“No,” he says again when he sees me trying to escape.
The sheer conviction in his voice causes me to freeze, and I fall back against my mattress again. He kneels down on the bed, grabs a pillow, and lays it beside my head. He lies down next to me, and my whole body tenses from his close proximity. He picks up his phone.
Ridge: Listen to me, Sydney.
I stare at the text in anticipation of what he’ll type next. When I notice that he’s not even texting me a follow-up, I look at him. He shakes his head and pulls my phone from my hands, then tosses it beside him. He takes my hand and places it over his heart.
“Here,” he says, patting my hand. “Listen to me here.”
My chest tightens when I realize what he wants me to do. He pulls me to him, and I willingly allow it. He gently lowers my head to his heart as he adjusts himself beneath me and helps me get comfortable.
I relax against his chest, finding the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Beat, beat, pause.
Beat, beat, pause.
Beat, beat, pause.
It’s absolutely beautiful.
The way it sounds is beautiful.
The way it cares is beautiful.
The way it loves is beautiful.
He presses his lips to the top of my head.
I close my eyes . . . and I cry.
Ridge
I hold her against me for so long I’m not even sure if she’s awake. I still have so much I want to say to her, but I don’t want to move. I love the way she feels when we’re wrapped together like this. I’m afraid if I move, she’ll come to her senses again and ask me to leave.
It’s barely been three weeks since Maggie and I broke up. When Sydney asked if I’d take Maggie back, I didn’t answer, but only because I know she wouldn’t believe my answer.
I love Maggie, but I honestly don’t think Maggie and I are best for each other anymore. I know exactly where we went wrong. The beginning of our relationship was romantic to the point where it was almost fictionalized. We were nineteen years old. We barely knew each other. The way we waited for an entire year only built up feelings that weren’t based on anything except false hopes and idealized love.
By the time Maggie and I were finally able to be together, I think we were more in love with the idea of us, rather than with the actual us. Of course, I loved her. I still love her. But until I met Sydney, I had no idea how much my love for Maggie was built up from my desire to swoop in and save her.
Maggie was right. I’ve done nothing for the past five years but try to be the hero who protects her. The problem? Heroines don’t need protecting.
When Sydney put me on the spot earlier, I wanted to tell her no, that I wouldn’t take Maggie back. When she said she was terrified that I was wishing she were Maggie, I wanted to grab hold of her and prove to her how I’ve never, not once, wished I were anywhere else when I’m with her. I wanted to tell her the only regret I have is not realizing sooner which one of them I was better for. Which girl I made more sense with. Which girl I grew to love in a realistic, natural way, not in an idealized sense.
I didn’t say anything because I’m terrified she won’t understand. I’ve chosen Maggie over her time and time again, and it’s my own fault that I’ve put doubt into Sydney’s head. And even though I know that the scenario she’s painting could never happen because Maggie and I both accept that it’s over, I’m not so sure I wouldn’t take Maggie back. However, my decision wouldn’t be because I want to be with Maggie more. It wouldn’t even be because I love Maggie more. But how do I possibly convince Sydney of that when it’s hard for me to comprehend?
I don’t want Sydney ever to feel like my second choice, when I know in my heart that she’s the right choice. The only choice.
I keep my arm around her, and I pick up my phone. She lifts her head and rests her chin on my chest, looking up at me. I hand her back her phone, and she takes it, then turns away from me and presses her ear against my heart again.
Me: Do you want to know why I needed you to listen to me?
She doesn’t respond with a text. She just nods her head yes, remaining pressed against my chest. One of her hands is slowly tracing up and down from my waist to my arm. The feel of her hands against my skin is something I never want to become a memory. I lower my left hand to the back of her head and stroke her hair.
Me: It’s kind of a long explanation. Do you have a notebook I can write in?
She nods and slides off me. She reaches into her nightstand and takes out a notebook and a pen. I readjust myself against her headboard. She hands me the notebook but doesn’t move closer to me. I grab her wrist and part my legs, then motion for her to lie against me while I write. She crawls toward me and wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her ear to my heart again. I put my arms around her and prop the notebook on my knee, resting my cheek on top of her head.