Authors: Colleen Hoover
And you know that I, I want to see
The way that your eyes seem to follow me
After reading what she’s written, I hand her back the notebook and pick up my phone. I’m confused about the lyrics, because they aren’t at all what I was expecting. I’m not sure I like them.
Me: I thought we were writing an angry song about Hunter.
She shrugs, then begins texting me back.
Sydney: I tried. The subject of Hunter doesn’t really inspire me anymore. You don’t have to use them if you don’t like them. I can try something different.
I stare at her text, not sure how to respond. I don’t like the lyrics, but not because they aren’t good. It’s because the words she’s written down make me think she’s somehow able to read my mind.
Me: I love them.
She smiles and says, “Thank you.” She flips onto her back, and I catch myself appreciating this moment and this night and her low-cut dress way more than I probably should. When my eyes make their way back to hers, she’s watching me, plainly aware of what’s going through my head. Eyes don’t lie, unfortunately.
When neither of us breaks our gaze, I’m forced to swallow the huge lump in my throat.
Don’t get yourself in trouble, Ridge.
Thank God she sits up when she does.
Sydney: I’m not sure where you want the chorus to come in. This song is a little more upbeat than the ones I’m used to. I’ve written three different ones, but I don’t like how any of them sound. I’m stuck.
Me: Let me watch you sing it one more time.
I roll off the bed and grab the guitar, then take it back to the bed but sit on the edge this time. We turn to face each other, and I play while she sings. When we make it to the chorus, she stops singing and shrugs, letting me know this is where she’s stuck. I take her notebook and read the lyrics over a few times. I glance up at her without being too obvious about it and write the first thing that comes to mind.
And I must confess my interest
The way that you move when you’re in that dress
It’s making me feel like I want to be
The only man that you ever see
I pause from writing and look up at her again, feeling every bit of the words in this chorus. I think we both know the words we write have to do with each other, but that doesn’t seem to stop us at all. If we keep having moments like these with words that are way too honest, we’ll
both
end up in trouble. I quickly look back down at the paper as more lyrics begin to enter my head.
Whoa, oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble, trouble
Whoa, oh, oh, oh
I’m in trouble now
I refuse to look up at her again while I write. I keep my mind focused on the words that somehow seem to flow from my fingertips every time we’re together. I don’t question what’s inspiring me or what they mean.
I don’t question it . . . because it’s obvious.
But it’s art. Art is just an expression. An expression isn’t the same as an act, as much as it sometimes feels that way. Writing lyrics isn’t the same as directly informing someone of your feelings.
Is it?
I keep my eyes on the paper and continue to write the words I honestly wish I didn’t feel.
I see you in places from time to time
You keep to your business and I, I keep to mine
But you know that I, I want to be
Right by your side where I ought to be
And you know that I, I want to see
The way that your eyes seem to follow me
The second I’m finished writing, I’m so worked up I don’t allow myself to witness her reaction to the words. I quickly hand her back the notebook and pull my guitar around and begin playing so she can work through the chorus.
14.
Sydney
He’s not looking at me. He doesn’t even know I’m not singing the lyrics. I
can’t
sing them. I’ve listened to him play this song dozens of times from his balcony, yet it never held emotion or meaning until this moment.
The fact that he can’t even look at me makes the song feel way too personal. It feels as if this song somehow just became his song to me. I turn the notebook over, not wanting to read the words anymore. This song is just one more thing that never should have happened, even though I’m positive it’s my new favorite.
Me: Do you think Brennan can make a rough cut of this one? I want to hear it.
I nudge him with my foot after I send the text, then nod toward his phone when he looks at me. He picks it up to read the text and nods. He doesn’t reply or make eye contact with me, though. I glance back down to my phone as the room grows quiet in the absence of the sound of his guitar. I don’t like how awkward things just got between us, so I attempt to make small talk to fill the void. I roll onto my back and type out a question that’s been on my mind for a while to break up the stillness around us.
Me: Why don’t you ever practice on your balcony like you used to?
This question gets me immediate eye contact from him, but it doesn’t last. His eyes flicker across my face, down my body, and finally back to his phone.
Ridge: Why would I? You’re not out there anymore.
And just like that, my defenses are down, and my willpower is shot to hell with his honest reply. I nervously pull my bottom lip in and chew on it, then slowly raise my eyes back to his. He’s looking at me as if he wishes he were a guy like Hunter who cared only about himself.
