Maybe Someday
You don’t know me like you think you do
I pour me one, when I really want two
Oh, you’re living a lie
Living a lie
You think we’re good, but we’re really not
You coulda fixed things, but you missed your shot
You’re living a lie
Living a lie
When I’m certain she’s had time to read them, I pick up the pen and write: These words came from somewhere inside you, Sydney. You can tell yourself you were better off with him, but read the lyrics you wrote. Go back to what you were feeling when you wrote them. I circle several lines, then read her words along with her.
With a right turn, the tires start to burn
I see your smile, it’s been hiding for a while
For a while
Your foot pushes down against the ground
The world starts to blur, can’t remember who you were
Who you were
I look at her, and she’s still staring at the paper. A single tear trickles down her cheek, and she quickly wipes it away.
She picks up the pen and begins writing. They’re just words, Ridge.
I reply, They’re your words, Sydney. Words that came from you. You say you feel lost without him, but you felt lost even when you were with him. Read the rest.
She inhales a deep breath, then looks down at the paper again.
I yell, slow down, we’re almost out of town
The road gets rough, have you had enough
Enough
You look at me, start heading for a tree
I open up the door, can’t take any more
Any more
Then I say,
You don’t know me like you think you do
I pour me one, when I really want two
Oh, you’re living a lie
Living a lie
You think we’re good, but we’re really not
You coulda fixed things, but you missed your shot
You’re living a lie
Living a lie
Chapter Six
Sydney
I continue to stare at the words in the notebook.
Is he right? Did I write them because that’s how I really feel?
I never give it much thought when I write lyrics, because I’ve always felt no one would read them, so it doesn’t matter what the meaning is behind the words. But now that I think about it, maybe the fact that I don’t give them much thought proves that they really are a reflection of how I feel. To me, lyrics are harder to write when you have to invent the feelings behind them. That’s when lyrics take a lot of thought, when they aren’t genuine.
Oh, wow. Ridge is absolutely right. I wrote these lyrics weeks ago, long before I knew about Hunter and Tori.
I lean back against the headboard and open my laptop again.
Me: Okay, you win.
Ridge: It’s not a competition. Just trying to help you see that maybe this breakup is exactly what you needed. I don’t know you very well, but based on the lyrics you wrote, I’m guessing you’ve been craving the chance to be on your own for a while now.
Me: Well you claim not to know me very well, but you seem to know me better than I know myself.
Ridge: I only know what you told me in those lyrics. Speaking of which, you feel like running through them? I was about to compile them with the music to send to Brennan and could use your ears. Pun intended.
I laugh and elbow him.
Me: Sure. What do I do?
He stands and picks up his guitar, then nods his head toward the balcony. I don’t want to go out on that balcony. I don’t care if I was ready to leave Hunter, I sure wasn’t ready to leave Tori. And being out there will be too much of a distraction.
I crinkle my nose and shake my head. He glances across the courtyard at my apartment, then pulls his lips into a tight, thin line and slowly nods his head in understanding. He walks over to the bed and sits on the mattress next to me.
Ridge: I want you to sing the lyrics while I play. I’ll watch you so I can make sure we’re on the same page with where they need to be placed on the sheet music.
Me: No. I’m not singing in front of you.
He huffs and rolls his eyes.
Ridge: Are you afraid I’ll laugh at how awful you sound? I can’t HEAR YOU, SYDNEY!
He’s smiling his irritating smile at me.
Me: Shut up. Fine.
He sets the phone down and begins playing the song. When the lyrics are supposed to come in, he looks up, and I freeze. Not because I’m nervous, though. I freeze because I’m doing that thing again where I’m holding my breath because seeing him play is just . . . he’s incredible.
He doesn’t miss a beat when I skip my intro. He just starts over from the beginning and plays the opening again. I shake myself out of my pathetic awe and begin singing the words. I would probably never be singing lyrics in front of anyone one-on-one like this, but it helps that he can’t hear me. He does stare pretty hard, though, which is a little unnerving.
