7.
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 laid out 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
Cuz together makes it pretty hard to be alone
We can have everything you ever wanted
And maybe just a little bit more
Just a little bit more
His guitar stops, so naturally, I stop. I open my eyes, and he’s watching me with one of his expressionless expressions.
I take that back. This expression isn’t expressionless at all. He’s thinking. I can tell by the squint in his eyes that he’s coming up with an idea.
He glances away in order to pick up his phone.
Ridge: Do you mind if I try something?
Me: As long as you promise never again to propose a question by asking if I mind if you can try something.
Ridge: Nice try, but that made no sense.
I laugh, then look up at him. I nod softly, scared of what he’s about to “try.” He sits up on his knees and leans forward, placing both hands on my shoulders. I attempt to hold in my gasp, but it’s a failed attempt. I don’t know what he’s doing or why he’s getting so close to me, but holy crap.
Holy crap.
Why is my heart spazzing out right now?
He pushes me until I’m flat on his mattress. He reaches behind him and picks up his guitar, then lays it on the other side of me. He lies down next to me.
Calm down, heart. Please. Ridge has supersonic senses, and he’ll feel you beating through the vibrations of the mattress.
Ridge scoots closer to me and by the way he’s hesitating, it makes me think he’s unsure if I’ll allow him any closer.
I will. I absolutely will.
He’s staring at me now, contemplating his next move. I can tell he’s not about to make a pass at me. Whatever he’s about to do is making him way more apprehensive than if he were just planning to kiss me. He’s eyeing my neck and chest as if he’s searching for a particular part of me. His eyes stop on my abdomen, pause, then fall back to his phone.
Oh, Lord. What is he about to do? Put his hands on me? Does he want to feel me sing this song? Feeling requires touching, and touching requires hands. His hands. Feeling me.
Ridge: Do you trust me?
Me: I don’t trust anyone anymore. My trust has been completely depleted this week.
Ridge: Can you replenish your trust for about five minutes? I want to feel your voice.
I inhale, then look at him—lying next to me—and I nod. He sets down his phone without breaking my gaze. He’s watching me as if he’s warning me to stay calm, but it’s having the exact opposite effect. I’m sort of panicked right now.
He scoots closer and slides his arm under the back of my neck.
Oh.
Now he’s even closer.
Now his face is hovering over mine. He reaches across my body and pulls the guitar flush against my side, bringing it closer to us. He’s still eyeing me with a look that seems intended to produce a calming effect.
It doesn’t. It doesn’t calm me down at all.
He lowers his head to my chest, then presses his cheek against my shirt.
Oh, this is great. Now he definitely feels how spastic my heart is beating right now. I close my eyes and want to die of embarrassment, but I don’t have time for that, because he begins strumming the strings of the guitar next to me. I realize he’s playing with both hands, one from underneath my head and one over me. His head is against my chest, and I can feel his hair brush my neck. He’s pretty much sprawled across me in order to reach his guitar with both arms.
Oh, my dear sweet baby Jesus in a wicker basket.
How does he expect me to sing?
I try to calm down by regulating my breathing, but it’s hard when we’re positioned like this. As usual when I miss an intro, he seamlessly starts the song over again from the beginning. When he reaches the point where I come in, I begin singing. Sort of. It’s really quiet, because I’m still waiting for air to find its way back into my lungs.
After the first few lines, I find a steadiness to my voice. I close my eyes and do my best to imagine I’m simply sitting up on his bed right now the way I have been for the last hour.
I’ll bring my suitcase
You bring that old lamp
We can live by the book
But we can never go back
Feeling the breeze
Never felt so right
We’ll watch the stars until they turn into light
We can have everything you’ve ever wanted
And maybe just a little bit more
Just a little bit more
He finishes the last chord but doesn’t move. His hands remain stilled on his guitar. His ear remains firmly pressed against my chest. My breaths are heavier now that I’ve just sung an entire song, and his head rises with each intake of air.
He sighs a deep sigh, then lifts his head and rolls onto his back without making eye contact with me. We sit in silence for a few minutes. I’m not sure why he’s being so unresponsive, but I’m too nervous to make any sudden movements. His arm is still underneath me, and he’s making no effort to remove it, so I’m not even sure if he’s finished with this little experiment yet.
I’m also not sure I’d even be able to move.
Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. What are you doing?
I absolutely, positively, do not want to be having this reaction right now. It’s been a week since I broke up with Hunter. The very last thing I want—or even need—is to develop a crush on this guy.
However, I’m thinking that may have happened before this week.
Crap.
I tilt my head and look at him. He’s watching me, but I can’t tell what his face is trying to convey. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s thinking, Oh, hey, Sydney. Our mouths sure are close together. Let’s do them a favor and close this gap.
His eyes drop to my mouth, and I’m incredibly impressed with my telepathic abilities. His full lips are slightly parted as he quietly takes in several slow, deep breaths.
I can actually hear him breathing, which surprises me, because that’s another of his sounds that he keeps complete and total control over. I like that he can’t seem to control it right now. As much as I claim to want to be unattached from guys and independent and strong, the only thing I’m thinking is how much I wish he would take complete and total control over me. I want him to dominate this situation by rolling on top of me and forcing that incredible mouth onto mine, rendering me completely dependent on him for breath.
My phone receives a text, interrupting my clearly overactive imagination. Ridge closes his eyes and turns to face the opposite direction. I sigh, knowing he didn’t even hear the text, so turning away was of his own accord. Which means I’m feeling pretty awkward right now for just having that rich internal dialogue sweep through my mind. I reach behind my head and feel around until I find my phone.
Hunter: Are you ready to talk yet?
I roll my eyes. Way to ruin the moment, Hunter. I was hoping that after days of avoiding his texts and phone calls, he would finally get a clue. I shake my head and text him back.
Me: Your behavior is bordering on harassment. Stop contacting me. We’re done.