He’s not the only one wishing that.
I want to be Tori right now so much it hurts. I want to be just like her and not give a shit about my self-respect or about Maggie for just a few minutes. Long enough to allow him to do everything his lyrics make clear he wants to do.
His eyes fall to my lips, and my mouth runs dry.
His eyes fall to my chest, and it begins to heave deeper than it already was.
His eyes fall to my legs, and I have to cross them, because the way his gaze penetrates my body makes it seem as though he can see right through this dress I’m wearing.
His eyes close tightly, and knowing the effect I’m having on him makes me feel as if there might be a lot more truth to his lyrics than he’d like there to be.
It’s making me feel like I want to be the only man that you ever see.
Ridge suddenly stands and drops his phone onto the bed, then walks straight into the bathroom and slams the door. I listen as the shower curtain slides open and the water kicks on.
I roll onto my back and release all my pent-up breaths. I’m flustered and confused and angry. I don’t like the situation we’ve put ourselves in, and I know for a fact that even though we haven’t acted on it, nothing about this is innocent.
I sit up on the bed, then quickly stand. I need to get out of his room before it completely closes in on me. Just as I’m walking away from the bed, Ridge’s phone vibrates on the mattress. I look down at it.
Maggie: I’m missing you extra hard today. When you’re finished writing with Sydney, can we video chat? I need to see you. ;)
I stare at her text.
I hate her text.
I hate that she knows we were just writing together.
I hate that he tells her everything.
I want these moments to belong to me and Ridge and no one else.
• • •
It’s been two hours since he got out of the shower, and I can’t bring myself to leave my bedroom. I’m starving, though, and really want to go to the kitchen. I just don’t want to see him, because I hate how we left things. I don’t like that we both know we almost crossed a line tonight.
Actually, I don’t like that we
did
cross a line tonight. Although we aren’t verbalizing what we’re thinking and feeling, writing it in lyrics isn’t any less harmful.
There’s a knock on my door, and knowing that it’s more than likely Ridge causes my heart to betray me by dancing rapidly in my chest. I don’t bother getting up to open the door, because he nudges it open right after knocking. He holds up a set of headphones and his cell phone, indicating that he has something he wants me to hear. I nod, and he walks over to the bed and hands them to me. He hits play but takes a seat on the floor while I scoot back onto the bed. The song begins to play, and I spend the next three minutes barely breathing. Ridge and I never once break our stare throughout the duration of the song.
[[For ebook only: Click on the link to listen to “I’m In Trouble.”]]
Ridge
Maggie: Guess who gets to see me tomorrow?
Me: Kurt Vonnegut?
Maggie: Guess again.
Me: Anderson Cooper?
Maggie: No, but close.
Me: Amanda Bynes?
Maggie: You’re so random. YOU get to see me tomorrow, and you get to spend a whole two days with me, and I know I’m trying to save money, but I bought you two new bras.
Me: How did I ever get so lucky to find the one and only girl who supports and encourages my transvestite tendencies?
Maggie: I ask myself that same question every day.
Me: What time do I get to see you?
Maggie: Well, it all depends on the dreaded T word again.
Me: Ah. Yes. Well, we shall discuss it no further. Try to be here by six, at least. Warren’s birthday party is tomorrow night, and I want to spend time with you before all his crazy friends get here.
Maggie: Thank you for reminding me! What should I get him?
Me: Nothing. Sydney and I are pulling the ultimate prank. We told everyone to donate to charity in lieu of gifts. He’ll be pissed when people start handing him all the donation cards in his honor.
Maggie: You two are evil. Should I bring something? A cake, maybe?
Me: Nope, we got it. We felt bad for the “no gifts” prank, so we’re about to bake him five different flavored cakes to make up for it.
Maggie: Make sure one of them is German chocolate.
Me: Already got you covered, babe. I love you.
Maggie: Love you, too.
I close out our texts and open up the unread one I have from Sydney.
Sydney: You forgot vanilla extract, dumbass. It was on the list. Item 5. Now you have to go back to the store.
Me: Maybe next time you should write more legibly and return my texts when I’m at the grocery store, attempting to decipher item 5. I’ll be back in 20. Preheat the oven, and text me if you think of anything else.
I laugh, put my phone into my pocket, grab my keys, and head to the store. Again.