Maybe Not (Maybe #1.5)

by Colleen Hoover

And guess who’ll be falling asleep in Bridgette’s bed tonight?

  That’s right. Me.

  Both of those things are great, but not as great as this moment. Right now.

  We’re both seated on the couch, and she’s lying between my legs with her head on my chest. We’re watching a movie where the actors actually stay dressed for the entire film. But it’s not really important what film it is, because Bridgette’s cuddling with me.

  This is a first, and it’s incredible, and I love how she makes me appreciate such simple, mundane things.

  Both of us glance at the door when we hear a key being inserted into the lock. The door opens and Brennan walks in. I immediately sit up on the couch, because he’s supposed to be in Dallas tonight. He has a show tomorrow, and I’m positive I booked him a hotel for the right night.

  Bridgette sits up on the couch and looks at him. He smiles at her, but it’s a forced smile. He reaches for his back pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper. He holds it up. “This came today,” he says.

  Bridgette squeezes my hand and that’s when I realize he’s holding the test results. I’ve known Brennan long enough to know by his reaction that he’s not happy about the results. I just don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing for Bridgette.

  “Just tell me,” she whispers.

  Brennan looks down at his feet and then up to me. The look in his eyes is enough for Bridgette to know that she’s not any closer to figuring out who her real father is than she was a few months ago.

  She inhales a deep breath, and then stands up. She mutters a “thank you” to Brennan and begins heading toward her bedroom, but he grabs her by the arm and pulls her to him. He wraps his arms around her and gives her a hug, but in true Bridgette fashion, she doesn’t allow it to last more than two seconds. She begins to cry, and I know that Bridgette doesn’t want anyone to see her cry. She ducks her head and rushes to her room.

  Brennan tosses the paper on the counter and runs his hands through his hair. “This sucks, man,” he says. “I felt like she really needed it to be true, and instead, it just adds to all the shit she’s had to deal with her whole life.”

  I sigh and drop my head against the couch. “You sure about the results? There’s no way they could have messed up?”

  Brennan shakes his head. “She’s not his daughter. And in a way, I’m happy for her because who would want him for a dad? But I know she liked the idea of finally having a little bit of closure.”

  I stand up and squeeze the back of my neck. “I don’t think closure is the only thing she was hoping for.” I point to her bedroom. “I’m gonna go check on her,” I tell him. “Thanks for coming all this way to tell her.”

  Brennan nods, and I make my way into her bedroom. She’s curled up on the far side of her bed, facing opposite from the door.

  I’m not good at consoling, so I’m not sure what I can say to make her feel any better. Instead, I just climb onto the bed and scoot in behind her. I wrap my arm over her and grab her hand.

  We lie like this for several minutes, and I let her get all her tears out. When it doesn’t sound like she’s crying anymore, I press a kiss into her hair.

  “He would have been a horrible father, Bridgette.”

  She nods. “I know. I just . . .” She sucks in a rush of air. “I like it here. I feel like all of you accept me for who I am, and that’s never happened before. And now that Brennan knows I’m not his sister, what happens now? Do I just leave?”

  I squeeze her tighter, hating that she even thinks that’s an option. “Over my and Brody’s dead bodies. No way am I letting you go anywhere.”

  She laughs and wipes at her eyes. “You guys don’t have to be nice to me out of pity.”

  I roll her onto her back and shake my head in confusion. “Pity? This isn’t pity, Bridgette. I mean, yeah, I feel bad for you. Yeah, it might have been cool if you were their sister. But it doesn’t change anything. The only thing those test results would have changed is that you’d go from not knowing who your real father is to having one of the worst fathers in the world.” I kiss her on the forehead. “I don’t care whose sister you are, I love you the same.”

  Her eyes widen, and I can feel her body stiffen in my arms. I didn’t say I was falling in love this time.

  I just told her I loved her. Like, actively. And yes, those three words could probably make her flip out more than any other three words in the English language, but I can’t take it back. I won’t take it back. I love her, and I’ve loved her for months now and I’m tired of being too scared of her reaction to say it.

  She begins to shake her head. “Warren . . .”

  “I know,” I interject. “I said it. Get over it. I love you, Bridgette.”

  Her expression is void of any emotion right now. She’s absorbing it. She’s waiting to see how those words make her feel, because I’m not sure if she’s ever heard them before.

  Her jaw grows tense, and she places her hands against my chest. “You’re a liar,” she snaps, attempting to roll out from under me.

  Here we go again.

  I pull her back to the mattress while she attempts to squirm away. “You’re exhausting, you know that?” I roll her onto her back and she begins to nod, frantically.

  “That’s right, Warren. I’m exhausting. I’m mean. I always see the glass half empty, and if you think telling me you love me will make me nicer and less exhausting, you’re wrong. You can’t change me. Everyone wants to change me, but I am who I am, and if you think me telling you that I love you, too, will make me shit out unicorns and rainbows, you’re wrong. I hate unicorns and rainbows.”

  I drop my face to her neck and I start to laugh. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe you’re mine.” I kiss her on the cheek, and then I kiss her on the forehead, and then her nose and her chin and her other cheek. I look back at her eyes full of confusion.

