Maybe Someday(89)

I don’t even know what time it is.

I don’t even care.





23.


Sydney

Sound triggers.

They happen a lot, but mostly when I hear certain songs. Especially songs Hunter and I both loved. If I listen to a song during a particularly depressing period, then hear it later on down the road, it brings back all the old feelings associated with that song. There are songs I used to love that now I absolutely refuse to listen to. They trigger memories and feelings I don’t want to experience again.

My text tone has become one of those sound triggers.

Namely, Ridge’s text tone. It’s very distinct, a snippet from the demo of our song “Maybe Someday.” I assigned it to him after I heard the song for the first time. I’d like to say that sound trigger is a negative one, but I’m not so sure it is. The kiss I experienced with him during the song certainly led to negative feelings of guilt, but the kiss itself still turns my heart into a hot mess just thinking about it. And I think about it a lot. Way more than I should.

In fact, I’m thinking about it right now as the snippet of our song pours from the speakers of my cell phone, indicating that I’m receiving a text.

From Ridge.

I honestly never expected to hear this sound again.

I roll over on my bed and stretch my arm to the nightstand, my now-trembling fingers grasping at my phone. Knowing that I’ve received a text from him has once again wreaked havoc with my organs, and they’ve forgotten how to function properly. I pull the phone to my chest and close my eyes, too nervous to read his words.

Beat, beat, pause.

Contract, expand.

Inhale, exhale.

I slowly open my eyes and hold up the phone, then unlock the screen.

Ridge: Are you home?

Am I home?

Why would he care if I were home? He doesn’t even know where I live. Besides, he made it pretty clear where his heart’s loyalty resided when he told me to move out three weeks ago.

But I am home, and despite my better judgment, I want him to know I’m home. I’m tempted to respond with my address and tell him to come find out for himself whether or not I’m home.

Instead, I go with something safer. Something less telling.

Me: Yes.

I pull the covers off and sit up on the edge of the bed, watching my phone, too afraid even to blink.

Ridge: You’re not answering the door. Am I at the wrong apartment?

Oh, God.

I hope he’s at the wrong apartment. Or maybe I hope he’s at the right apartment. I can’t really tell, because I’m happy he’s here, but I’m pissed off that he’s here.

These conflicting feelings are exhausting.

I stand and run out of my bedroom, straight to my front door. I peer through the peephole, and sure enough, he’s at my front door.

Me: You’re outside my door, so yeah. Right apartment.

I look out the peephole again after hitting send, and he’s standing with his palm flat against the door, staring at his phone. Seeing the pained expression on his face and knowing it derives from the battle his heart is going through makes me want to swing open the door and throw my arms around him. I close my eyes and press my forehead to the door in order to give myself time to think before making any rash decisions. My heart is being pulled toward him, and I can’t think of anything I want more right now than to open this door.

However, I also know that opening the door won’t do either of us any good. He just broke up with Maggie a matter of weeks ago, so if he’s here for me, he can turn right around and leave. There’s no way anything could work between us when I know he’s still heartbroken over someone else. I deserve more than what he can give me right now. I’ve been through too much this year to let someone screw with my heart like this.

He shouldn’t be here.

Ridge: Can I come in?

I turn until my back is pressed against the door. I clutch the phone to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to read his words. I don’t want to see his face. Everything about him makes me lose sight of what’s important, what’s best for me. He isn’t what’s best for my life right now, especially considering what he’s gone through in his own life, and I should walk away from this door and not let him in.

But everything in me wants to let him in.

“Please, Sydney.”

The words are almost an inaudible whisper through the other side of the door, but I definitely heard them. Every single part of me heard them. The desperation in his voice, combined with the simple fact that he spoke, completely slays me. I allow my heart to make my decision for me this time as I slowly face the door. I turn the lock and slide the latch loose, then open the door.

I can’t describe what it feels like to see him standing in front of me again without using the term terrifying.