He pauses after every stanza and makes notes on a page. I lean over and look at what he’s writing. He’s putting musical notes on blank sheet-music paper, along with the lyrics.
He points to one of the lines, then grabs his phone.
Ridge: What key do you sing this line in?
Me: B.
Ridge: Do you think it would sound better if you took it a little higher?
Me: I don’t know. I guess we could try.
He plays the second part of the song again, and I take his advice and sing in a higher key. Surprisingly, he’s right. It does sound better.
“How did you know that?” I ask.
He shrugs.
Ridge: I just do.
Me: But how? If you can’t hear, how do you know what sounds good and what doesn’t?
Ridge: I don’t need to hear it. I feel it.
I shake my head, not understanding. I can maybe understand how he’s taught himself to play a guitar. With enough practice and a good teacher and maybe a ton of studying, it’s possible for him to play as he does. But that doesn’t explain how he can know which key a voice should be in and especially which key sounds better.
Ridge: What’s wrong? You look confused.
Me: I AM confused. I don’t understand how you can differentiate between vibrations or however you say you feel it. I’m beginning to think you and Warren are trying to pull off the ultimate prank and you’re only pretending to be deaf.
Ridge laughs, then scoots back on the bed until his back meets the headboard. He sits up straight and holds his guitar to his side. He spreads his legs, then pats the empty spot between them.
What the hell? I hope my eyes aren’t open as wide as I think they are. There’s no way I’m sitting that close to him. I shake my head.
He rolls his eyes and picks up his phone.
Ridge: Come here. I want to show you how I feel it. Get over yourself, and stop thinking I’m trying to seduce you.
I hesitate a few more seconds, but the agitation on his face makes me think I’m being a little immature. I crawl forward, then turn around and carefully sit in front of him with my back to his chest but with several inches between us. He pulls the guitar in front of me and wraps his other arm around me until he’s holding it in position. He pulls it closer, which pushes me flush against him. Ridge reaches down to his side and picks up his phone.
Ridge: I’m going to play a chord, and I want you to tell me where you feel it.
I nod, and he brings his hand back to the guitar. He plays a chord and repeats it a few times, then pauses. I grab my phone.
Me: I felt it in your guitar.
He shakes his head and picks up his phone again.
Ridge: I know you felt it in the guitar, dummy. But where in your body did you feel it?
Me: Play it again.
I close my eyes this time and try to take this seriously. I’ve asked him how he feels it, and he’s trying to show me, so the
least I can do is try to understand. He plays the chord a few times, and I’m really trying hard to concentrate, but I feel the vibration everywhere, especially in the guitar pressed against my chest.
Me: It’s hard for me, Ridge. It just feels like it’s everywhere.
He pushes me forward, and I scoot up. He sets the guitar down, stands up, and walks out of the bedroom. I wait for him, curious about what he’s doing. When he comes back, he’s holding something in his fist. He holds his fist out, so I hold up my palm.
Earplugs.
He slides in behind me, and I scoot back against his chest again, then put the earplugs in. I close my eyes and lean my head back against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around me and picks up his guitar, pulling it against my chest. I can feel his head rest lightly against mine, and the intimate way we’re seated suddenly registers. I’ve never sat like this with someone I wasn’t seriously dating.
It’s odd, because it seems so natural with him. Not at all as if he’s got anything other than music on his mind. I like that about him, because if I were pressed up against Warren like this, I’m positive his hands wouldn’t be on the guitar.
I can feel his arms moving slightly, so I know he’s playing, even though I can’t hear it. I concentrate on the vibration and focus all my attention on the movement inside my chest. When I’m able to pinpoint exactly where I feel it, I bring my hand to my chest and pat it. I can feel him nod his head, and then he continues playing.
I can still feel it in my chest, but it’s much lower this time. I move my hand down, and he nods again.
I pull away from him and turn around to face him.
“Wow.”
He lifts his shoulders and smiles shyly. It’s adorable.
Me: This is crazy. I still don’t understand how you can play an instrument like this, but I know how you feel it now.
He shrugs off my compliment, and I love how modest he is, because he clearly has more talent than anyone I’ve ever met.
