Maybe Now (Maybe #2)

by Colleen Hoover

  My mother was a dramatic woman. Everything revolved around her, even when it wasn’t about her. She was the type of person who—when someone close to her would experience something bad in their lives—she would somehow relate it to her own life so that their tragedy could be her tragedy, too. Imagine what having a daughter with Cystic Fibrosis was like for her. It was her moment to soak up the sympathy—to make everyone feel sorry for her and the way her child turned out. My illness became more of a problem for her than it was for me.

  But it didn’t last long, because she took a temporary position with her company in Paris, France, when I was three. She left me with my grandparents because it was “too cold” for me there, and it would be “too difficult” learning to navigate a new country with a sick child in tow. My father was never a part of my life, so that wasn’t an option. But my mother always promised she would one day take me back to Paris to live with her.

  My grandparents had my mother at a very late age, and my mother had me in her late thirties. It was getting to the point that my grandparents could hardly care for themselves, much less a child. But my mother’s temporary position became permanent, and every year when she would come home to visit, she would promise me she’d take her back with me when the time was right. But her Christmas visits would always end on New Year’s Day, with her leaving to go back to Paris without me.

  Maybe she did have intentions of taking me back with her, but after spending two weeks with me at my grandparents’ every year at Christmas, she would be reminded of what a huge responsibility I would be in her life. I used to think it was because she didn’t love me, but I remember the year I turned nine, I figured out that my illness is what she didn’t love about me. It wasn’t me.

  I got the idea that if I could just convince her that I could take care of myself and that I didn’t need her help, she would take me with her and we could finally be together. In the weeks leading up to Christmas the year I turned nine, I was extremely cautious. I consumed all the vitamins I could get my hands on so that I wouldn’t catch a cold from my classmates. I used my vest twice as much as I was required to. I made sure I got eight hours of sleep every night. And even though Austin saw its first snow in years that winter, I refused to go outside to experience it because I was afraid I’d catch a cold and end up in the hospital during my mother’s visit.

  When she arrived the week before Christmas, I was very careful never to cough in front of her. I wouldn’t take my medications in front of her. I did everything I could to appear like a vibrant, healthy child so that she’d have no choice but to see me as the child she’d always wished I was and that she would take me back to Paris with her. But that didn’t happen because on Christmas morning, I overheard her and my grandmother having an argument. My grandmother was telling my mother that she wanted her to move back to the States. She said she was concerned about what would happen to me when they died of old age. “What will Maggie do when we’re gone if you’re not around to care for her? You need to come back to the States and develop a better relationship with her.”

  I will never forget the words my mother said to her in response.

  “You’re worried about things that may never happen, Mother. Maggie will more than likely succumb to her illness before either of you succumb to old age.”

  I was so shattered by her response to my grandmother that I ran back to my bedroom and refused to speak to her for the rest of her trip. In fact, that was the last time I ever spoke to her. She cut her trip short and left the day after Christmas.

  She sort of faded out of my life after that. She called my grandmother to check in every month or so, but she never came back for Christmas, because every year I told my grandmother I didn’t want to see her. Then, when I was fourteen, my mother passed away. She was traveling from France to Brussels on a train for a business trip and suffered a massive heart attack. No one on the train even noticed she had died until three stations past her stop.

  When I found out about her death, I went to my bedroom and cried. But I didn’t cry because she died. I cried because as dramatic as she was, she never made a dramatic attempt at winning my forgiveness. I think it’s because it was easier for her to live a life without me while I was mad at her than when I was missing her.

  Two years after her passing, my grandmother died. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. I still don’t think I’ve fully absorbed her passing. She loved me more than anyone had ever loved me, so when she died, I felt the absolute loss of that love.

  And now my grandfather—the last of the people who raised me—has been put on hospice due to recently declined health, coupled with a case of pneumonia he’s too weak to fight. My grandfather will pass away any day now, and because of my Cystic Fibrosis and the nature of his illness, I am not allowed to see him and tell him goodbye. He’ll likely die sometime this week, and just like my grandmother feared, they’ll all be gone and I’ll be all alone.

  I guess my mother was wrong about me succumbing to my illness before them. I’ll outlive them all.

  I know my experience with my mother hinders all my other relationships. It’s hard for me to fathom that someone else could love me despite my illness, when my own mother wasn’t even able to do that.

  Ridge did, though. He was in it with me for the long haul. But I guess that was the problem. Ridge and I wouldn’t have stayed together as long as we did if it weren’t for my illness. We were too different. So, I guess whatever end of the spectrum people are on—whether they are too selfish to take care of me or too selfless to stop—I’m going to resent them. Because for whatever reason, I seem to have lost a piece of myself to this illness.

  I wake up thinking about this illness. I spend my day thinking about it. I fall asleep thinking about it. I even have nightmares about it. As much as I claim that I am not my illness, somewhere along the way, it has consumed me.

  There are days I’m able to break out of this web, but there are more days that I’m not. It’s why I never wanted Ridge to move in with me. I can lie to myself and lie to him and say that it’s because I wanted to be independent, but in reality, it’s because I didn’t want him to see the dark side of me. The side that gives up more than it fights. The side that resents more than it appreciates. The side that wants to face all of this with dignity, when really, I can hardly even accept it with disdain.

