Me: Can I come in?
Sydney: That depends. Do you have any bills smaller than a hundred this time?
Me: It seemed funny at the time. I’m sorry.
A few seconds pass, and then her door opens and she steps aside. I raise my eyebrows and smile, attempting to look innocent. She shoots me a dirty look and walks back to her bed.
Sydney: It wasn’t what I would have wanted you to say, but I can see why you said it. He’s a jerk, and I probably would have wanted to piss him off in that moment, too.
Me: He is a jerk, but I probably should have responded differently. I’m sorry.
Sydney: Yes, you should have. Maybe instead of insinuating that I was a whore, you could have gone with “If I could only be so lucky.”
I laugh at her comment, then offer up another alternative answer.
Me: I could have gone with “Only when you’re being faithful to her. Which is never.”
Sydney: Or you could have said, “No, I’m not. I’m madly in love with Warren.”
At least she’s making jokes about it. I really do feel sort of bad for saying that to him, but it felt oddly appropriate at the time.
Me: We didn’t really get any work done last night. Are you in the mood to make beautiful music together?
Chapter Seven
Sydney
Ridge puts down his guitar for the first time in more than an hour. We haven’t texted at all, because we’ve been on a roll. It’s pretty cool how well we seem to work together. He plays a song over and over while I lie across his bed with a notebook in front of me. I write down the lyrics as they come to me, most of the time crumpling up the paper, chucking it across the room, and starting over. But I’ve finished lyrics for almost an entire song tonight, and he’s only crossed out two lines he didn’t like. I’d say that’s progress.
There’s something about these moments when we’re writing music that I absolutely love. All my worries and thoughts about everything wrong in my life seem to go away for the short times we write together. It’s nice.
Ridge: Let’s do the whole song now. Sit up so I can watch you sing it. I want to make sure we have it perfect before I send it to Brennan.
He starts playing the song, so I begin singing. He’s watching me closely, and the way his eyes seem to read my every movement makes me uneasy. Maybe it’s because he can’t express words through speaking, but everything else about him seems to make up for that.
As easy as he is to read, it’s only that way when he wants to be read. Most of the time, he’s able to hold back his expressions, and I don’t know what the hell he’s thinking. He holds the crown in the nonverbal department. I’m pretty sure that with the looks he gives, if he could speak, he’d never even have to.
I feel uncomfortable watching him watch me sing, so I close my eyes and try to recall the lyrics as he continues to play the song. It’s awkward singing them with him only a few feet away. When I wrote the lyrics the first time, he was playing his guitar but was a good two hundred yards away on his balcony. Still, though, as much as I tried to pretend I was writing them about Hunter at the time, I knew I was imagining Ridge singing them all along.
A LITTLE BIT MORE
Why don’t you let me
Take you away
We can live like you wanted
From place to place
I’ll be your home
We can make our own
’Cause together makes it pretty hard to be alone
We can have everything we ever wanted
And just a little bit more