I just want to revel in this moment, so I pull her to me, not really interested in conversation or making out. I just want to hold her and keep my eyes closed and appreciate that she’s mine. And she allows it for all of two minutes, but one of the advantages she holds over me is being able to hear the sighs I forget I’m even releasing.

  This includes the heavy sigh that instantly causes her concern to resurface. She pulls back, holding my face with her hands. She narrows her eyes as if it’s a warning that I better not lie to her.

  “What is wrong with you? Be honest this time.”

  I’m not getting out of this without complete transparency. I slide my hands from her waist up to her shoulders. I squeeze them and then gently move her off me. “Laptops,” I tell her.

  We use our laptops for the serious conversations. The ones we know will require too much patience for signing or lip-reading or text. I walk to her living room and grab my laptop out of my bag. When I make it back to her room, she’s sitting against the headboard with her laptop, her eyes following me to my spot on the bed. I open up our messenger and begin the conversation.

  Ridge: For the record, I wanted to avoid this conversation tonight. But I’m not sure there’s a single emotion I can feel without you reading it.

  Sydney: You’re not as transparent as you seem to think you are.

  Ridge: I only feel transparent to you.

  Sydney: Well, let’s see if you’re right. I’m going to try and pinpoint what’s bothering you.

  Ridge: Okay. Are we taking bets? Because if you guess right, I’m taking you out on a date tonight. But if you guess wrong, you’re going on a date with me tonight.

  Sydney: ;) We’ve never been on a real date before.

  Ridge: You better guess either right or wrong then, or we won’t be going.

  Sydney: Okay. I’m gonna take a stab at it, then. I can tell by your body language that your mind is somewhere else tonight. And based on the past twenty-four hours you’ve had, I’m going to assume your mind is on Maggie.

  Ridge: I wish I could tell you you’re wrong. But you’re right. I just hope you know it’s completely innocent. I just can’t help but feel bad for everything I said to her.

  Sydney: Have you spoken to her since you left her house today?

  Ridge: She texted after I left and gave a two-sentence apology to both of us. But I didn’t respond. I was too angry to respond. Now I don’t know how to respond because I feel guilty, but also don’t feel like she deserves any kind of apology from me. That’s what confuses me. Why do I feel guilty if I don’t feel like apologizing for what I did?

  Sydney: Because. It bothers you that deep down inside, you know if you and Maggie were in any other situation, neither of you would speak again. You’re both so different. If it weren’t for her illness, the two of you probably would have ended your relationship long before y’all did. But that’s not the situation, so she’s probably having a hard time processing the fact that you’re only in her life because you have to be.

  I read her message and I feel the truth dig straight into my bones. Sydney is right. Maggie’s illness is the only reason we’re still connected. As much as I knew that, I haven’t wanted to admit that. But there’s me and there’s Maggie and we’re on opposite sides of the earth right now with this string called Cystic Fibrosis tying us together.

  Ridge: You’re right. But I wish you weren’t.

  Sydney: I’m sure she wishes it were different, too. How do you think that made her feel that you were at her house simply because you needed to be and not because you wanted to be?

  Ridge: I’m sure that made her feel resentful.

  Sydney: Exactly. And when people feel resentful, they act out. They say things they don’t mean.

  Ridge: Maybe so, but what was my excuse? I lashed out at her like I’ve never lashed out at anyone. And that’s why I can’t stop thinking about this situation, because I feel like I lost my patience with her.

  Sydney: It sounds like you did. But I don’t think you should regret it. Sometimes caring about someone means saying things you don’t want to say, but that need to be said.

  Ridge: Yeah. Maybe so.

  Sydney: Your heart is my favorite thing about you, Ridge.

  She really does love the side of me that Maggie never could. I think that’s why it just works with Sydney and me. I finally have someone who is in love with the entirety of me.

  Sydney: I won’t lie, though. Sometimes your heart scares me.

  Ridge: Why does it scare you?

  Sydney: Because. I worry that Maggie is spiraling downward. And I know you worry about that, too. I’m scared your guilt and your worry are going to force you to get back together with her, just so you can fix her.

  Ridge: Sydney…

  Sydney: Hey, we’re being uncomfortably honest right now.

  I look at her, completely dumbfounded by that response. She looks up at me with a hint of fear in her expression, like she thinks I might actually agree with that asinine concern.

  Ridge: Sydney, I would never leave you in order to fix her issues. I would be broken without you. Then who would fix me?

  She reads my message, and I watch as she reaches a hand up to her laptop screen and runs her thumb over my words. Then she highlights the sent
ence and copies it. She opens a Word document and pastes it below a bunch of other messages.

  I lean over to get a better view of her computer screen, but she hurries and closes out the Word program. I only got a half-second glance, but I could swear the title of the document said,

  “Things Ridge says.”

  Ridge: Did that document have my name in the title?

  Sydney: Maybe. Don’t worry about it.

  I glance down at her, and she’s trying to stifle a smile. I shake my head, almost certain I know what she just did.

  Ridge: Do you save things? Things I say to you? Like…you have an actual file of things I’ve said to you?

  Sydney: Shut up. You act like that’s weird. Lots of people have collections.

  Ridge: Yeah, of tangible things, like coins or taxidermies. I don’t think most people collect pieces of conversations.

  Sydney: Fuck off.

  I laugh and then highlight her sentence and copy it. I open a new Word file and paste it into the document, then save the file as, “Things Sydney says.”

  She shoves me in the shoulder. I close my laptop and then shut hers, and slide them both to the other side of her. I wrap my arm around her and rest my chin on her chest, looking up at her. “I love you.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Quick bean church.”

  I tilt my head. “Say that again. I’m pretty sure I misread your lips.”

  “Quit. Being. A. Jerk.”

  I grin at my bad lip-reading and then kiss her chest. Then her neck. Then I peck her on the lips and pull her off the bed. “Time for our date. Let’s get dressed.”

  She signs, “Where are we going?”