  I’m sure everyone who fights to live on a daily basis has moments where they give up every now and again. But these aren’t just moments for me. Lately, they’ve become my norm.

  I wish I could go back to Tuesday. Tuesday was great. Tuesday, I woke up wanting to conquer the world. And by Tuesday night, I sort of had.

  But then Wednesday morning happened, when I overreacted and made Jake leave. Friday happened, when I finally swallowed my pride, but then ended up in the hospital, drowning in my own humiliation. Then Friday night happened, when I just wanted to forget the ups and downs of the past few days, but our fight was a new low for the week.

  And if Friday night was my low, Saturday morning was my rock bottom.

  Or maybe today is. I don’t know. I’d say they’ve been equal.

  I can’t even focus on school. I have two months left, and I sometimes think Ridge was right. I’ve worked so hard on my graduate degree in order to begin work on my doctorate, only to feel like I accomplished something. But maybe I should have put all my energy into something more worthwhile, like making friends and building an actual life for myself outside of school and my illness.

  I’ve worked at proving myself to no one but myself. In the end, it’s left me with nothing but a graduate degree that no one really cares about but me.

  I wish there was a magic pill that could get me out of this funk. I’m sure if Warren had his way, that magic pill would come in the form of an apology. He texted me this morning to let me know he was sorry for the stunt he pulled when he told Ridge I was upset, but then he scolded me for posting that picture of Ridge in my bed and told me I should apolog
ize.

  I didn’t respond to him, because I wasn’t in the mood for Righteous Warren this morning. I swear, every time there’s a wrinkle in a scenario, he pulls out his iron and tries to smooth everything, while burning us all in the process. He’s like a Sour Patch Kid. Sour and then sweet. Or sweet and then sour. There’s no in between with Warren. He’s completely transparent, and sometimes that’s not a good thing.

  But, I’ve never had to wonder what Warren is thinking, nor have I ever worried about hurting his feelings. He’s impenetrable, but I think because he’s impenetrable, he assumes everyone else is, too. As much as I can appreciate him, it’s not enough for me to respond to his texts from this morning with anything other than, Don’t want to talk about it yet. Text you tomorrow.

  I knew if I didn’t let him know I was okay, he’d show up at my front door to make sure nothing happened to me. Which is precisely why I texted him.

  But…I don’t think it worked. Because my doorbell is ringing. There’s only a small chance that it’s Warren, though. My bet is that it’s my landlord. Since I informed her a few months ago that I’d be moving back to Austin soon to start my doctorate, she’s brought me a loaf of banana bread every Sunday. I think she does it to make sure I’m still living here and that I haven’t destroyed the house, but whether it’s out of kindness or nosiness, I don’t really care. It’s damn good banana bread.

  I open the door and force a smile, but my smile falls flat. It’s not banana bread.

  It’s Sydney.

  I am so confused. I glance behind her and look to see if she’s here with Ridge, but Ridge isn’t behind her. Nor is his car in the driveway. I look at her.

  “It’s just me,” she says.

  Why would Sydney show up at my house alone? I look her up and down, taking in her casual jeans and T-shirt, her flip flops, her thick blond hair that’s pulled up into a ponytail. I don’t know why she’s here, but if any other girlfriend showed up at their boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s house, they wouldn’t show up looking this casual, even if it were just to borrow a cup of sugar. Women like making other women jealous. They especially like making the women who have slept with the men they’re in love with jealous. Most women would show up in their most flattering outfit with sculpted makeup and perfect hair.

  Seeing Sydney at my front door is jarring enough for me to want to close it in her face, but seeing that her goal has nothing to do with making me envious of her is enough for me to step back and wave her inside.

  There can only be one other reason she’s here.

  “Are you here about the Instagram post?” She must be. She’s never been here before. In fact, we haven’t spoken since the day I read all the messages between the two of them.

  Sydney shakes her head as her eyes dart around the living room, taking in my home. She doesn’t seem nervous, but she steps inside my house so cautiously that it makes her seem somewhat vulnerable. I wonder if Ridge knows she’s here. It’s not like him to allow his girlfriend to show up and fight his battles for him. And Sydney doesn’t seem like the type who would fight his battles.

  Which can only mean she’s here to fight her own battle.

  “Sorry to just show up like this,” she says. “I would have texted you first, but I was worried you would tell me not to come.”

  She’s right, but I don’t admit that out loud. I watch her for a moment and then turn and walk to my kitchen. “You want something to drink?” I ask, looking back at her.

  She nods. “Water would be nice.”

  I grab two bottles of water out of the refrigerator and motion her over to my dining room table. Something tells me this conversation is going to be more fitting for the table than a couch. We both take a seat across from each other. Sydney sets her phone and her keys beside her and opens the bottle of water. She takes a big swig and then puts the lid back on it, hugging the bottle to her as she leans forward on the table.

  “What are you doing here?” I don’t mean for my voice to sound so stiff, but this is all so weird.

  She licks her lips to moisten them, which makes me think she is nervous. “I’m here to apologize to you,” she says, matter-of-fact.

