Sydney
Me: What’s taking you so long? Are you writing a damn book?
I don’t know if my rubbing his shoulders is putting him to sleep, but he’s been staring at his phone for five solid minutes.
Ridge: Sorry. Lost in thought.
Me: I can see that. So, Sounds of Cedar?
Ridge: It’s kind of a long story. Let me grab my laptop.
I open up our Facebook messages on my phone. When he returns, he leans against a counter several feet away from me. I’m aware of the fact that he’s put space between us, and it makes me feel somewhat uncomfortable, because I know I shouldn’t have been rubbing his shoulders. It’s too much, considering what’s happened between us in the past, but I feel as if it’s my fault his shoulders hurt in the first place.
He doesn’t really complain about what playing on the floor is doing to him, but I can tell it hurts sometimes. Especially after nights like last night, when we wrote for three hours straight. I asked him to start playing on the floor to help with the fact that things seem to be more difficult when he’s on the bed. If I didn’t still have such a huge crush on his guitar playing, it might not be as big a problem.
But I do still have a definite crush on his guitar playing. And I would say I have a definite crush on him, but crush doesn’t even begin to define it. I’m not even going to try to define how I feel about him, because I refuse to let my thoughts go there. Not now and not ever.
Ridge: We had all been playing together for fun for about six months before we got our first real gig at a local restaurant. They needed us to give them the name of our band so they could put us on the schedule. We had never really considered ourselves an actual band before that, since it was all in fun, but that night, we agreed that maybe for local things like the restaurant, it would be good to have a name. We all took turns throwing out suggestions, but we couldn’t seem to agree on anything. At one point, Brennan suggested we call ourselves Freak Frogs. I laughed. I told him it sounded like a punk band, that we needed a title with more of an acoustic sound. He got upset and said I shouldn’t really be allowed to comment on how music or titles sound, since, well, yay for lame deaf jokes from sixteen-year-old little brothers.
Anyway, Warren didn’t like how cocky Brennan was back then, so he said I should choose the name and everyone had to agree on it. Brennan got pissed and walked off, said he didn’t want to be in the band anyway. I knew he was just having a Brennan tantrum. He didn’t have them often, but when he did have them, I understood. I mean, the kid had virtually no parents, and he was raising himself, so I thought he was pretty damn mature despite the sporadic tantrums. I told the guys I wanted to think on it for a while. I tried to come up with names that I thought would mean something to everyone, but mostly to Brennan. I thought back on what got me into listening to music in the first place.
Brennan was around two years old, and I was five. I’ve already shared to you all the qualities my parents possessed, so I won’t go back into that. But in addition to all their addictions, they also liked to party. They would send us to our rooms at night once all their friends began to arrive. I noticed that Brennan was always wearing the same diapers when he woke up that he wore to bed. They never checked on him. Never fed him at night or changed him or even checked to see if he was breathing. This is probably something that had been occurring since he was an infant, but I didn’t really notice until I started school, because I think I was just too young. We weren’t allowed to leave our rooms at night. I don’t remember why I was too scared to leave my room, but I’m sure I’d been punished for it before, or it wouldn’t have bothered me. I would wait until the parties were over and my parents went to bed before I could leave my room and go check on Brennan. The problem with this was that I couldn’t hear, so I never knew when the music would stop, and I never knew if they had gone to their bedroom, because I wasn’t allowed to open my door. Instead of risking being caught, I would just press my ear to the floor and feel the vibrations of the music. Every night, I would lie there for no telling how long, just waiting for the music to stop. I began to recognize the songs based on how they felt through the floor, and I learned how to predict which songs were coming next, since they played the same albums night after night. I even began to learn how to tap along with the rhythm.
After the music would finally stop, I would keep my ear pressed to the floor and wait for my parents’ footsteps to indicate that they had gone to their bedroom. Once I knew the coast was clear, I would go to Brennan’s room and bring him back to bed with me. That way, when he woke up crying, I could help him. Which brings me back to the point of this story, how I came up with the band name. I learned how to differentiate chords and sounds through all the nights my body and my ears were pressed against the cedar floor. Hence Sounds of Cedar.
Inhale, exhale.
Beat, beat, pause.
Contract, expand.
