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.
• • •
We’re on cake number three. I’m beginning to believe that those who are musically gifted seriously lack talent in the kitchen-skills department. Sydney and I work really well together when it comes to writing music, but our lack of finesse and knowledge when it comes to mixing a few ingredients together is a little pathetic.
She insisted that we bake the cakes from scratch, whereas I would have grabbed the boxed mixes. But it’s been kind of fun, so I’m not complaining.
She places the third cake in the oven and sets the timer. She turns around and mouths “thirty minutes,” then pushes herself up onto the counter.
Sydney: Is your little brother coming tomorrow?
Me: They’re gonna try. They open for a band in San Antonio at seven tomorrow night, so as long as they get loaded up on time, they should be here by ten.
Sydney: The whole band? I get to meet the whole band?
Me: Yep. And I bet they’ll even sign your boobs.
Sydney: SQUEEEE!
Me: If those letters really make up a sound, I am so, so glad I can’t hear it.
She laughs.
Sydney: How did y’all come up with the band name Sounds of Cedar?
Any time anyone’s asked how I came up with the name of the band, I just say I thought it sounded cool. But I can’t lie to Sydney. There’s something about her that pulls stories about my childhood out of me that I’ve never told anyone. Not even Maggie.
Maggie has asked in the past why I never speak out loud and where I came up with the name of the band, but I don’t like to bring up anything negative that might cause her even the smallest amount of concern. She’s got enough to deal with in her own life. She doesn’t need to add my childhood issues to that. They’re in the past and there’s no need to bring them up.
However, Sydney’s a different story. She seems so curious about me, about life, about people in general. It’s easy to tell her things.
Sydney: Uh-oh. Looks like I need to prepare myself for a good story, because you look like you don’t want to answer that.
I turn around until my back is pressed against the counter-top she’s sitting on, and I lean against it.
Me: You just love the heart-wrenching stuff, huh?
Sydney: Yep. Give it to me.
Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.
I often find myself repeating Maggie’s name when I’m with Sydney. Especially when Sydney says things like “Give it to me.”
The last couple of weeks have been okay since our talk. We’ve definitely had our moments, but one of us is usually quick to begin pointing out flaws and repulsive personality traits to get us back on track.
Aside from a couple of weeks ago, when our writing session ended with me having to take a cold shower, two nights ago was probably the hardest time of all for me. I don’t know what it is about the way she sings. I can simply be watching her, and I get the same feeling I get when I press my ear to her chest or rest my hand against her throat. She closes her eyes and starts singing the words, and the passion and feelings that pour from her are so powerful I sometimes forget I can’t even hear her.
This particular night, we were writing a song from scratch, and we couldn’t communicate well enough to understand it. I needed to hear her, and although we were both reluctant, it ended with my head pressed to her chest and my hand resting against her throat. While she was singing, she casually brought her hand to my hair and was twirling her fingers around.
I could have stayed in that position with her all night.
I would have, if every touch of her hand didn’t make me crave a little bit more. I finally had to tear myself away from her, but just being on the floor wasn’t enough separation. I wanted her so bad; it was all I could think about. I ended up asking her to tell me one of her flaws, and instead of giving me one, she stood up and left my bedroom.
The way she had been touching my hair was a very natural thing for her to do, considering the way we were positioned. It’s what a guy would do to his girlfriend if he were holding her against his chest, and it’s what a girl would do to her boyfriend if he were wrapped around her. But we aren’t those things.
The relationship we have is different from anything I’ve experienced. Mostly because we do have a lot of physical closeness based on the nature of writing music together and the fact that I have to use my sense of touch to replace my sense of hearing in some situations. So while we’re in those situations, the lines become muddy, and reactions become unintentional.
As much as I wish I could admit we’ve moved past our attraction for each other, I can’t deny that I feel mine growing with each day that passes. Being around her isn’t necessarily hard all the time, though. Just most of the time.
Whatever is going on between us, I know Maggie wouldn’t approve, and I try to do right by my relationship with her. However, since I can’t really define where the line is drawn between inappropriate and appropriate, it makes it hard to stay on the right side sometimes.
Like right now.
I’m staring down at my phone, about to text her, and she’s leaning behind me, both of her hands kneading the tension out of my shoulders. With as much writing as we’ve been doing and the fact that I sit on the floor now instead of the bed, I’ve had a few issues with my back. It’s become natural for her to rub it when she knows it’s hurting.
Would I let her do this when Maggie was in the room? Hell, no. Do I stop her? No. Should I? Absolutely.