  “I don’t want you to change, Bridgette. I’m not in love with who you could be, or who you used to be, or who the world says you should be. I’m in love with you. Right now. Just like this.”

  She’s still guarded and defensive, so I pull her closer to me and wrap my arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Stop,” I whisper in her ear. “Stop telling yourself that you aren’t lovable, because it’s pissing me off. I don’t care if you aren’t ready to admit how you really feel about me yet, but don’t you dare dismiss how I feel about you. Because I love you.” I kiss her on the side of the head, and I say it again. It feels so good to finally say it. “I love you, Bridgette.”

  She pulls away just enough for me to see her face. Her eyes are rimmed with tears.

  “Bridgette, I love you,” I say again, this time looking her straight in the eyes. I can feel her struggling internally. Part of her wants to enjoy this moment, and part of her is trying to hold up that last wall that still stands between us.

  “I love you,” I whisper again.

  One of the tears escapes from her eyes, and I’m afraid she’s about to break and push me away like she always does. I press my lips against hers, and I inhale deeply. I touch her cheek and wipe away her tear with my thumb.

  “You’re the most genuine person I know, Bridgette. So whether you think you deserve love or not, it doesn’t matter, because I can’t help it. I fell in love with you, and I’m not sorry for it.”

  Another tear falls from her eyes.

  A smile forms on her lips.

  A laugh escapes her mouth, and her chest begins to shake because she’s laughing and crying and kissing me. And I kiss her right back, crashing right through the last wall that stood between us.

  She wraps her hands in my hair and rolls me onto my back, still with her lips pressed to mine. I open my eyes and she backs away from my mouth, still smiling. She begins to shake her head in slow disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m in love with such a stupid, stupid asshole.”


  I’m not sure this sentence could mean more to any other man in the world.

  “I love you, Warren.”

  I can’t even tell her I love her back, because hearing those words come out of her mouth has left me completely speechless. But I don’t think she cares, because her lips are on mine so hard and fast, I wouldn’t be able to speak anyway.

  I’m in love with Bridgette.

  Bridgette is in love with me.

  All is finally right in the world.

  We continue to kiss while we remove each other’s clothes. Neither one of us is in control this time. She makes love to me at the same time I make love to her, and no one is in charge. No one is calling the shots. It’s completely equal now. She feels about me how I feel about her and when we’re finished, she whispers, “I love you, Warren.”

  And I say, “I love you, Bridgette.”

  And no one argues.

  She lies peacefully in my arms and doesn’t try to kick me out of her bed. Just the thought of having to go back to my room and sleep alone seems ridiculous and I’m not sure I ever want to sleep alone again.

  I stroke her arm with my fingers. “I have an idea,” I whisper against her hair.

  She shakes her head. “I’m not doing anal.”

  I laugh and pull back. “What? No. Not that. Not yet, anyway.” I push her off of me and sit up, pulling her to a seated position. I take both of her hands in mine, and I look her very seriously in the eyes. “I think we should move in together.”

  Her eyes widen in shock and she’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. “We already live together, dumbass. And we hardly have to pay rent. We’d be broke if we got our own place.”

  I dismiss her concerns with a shake of my head. “I don’t mean into a new apartment. Move into my bedroom with me. We’re together every night anyway.”

  She’s still shaking her head. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because,” I say to her, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s romantic.”

  “No, Warren, it’s dumb.”

  I fall back onto the bed, frustrated. She drops to my side and glares down at me. “Why would I want to move all my clothes into your tiny closet? That’s so stupid. I have way too much closet stuff.”

  “Fine,” I tell her. “You can keep all your clothes in your own closet, but move everything else into my room.”

  She drops her forehead to my chest. “I don’t have any other stuff. I have a bed. That’s it.”

  I tuck my finger under her chin and lift her eyes to mine. “Exactly. Move your bed to my room. We both have full-size beds. Putting them together would be like having a King, and we’d have more room to have sex, and when we’re finished you can roll over to your side of the bed and I can watch you sleep.”

  She considers my proposal for several quiet moments, and then smiles. “This is so dumb.”

  I sit up and pull her off the bed. “And romantic. Come on, get dressed. I’ll help you.”

  We put our clothes back on and begin tossing the blankets and pillows off her bed. We lift the mattress and begin scooting it out the door, into the living room, and toward my room. Ridge and Brennan are both sitting on the couch, staring at us.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Brennan asks.

  I press my hip against the mattress so I can sign back to them. “Bridgette and I are moving in together.”

  Ridge and Brennan look at each other, then back at me. “But . . . you already live together,” Brennan says.

  I dismiss them with a wave of my hand, and we finish moving Bridgette’s mattress next to mine. Once her bed is remade, she falls onto hers and I onto mine. We roll until we’re facing each other. She rests her head on her arm and sighs.

  “We’ve lived together for two minutes, and I’m already sick of your face.”

  I laugh. “I think you should move out. We got along so much better before this.”

  She flips me off, so I grab her hand and link my fingers through hers. “I need to ask you something else.”

  She falls onto her back. “So help me God, Warren, if you ask me to marry you I’ll cut your nuts off.”