“Wow,” I say again, shaking my head.
Ridge: Stop. I don’t like compliments. It’s awkward.
I set down my phone and we both move back to the laptops.
Me: Well, you shouldn’t be so impressive, then. I don’t think you realize what an incredible gift you have, Ridge. I know you say you work hard at it, but so do thousands of people who can hear, and they can’t put together songs like you can. I mean, I can maybe understand the whole guitar thing now that you’ve explained it, but what about the voices? How in the heck can you know what a voice sounds like and what key it needs to be in?
Ridge: Actually, I can’t differentiate the sounds of a voice. I’ve never felt a person sing the way I “listen” to a guitar. I can place vocals to a song and develop melodies because I’ve studied a lot of songs and have learned which keys match up to which notes, based on the written form of music. It doesn’t just come naturally. I work hard at this. I love the idea of music, and even though I can’t hear it, I’ve learned to understand and appreciate it in a different way. I’ve had to work harder at the melodies. There are times I’ll write a song, and Brennan will tell me we can’t use it because it either sounds too much like an existing song or it doesn’t actually sound good to hearing ears like I assumed it would.
He can downplay this all he wants, but I’m convinced I’m sitting next to a musical genius. I hate that he thinks his ability comes from working so hard at it. I mean, I’m sure it helps, because all talents have to be nurtured in order to excel, even for the gifted. But his talent is mind-blowing. It makes me hurt for him, knowing what he could do with his gift if he could hear.
Me: Can you hear anything? At all?
He shakes his head.
Ridge: I’ve worn hearing aids before, but they were more inconvenient than helpful. I have profound hearing loss, so they didn’t help at all when it came to hearing voices or my guitar. When I used them, I could tell there were noises, but I couldn’t decipher them. In all honesty, hearing aids were a constant reminder that I couldn’t hear. Without them, I don’t even think about it.
Me: What made you want to learn guitar, knowing you would never be able to hear it?
Ridge: Brennan. He wanted to learn when we were kids, so we learned together.
Me: The guy who used to live here? How long have you known him?
Ridge: 21 years. He’s my little brother.
Me: Is he in your band?
Ridge glances at me in confusion.
Ridge: Have I not told you about our band?
I shake my head.
Ridge: He’s the singer. He also plays guitar.
Me: When do you play next? I want to watch.
He laughs.
Ridge: I don’t play. It’s kind of complicated. Brennan insists that I have as much stake in the ownership of the band as he does because I write the majority of the music, which is why I refer to myself as being part of the band sometimes. I think it’s ridiculous, but he’s convinced we wouldn’t be where we are at this point without me, so I agree to it for now. But with the success I think he’s about to have, I’ll make him renegotiate eventually. I don’t like feeling as though I’m taking advantage of him.
Me: If he doesn’t feel that way, then you definitely shouldn’t feel that way. And why don’t you play with them?
Ridge: I have a few times. It’s kind of difficult, not being able to hear everything else going on with the band during a song, so I feel like I throw them off when I play with them. Besides, they’re on tour right now, and I can’t travel, so I’ve just been sending him the stuff I write.
Me: Why can’t you tour with them? Don’t you work from home?
Ridge: Other obligations. But next time they’re in Austin, I’ll take you.
I’ll take you. I think I like that part of his message a little too much.
Me: What’s the name of the band?
Ridge: Sounds of Cedar.
I slam my laptop shut and swing my eyes to his. “Shut up!” He nods, then reaches down and opens my laptop again.
Ridge: You’ve heard of us?
Me: Yes. Everyone on campus has heard of your band, considering they played almost every single weekend last year. Hunter loves you guys.
Ridge: Ah. Well, this is the first time I’ve ever wished we had one less fan. So you’ve seen Brennan play?
Me: I only went with Hunter once, and it was one of the last shows, but yes. I think I may have most of the songs on my phone, actually.
Ridge: Wow. Small world. We are close to a record deal. That’s why I’ve been stressing so much about these songs. And why you need to help me.
Me: OMG! I just realized I’m writing lyrics for SOUNDS OF CEDAR!!!