  I narrow my eyes, trying to make sense of this. I spend the night fighting with her boyfriend, then I post a picture on Instagram in a moment of selfish stupidity, yet she says she’s here to apologize to me? There must be a catch.

  “Apologize for what?”

  She blows out a quick breath but holds eye contact with me. “For kissing Ridge when I knew he was dating you. I never apologized to you. It was shitty of me and I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head, still confused why she drove all the way here for an apology I’m not even in need of. “I’ve never expected an apology from you, Sydney. You weren’t the one in a relationship with me. Ridge was.”

  Sydney’s mouth twitches a little, like she’s relieved I’m not full of rage, but she knows the situation doesn’t call for a smile of relief. She nods, instead. “Even still. You didn’t deserve what happened to you. I know what it feels like when someone you love betrays you. I once punched a girl in her face for sleeping with my boyfriend, and you didn’t even yell at me for falling in love with yours.”

  I appreciate that she recognizes as much. “It was hard for me to figure out who to be angry at after reading all the messages,” I admit. “You both seemed to try so hard to do the right thing. But from what Ridge told me about your last relationship, that experience was a lot different than what happened between you and Ridge. Your friend and boyfriend put your feelings last with their affair, but you and Ridge seemed to at least attempt to put my feelings first.”

  Sydney nods. “He cares about you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “He worries a lot. Even still.” She takes another sip from her water bottle.

  Her words fill me with even more regret over what happened between Ridge and me this weekend. Because I know he worries. And I feel like it’s my fault he still has to worry about me. Not only because I don’t take care of myself in all the ways he would like, but because I put this on him to begin with. I allowed a relationship to start up with him, knowing if we didn’t work out in the end, a part of him would always stay with me because that’s just the type of human he is. I’m not in a situation where he can choose to walk away from me completely and feel okay with that choice. Which must affect Sydney somehow, knowing she’ll never be rid of me until I make that final choice to cut my friendship off from Ridge completely. It’s just impossible to cut me out of his life entirely when we’ll still have a mutual friend.

  I lean forward and fold my arms over the table, tugging at my shirtsleeve while I look down at it. “Is that why you’re here?” I ask, looking up at her. “To tell me you want me out of the picture?”

  I expect her to nod now that I’ve pegged the reason she drove all the way from Austin. She needed to clear her conscience before asking me politely to never speak to Ridge again. But she doesn’t nod. She doesn’t shake her head. She just stares at me as if she’s trying to form an answer that won’t offend me.

  “Ridge will worry about you whether he’s an active part of your life or not. I’m here because I want to make sure you’re okay. And if you aren’t, I want to know what I can do to help get you there. Because if you’re okay, Ridge won’t worry as much. And then I won’t have to worry about Ridge.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not even sure if I should feel offended by it. She’s here—not because she’s worried about me—but because she’s worried about Ridge. Part of me wants to tell her to leave, but part of me is relieved she said that. Because if she pretended to be worried about me, I wouldn’t believe her. She’s a little like Warren in that respect—transparent to the point that it sometimes stings.

  Sydney blows out a heavy breath and then says, “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to put myself in your shoes. Telling myself what I would do differently if I were you.” She’s not looking at me as she speaks. She’s fid
geting with the label on her bottle of water, avoiding eye contact with me. “I tell myself that I would take better care of my health than you do. Or that I wouldn’t make irresponsible choices, like leaving a hospital before I’m discharged. But those things are easy for me to say because I’m not actually in your shoes. I can’t even fathom what you go through, Maggie. I don’t know what it’s like to have to take multiple medications every day, or to visit the doctor more than I visit my own parents. I don’t have to worry about germs every time I step foot out my front door or every time someone touches me. I don’t base my entire schedule around treatments I’m forced to give myself in order to simply take a breath. I don’t have to base every life decision I make on the chance that I’ll likely die sometime in the next decade. And I can’t sit here and assume that if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t fault Ridge for caring too much about me. Because the only thing that ties him to me is his love. There are no other factors tying him to me, so I can see why you would grow to resent that about him. He tried to protect you, but you just wanted him to ignore your illness so that you could ignore it, too.”

  She finally looks up from her water bottle, and I swear there are tears in her eyes. “I know I don’t know you very well at all,” she says. “But I do know that Ridge would not be as upset as he is if there weren’t a million qualities that he sees in you. I’m hoping one of those qualities is your ability to swallow your pride enough to realize that you should apologize to him for making him feel the way he felt after leaving your house Saturday. He deserves at least that much after how hard he’s loved you, Maggie.”

  She swipes at a tear. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I’m in shock, I think. I wasn’t expecting her to be here because she wants me to contact Ridge.

  “You may think you don’t need him, and maybe that’s true,” she adds. “Maybe you don’t. But Ridge needs you. He needs to know that you’re taken care of and that you’re safe, because if he doesn’t at least have that reassurance, his worry and guilt are going to eat at him. And to answer your question from earlier… No. I don’t want you out of the picture. This was your picture first. Yours and Warren’s and Ridge’s. But now that I’m a part of it, we all need to figure out how to fit in the frame.”