I don’t even realize how on edge I am until I see the white in my knuckles as I grip my phone. We both remain still for several moments while I attempt to get the image of the five-year-old Ridge out of my head.
It’s gut-wrenching.
Me: I guess that explains how you can differentiate vibrations so well. And I guess Brennan agreed once you told him the name, because how could he not appreciate that?
Ridge: Brennan doesn’t know that story. Once again, you’re the first person I’ve ever shared it with.
I lift my eyes back to his and inhale, but for the life of me, I can’t remember how to exhale. He’s a good three feet away, but I feel as if every single part of me that his eyes fall on is being directly touched by him. For the first time in a while, the fear etches its way back into my heart. Fear that one of these moments will be one neither of us can resist. He sets his laptop on the counter and folds his arms across his chest.
Before his eyes meet mine, his gaze falls on my legs, and then he slowly works his eyes up the entire length of my body. His eyes are narrow and focused. The way he’s looking at me makes me want to lunge for the freezer and crawl inside.
His eyes are fixed on my mouth, and he quietly swallows, then reaches beside him and picks up his phone.
Ridge: Hurry, Syd. I need a serious flaw, and I need it now.
I force a smile, although my insides are screaming for me not to text him back a flaw. It’s as if my fingers are fighting with themselves as they fly over the screen in front of me.
Me: Sometimes when I’m frustrated with you, I wait until you look away, and then I yell mean things at you.
He laughs, then looks back up at me. “Thank you,” he silently mouths.
It’s the first time he’s ever mouthed words, and if he weren’t walking away from me right now, I’d be begging for him to do it again.
Heart 1.
Sydney 0.
• • •
It’s after midnight, but we finally finish adding icing to the fifth and final cake. He cleans the last of the ingredients off the counter while I secure the Saran wrap around the cake pan and slide it next to the other four pans.
Ridge: Do I finally get to meet the raging alcoholic side of you tomorrow night? Me: I’m thinking you just might.
He grins and flips off the kitchen light. I walk to the living room to power off the TV. Warren and Bridgette should come home sometime in the next hour, so I leave the lamp on in the living room.
Ridge: Will it be weird for you?
Me: Being drunk? Nope. I’m pretty good at it. Ridge: No. I mean Maggie.
I look up at him where he’s standing in front of his bedroom door, watching his phone, not making eye contact with me. He looks nervous that he even asked the question.
Me: Don’t worry about me, Ridge.
Ridge: Can’t help it. I feel like I’ve put you in an awkward situation.
Me: You haven’t. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it would help if you weren’t so attractive, but I’m hoping Brennan looks a lot like you. That way, when you’re shacking up with Maggie tomorrow night, I can have drunk, wild fun with your little brother.
I hit send, then immediately gasp. What the hell was I thinking? That wasn’t funny. It was supposed to be funny, but it’s after midnight, and I’m never funny after midnight.
Shit.
Ridge is still looking down at the screen on his phone. His jaw twitches, and he shakes his head slightly, then looks up at me as if I’ve just shot him through the heart. He drops his arm and runs his free hand through his hair, then turns to walk to his room.
I. Suck.
I rush to him and put my hand on his shoulder, urging him to turn back around. He rolls his shoulder to brush my hand off but pauses, only partially turning to face me with a guarded expression. I step around to his front so he’s forced to look at me.
“I was kidding,” I say, slowly and very seriously. “I’m sorry.”
His face is still tense and hard and even a little disappointed, but he lifts his phone and begins texting again.
Ridge: And therein lies the problem, Sydney. You should be able to screw whoever you want to screw, and I shouldn’t give a shit.
I suck in a breath. At first, it pisses me off, but then I focus in on the one word that reveals the entire truth behind his statement.
Shouldn’t.
He didn’t say, “I don’t give a shit.” He said, “I shouldn’t give a shit.” I look up at him, and his face is so full of pain it’s heartbreaking.
He doesn’t want to feel like this. I don’t want him to feel like this. What the hell am I doing to him?
He runs both of his hands through his hair, looks up at the ceiling, and squeezes his eyes shut. He stands like this for a while, then exhales and drops his hands to his hips, lowering his eyes to the floor.
He feels so guilty he can’t even look at me.