  “I don’t want to marry you,” I say. “Yet. But . . .”

  I crawl over to her part of our home and lie next to her. “Will you go on a date with me?”

  She looks away from me and stares up at the ceiling. “Oh, my God,” she whispers. “We’ve never been on a date before?”

  “Not a real one.”

  She slaps a hand to her forehead. “I’m such a whore. I already moved in with you and we haven’t even been on a date?”

  “You’re not a whore,” I say to her with mock reassurance. “We haven’t even had sex . . . oh, wait.” I grimace. “You are such a whore. A huge, slutty whore who wants me to try anal with her tonight.”

  She laughs and shoves me in the chest.

  I shove her back.

  She shoves me harder.

  I push her until she’s at the edge of her bed.

  She lifts her legs to kick me.

  I kick her back, pushing her off the bed until she’s lying on the floor. After several quiet seconds, I scoot to the edge of the mattress and look down at her. She’s still lying flat on her back in the same position she landed.

  “You could give Brody a run for his money,” I tell her. She reaches up a hand to hit me, but I grab it and pull it to my mouth. I kiss the top of it and hold her hand while I lock eyes with her.

  She’s in an unusually agreeable mood right now, which leads me to believe that maybe . . . just maybe . . .

  “I have one more question, Bridgette.”

  She cocks an eyebrow and slowly shakes her head. “I’m not telling you the name of that porn.”

  I drop her hand and roll onto my back. “Fuck.”

  Maybe not.

  Acknowledgments

  A huge thank-you to so many people. First, my family. Without you I could never finish anything. To my publisher, Atria Books, and Judith Curr, for not saying no when I said, “I want to write a novella about Warren. And I want it to be a surprise!” A special thanks to my editor, Johanna Castillo, for being the absolute best! I say it with every book, but we really are a great team. To my brand-new publicist, Ariele, for being top-notch at her job. Yer er der berst, Erererl! And to my agent, Jane Dystel, and her team of amazing people. To Murphy and Stephanie for always keeping my head above water. And last but not least, my readers. Without you, none of the people just mentioned would have a job, including me. Your passion for reading gives us the ability to live our passion. For that, we ALL thank you!

  Enjoy an excerpt from Colleen Hoover’s Maybe Someday, the novel that inspired the characters in Maybe Not

  Copyright © 2014 Colleen Hoover

  All song lyrics displayed in this book written and owned by Griffin Peterson (ASCAP) © 2013 Griffin Peterson / Raymond Records, LLC—All rights reserved.

  prologue

  Sydney

  I just punched a girl in the face. Not just any girl. My best friend. My roommate.

  Well, as of five minutes ago, I guess I should call her my ex-roommate.

  Her nose began bleeding almost immediately, and for a second, I felt bad for hitting her. But then I remembered what a lying, betraying whore she is, and it made me want to punch her again. I would have if Hunter hadn’t prevented it by stepping between us.

  So instead, I punched him. I didn’t do any damage to him, unfortunately. Not like the damage I’d done to my hand.

  Punching someone hurts a lot worse than I imagined it would. Not that I spend an excessive amount of time imagining how it would feel to punch people. Although I am having that urge again as I stare down at my phone at the incoming text from Ridge. He’s another one I’d like to get even with. I know he technically has nothi
ng to do with my current predicament, but he could have given me a heads-up a little sooner. Therefore, I’d like to punch him, too.

  Ridge: Are you OK? Do u want to come up until the rain stops?

  Of course, I don’t want to come up. My fist hurts enough as it is, and if I went up to Ridge’s apartment, it would hurt a whole lot worse after I finished with him.

  I turn around and look up at his balcony. He’s leaning against his sliding-glass door; phone in hand, watching me. It’s almost dark, but the lights from the courtyard illuminate his face. His dark eyes lock with mine and the way his mouth curls up into a soft, regretful smile makes it hard to remember why I’m even upset with him in the first place. He runs a free hand through the hair hanging loosely over his forehead, revealing even more of the worry in his expression. Or maybe that’s a look of regret. As it should be.

  I decide not to reply and flip him off instead. He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, I tried, and then he goes back inside his apartment and slides his door shut.

  I put the phone back in my pocket before it gets wet, and I look around at the courtyard of the apartment complex where I’ve lived for two whole months. When we first moved in, the hot Texas summer was swallowing up the last traces of spring, but this courtyard seemed to somehow still cling to life. Vibrant blue and purple hydrangeas lined the walkways leading up to the staircases and the fountain affixed in the center of the courtyard.

  Now that summer has reached its most unattractive peak, the water in the fountain has long since evaporated. The hydrangeas are a sad, wilted reminder of the excitement I felt when Tori and I first moved in here. Looking at the courtyard now, defeated by the season, is an eerie parallel to how I feel at the moment. Defeated and sad.

  I’m sitting on the edge of the now empty cement fountain, my elbows propped up on the two suitcases that contain most of my belongings, waiting for a cab to pick me up. I have no idea where it’s going to take me, but I know I’d rather be anywhere except where I am right now. Which is, well, homeless.

  I could call my parents, but that would give them ammunition to start firing all the We told you so’s at me.