“My feet hurt,” I say.
Maggie and Ridge have danced a couple of times but that was to slow songs, so I made it a point not to watch them.
“No!” Warren says, attempting to pull me back up. “I want to dance!”
I shake my head. He’s drunk and loud, and every time I try to dance with him, he ends up butchering my feet almost as badly as he butchers the moves.
“I’ll dance with you,” Maggie says to him. She climbs over Ridge in the booth, and Warren takes her hand. They head down to the lower level to dance, and it’s the first time Ridge and I have been alone in the booth.
I don’t like it.
I like it.
I don’t.
I do.
See? Rotten soul. Corrupted, rotten soul.
Ridge: Having fun?
I’m not really, but I nod, because I don’t want to be that annoying, brokenhearted girl who wants everyone around her to feel how miserable she is.
Ridge: I need to say something, and I may be way off base here, but I’m attempting to improve on how I unintentionally omit things from you.
I look up at him and nod again.
Ridge: Warren is in love with Bridgette.
I read his text twice. Why would he need to say that to me? Unless he thinks I like Warren.
Ridge: He’s always been a flirt, so I just wanted to clear that up. I don’t want to see you get hurt again. That’s all.
Me: Appreciate your concern, but it’s unnecessary. Really. Have no interest there.
He smiles.
Me: You were right. I like Maggie.
Ridge: I knew you would. Everyone likes Maggie. She’s very likable.
I lift my eyes and look around when a Sounds of Cedar song begins to play. I scoot to the back of the booth and look over the railing. Warren and Maggie are standing by the DJ’s table, and Warren is interacting with the DJ while Maggie dances around next to him.
Me: They’re playing one of your songs.
Ridge: Yeah? That always happens when Warren’s around. Are they playing “Getaway”?
Me: Yeah. How’d you know?
Ridge presses a flat palm to his chest and smiles.
Me: Wow. You can differentiate your songs like that?
He nods.
Me: What’s Maggie’s story? She communicates really well. She seems to dance really well. Does she have a different level of hearing loss from yours?
Ridge: Yes, she has mild hearing loss. She hears most things with hearing aids, which is why she also speaks so well. And she does dance well. I stick to slow songs when she wants me to dance with her, since I can’t hear them.
Me: Is that why Maggie speaks out loud and you don’t? Because she can hear?
His eyes swing up to mine for a few seconds, and then he looks back at his phone.
Ridge: No. I could speak if I wanted to.
I should stop. I know he’s probably annoyed by these questions, but I’m too curious.
Me: Why don’t you, then?
He shrugs but doesn’t text me back.
Me: No, I want to know. There has to be a reason. It seems like it would make things a lot easier for you.
Ridge: I just don’t. I get along fine with how I do things now.
Me: Yes, especially when Maggie and Warren are around. Why would you need to talk when they can do it for you?
I hit send before I realize I probably shouldn’t have said that. I have noticed Maggie and Warren do a lot of his talking for him, though. They’ve ordered for him every time the waitress has come by the booth, and I’ve noticed Warren do it several times this week in different situations.
Ridge reads my text, then looks back up at me. It seems I made him uncomfortable, and I immediately regret saying what I did.
Me: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out how it probably sounded. I just meant you seem to let them do things for you that they wouldn’t necessarily have to do if you would speak for yourself.
My explanation seems to bother him even more than the initial text. I feel as if I’m digging myself a hole.
Me: Sorry. I’ll stop. It’s not my place to judge your situation, because I obviously can’t put myself in your shoes. I was just trying to understand.
He looks at me and pulls the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth. I’ve noticed he does this when he’s thinking hard about something. The way he continues to stare at me makes my throat go dry. I break his gaze, pull the straw into my mouth, and take a sip of my soda. When I look back at him, he’s texting again.
Ridge: I was nine when I stopped verbalizing.
His text does more to my stomach than his stare did. I don’t know why.
Me: You used to talk? Why did you stop?
Ridge: It might take me a while to text the explanation.
Me: It’s fine. You can tell me about it at home when we have our laptops.
He scoots to the edge of the booth and peers over the balcony. I follow his gaze down to Maggie and Warren, who are still both hovering around the DJ booth. When he sees that they’re still occupied, he moves away from the railing and leans forward across the table, resting his elbows in front of him as he begins to text.