Without making eye contact, he lifts an arm and grabs my wrist, then pulls me toward him. He crushes me to his chest, wraps one arm around my back, and curves his other hand against the back of my head. My arms are folded up and tucked between us while his cheek rests against the top of my head. He sighs heavily.
I don’t pull away from him in order to text him a flaw, because I don’t think he’s in need of one right now. The way he’s holding me is different, unlike all the times in the past few weeks when we’ve had to separate ourselves in order to breathe.
He’s holding me now as if I’m a part of him—a wounded extension of his heart—and he’s realizing just how much that extension needs to be severed.
We stand like this for several minutes, and I begin to get lost in the way he’s wrapped himself around me. The way he’s holding me gives me a glimpse of what things could be like between us. I try to push those two little words into the back of my head, the two words that always inch their way forward when we’re together.
Maybe someday.
The sound of keys hitting a counter behind me jerks me to attention. I pull back, and Ridge does the same as soon as he feels my body flinch against his. He looks over my shoulder and toward the kitchen, so I spin around. Warren has just walked through the front door. His back is toward us, and he’s slipping off his shoes.
“I’m only going to say this once, and I need you to listen,” Warren says. He still isn’t facing us, but I’m the only one in the apartment who can hear him, so I know he’s directing his comment to me. “He will never leave her, Sydney.”
He walks to his bedroom without once looking over his shoulder, leaving Ridge to believe he never even saw us. The door to Warren’s bedroom closes, and I turn back to face Ridge. His eyes are still on Warren’s door. When they flick back to mine, they’re full of so many things I know he wishes he could say.
But he doesn’t. He just turns and walks into his room, closing the door behind him.
I remain completely motionless as two huge tears spill from my eyes, scarring their way down my cheeks in a trail of shame.
Ridge
Brennan: Gotta love rain. Looks like I’ll be there early. I’m coming alone, though. The guys can’t make it.
Me: See you when you get here. Oh, and before you leave tomorrow, make sure you get all your shit out of Sydney’s room.
Brennan: Will she be there? Do I finally get to meet the girl who was brought to this earth for us?
Me: Yeah, she’ll be here.
Brennan: I can’t believe I’ve never asked this, but is she hot?
Oh, no.
Me: Don’t even think about it. She’s been through too much shit to be added to your list of concubines.
Brennan: Territorial, are we?
I toss my phone onto the bed and don’t even bother with a reply. If I make her too off-limits to him, it’ll just make him try that much harder with her.
When she made the joke last night about screwing him, she was just trying to add humor to the seriousness of the situation, but the way her text made me feel terrified me.
It wasn’t the fact that she texted about hooking up with someone. What terrified me was my knee-jerk reaction. I wanted to throw my phone against the wall and smash it into a million pieces, then throw her against the wall and show her all the ways I could ensure that she never thinks about another man again.
I didn’t like feeling that way. I probably should encourage Brennan. Maybe it would be better for my relationship with Maggie if Sydney
actually started dating someone else.
Whoa.
The wave of jealousy that just rolled over me felt more like a tsunami. I walk out of my bedroom and head to the kitchen to help Sydney get things together for dinner before everyone gets here. I pause when I see her bent over, rummaging through the contents of the refrigerator. She’s
wearing the blue dress again.
I hate it when Warren is right. My eyes slowly scroll from the dress, down her tanned legs, and back up again. I exhale and contemplate asking her to go change. I’m not sure I can deal with this tonight. Especially when Maggie gets here.
Sydney straightens up, pulls away from the refrigerator, and turns toward the counter. I notice she’s talking, but she isn’t talking to me. She pulls a bowl out of the refrigerator, and her mouth is still moving, so naturally, my eyes scan the rest of the apartment to see who it is she’s talking to.
And that’s when both halves of my heart—which were somehow still connected by a small, invisible fiber—snap apart and separate completely.
Maggie is standing in front of the bathroom door, eyeing me hard. I can’t read her expression, because it’s not one I’ve ever been exposed to before. The half of my heart that belongs to her immediately begins to panic.
Look innocent, Ridge. Look innocent. All you did was look at her.
I smile. “There’s my girl,” I sign as I walk to her. The fact that I’m somehow able to hide my guilt seems to ease her concern. She smiles back and wraps her arms around my neck when I reach her. I slip my arms around her waist and kiss her for the first time in two weeks.
God, I’ve missed her. She feels so good. So familiar.
She smells good, she tastes good, she is good. I’ve missed her so damn much. I kiss her cheek and her chin and her forehead, and I love that I’m so relieved to have her here. For the past few days, I began to fear that I wouldn’t have this reaction the next time I saw her.
“I have to go really bad. Long drive.” She winces and points to the door behind her, and I give her another quick kiss. Once she’s inside the bathroom, I slowly turn back around to gauge Sydney’s reaction.
I’ve been as upfront and honest with Sydney as I can possibly be about my feelings for Maggie, but I know it’s not easy for her to see me with Maggie. There’s just no way around it. Do I compromise my relationship with Maggie to spare Sydney’s feelings? Or do I
compromise Sydney’s feelings to spare my relationship with Maggie? Unfortunately, there’s no middle ground. No right choice. My actions are becoming split directly down the middle, just like my heart.
I face her, and our eyes meet briefly. She refocuses her attention down to the cake in front of her and inserts candles. When she finishes, she smiles and looks back up at me. She sees the concern in my expression, so she pats her chest and makes the “okay” sign with her hand.
She’s reassuring me that she’s fine. I practically have to pry myself away from her every night, and then I maul my girlfriend right in front of her—and she’s reassuring me?
Her patience and understanding with this whole screwed-up situation should make me happy, but they have the opposite effect. They disappoint me, because they make me like her that much more.
I can’t win for losing.
• • •
Oddly enough, Maggie and Sydney seem to be having fun together in the kitchen, prepping ingredients for a pot of chili. I couldn’t hang, so I retreated to my room and claimed I had a lot of work to catch up on. As good as Sydney is with this, I’m not as skilled. It was awkward for me every time Maggie would kiss me or sit on my lap or trail her fingers seductively up my chest. Which, come to think of it, was a bit odd. She’s never really all that touchy-feely when we’re hanging out, so she’s either feeling a tad bit territorial, or she and Sydney have already been hitting the Pine-Sol.
Maggie comes into the bedroom just as I’m shutting the laptop. She kneels down on the edge of the bed, leans forward, and inches her way toward me. She’s looking up at me with a flirtatious smile, so I set the laptop aside and smile back at her.
She crawls her way up my body until she’s face-to-face with me, and then she sits back on her heels, straddling me. She cocks an eyebrow and tilts her head. “You were checking out her ass.”
Shit.
I was hoping that moment had come and gone.
I laugh and cup my hands around Maggie’s backside and scoot her a little closer. I let go and bring my hands back around in front of her and answer her. “I walked out of my room to a rear end pointed toward my bedroom door. I’m a guy. Guys notice things like that, unfortunately.” I kiss her mouth, then pull back.
She’s not smiling. “She’s really nice,” Maggie signs. “And pretty. And funny. And talented. And . . .”
The insecurity in her words makes me feel like a jerk, so I grab her hands and still them. “She’s not you,” I tell her. “No one can ever be you, Maggie. Ever.”
She smiles halfheartedly and places her palms on the sides of my face and slowly runs them down to my neck. She leans forward and presses her mouth to mine with so much force I can feel the fear rolling off of her.
Fear that I put there.
I grab her face and kiss her with everything I have, doing all I can to erase her worries. The last thing this girl needs is something else to stress her out.
When she breaks apart from me, her features are still full of every single negative emotion I’ve spent the past five years helping her drown out.
“Ridge?” She pauses, then drops her eyes while she blows out a long, controlled breath. The nervousness in her demeanor twists around my heart and squeezes it. She brings her eyes carefully back to mine. “Did you tell her about me? Does she know?” Her eyes search mine for an answer to the question she should never even feel the need to ask.
Does she not know me by now?
“No. God, no, Maggie. Why would I do that? That’s always been your story to tell, not mine. I would never do that.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and she tries to blink them away. I let my head fall back against the headboard. This girl still has no idea how far I’ll go for her.
I lift my head away from the headboard and look her hard in the eyes. “To the ends of the earth, Maggie,” I sign, repeating our phrase to her.
She forces a sad smile. “And back.”