I know without a doubt that I don’t want to cheat on Maggie. I’ve never been that type of guy, and I don’t ever want to be that type of guy. The problem is, I’m not thinking about Maggie when I’m with Sydney. The times I spend with Sydney are spent with Sydney, and nothing else crosses my mind. But the times I spend with Maggie are spent with Maggie. I don’t think about Sydney.
It’s as though times with Maggie and times with Sydney occur on two different planets. Planets that don’t intersect and in time zones that don’t overlap.
Until tomorrow, anyway.
We’ve all spent time together in the past, but not since I’ve been honest with myself about how I feel for Sydney. And although I would never want Maggie to know I’ve developed feelings for someone else, I’m worried she’ll be able to tell.
I tell myself that with enough effort, I can learn to control my feelings. But then Sydney will do or say something or give me a look, and I can literally feel
the part of my heart that belongs to her getting fuller. As much as I want it to empty. I’m worried that feelings are the one thing in our lives that we have absolutely no control over.
Chapter Fifteen
Sydney
Me: What’s taking you so long? Are you writing a damn book?
I don’t know if my rubbing his shoulders is putting him to sleep, but he’s been staring at his phone for five solid minutes.
Ridge: Sorry. Lost in thought.
Me: I can see that. So, Sounds of Cedar?
Ridge: It’s kind of a long story. Let me grab my laptop.
I open up our Facebook messages on my phone. When he returns, he leans against a counter several feet away from me. I’m aware of the fact that he’s put space between us, and it makes me feel somewhat uncomfortable, because I know I shouldn’t have been rubbing his shoulders. It’s too much, considering what’s happened between us in the past, but I feel as if it’s my fault his shoulders hurt in the first place.
He doesn’t really complain about what playing on the floor is doing to him, but I can tell it hurts sometimes. Especially after nights like last night, when we wrote for three hours straight. I asked him to start playing on the floor to help with the fact that things seem to be more difficult when he’s on the bed. If I didn’t still have such a huge crush on his guitar playing, it might not be as big a problem.
But I do still have a definite crush on his guitar playing. And I would say I have a definite crush on him, but crush doesn’t even begin to define it. I’m not even going to try to define how I feel about him, because I refuse to let my thoughts go there. Not now and not ever.
Ridge: We had all been playing together for fun for about six months before we got our first real gig at a local restaurant. They needed us to give them the name of our band so they could put us on the schedule. We had never really considered ourselves an actual band before that, since it was all in fun, but that night, we agreed that maybe for local things like the restaurant, it would be good to have a name. We all took turns throwing out suggestions, but we couldn’t seem to agree on anything. At one point, Brennan suggested we call ourselves Freak Frogs. I laughed. I told him it sounded like a punk band, that we needed a title with more of an acoustic sound. He got upset and said I shouldn’t really be allowed to comment on how music or titles sound, since, well, yay for lame deaf jokes from sixteen-year-old little brothers.
Anyway, Warren didn’t like how cocky Brennan was back then, so he said I should choose the name and everyone had to agree on it. Brennan got pissed and walked off, said he didn’t want to be in the band anyway. I knew he was just having a Brennan tantrum. He didn’t have them often, but when he did have them, I understood. I mean, the kid had virtually no parents, and he was raising himself, so I thought he was pretty damn mature despite the sporadic tantrums. I told the guys I wanted to think on it for a while. I tried to come up with names that I thought would mean something to everyone, but mostly to Brennan. I thought back on what got me into listening to music in the first place.
Brennan was around two years old, and I was five. I’ve already shared to you all the qualities my parents possessed, so I won’t go back into that. But in addition to all their addictions, they also liked to party. They would send us to our rooms at night once all their friends began to arrive. I noticed that Brennan was always wearing the same diapers when he woke up that he wore to bed. They never checked on him. Never fed him at night or changed him or even checked to see if he was breathing. This is probably something that had been occurring since he was an infant, but I didn’t really notice until I started school, because I think I was just too young. We weren’t allowed to leave our rooms at night. I don’t remember why I was too scared to leave my room, but I’m sure I’d been punished for it before, or it wouldn’t have bothered me. I would wait until the parties were over and my parents went to bed before I could leave my room and go check on Brennan. The problem with this was that I couldn’t hear, so I never knew when the music would stop, and I never knew if they had gone to their bedroom, because I wasn’t allowed to open my door. Instead of risking being caught, I would just press my ear to the floor and feel the vibrations of the music. Every night, I would lie there for no telling how long, just waiting for the music to stop. I began to recognize the songs based on how they felt through the floor, and I learned how to predict which songs were coming next, since they played the same albums night after night. I even began to learn how to tap along with the rhythm. After the music would finally stop, I would keep my ear pressed to the floor and wait for my parents’ footsteps to indicate that they had gone to their bedroom. Once I knew the coast was clear, I would go to Brennan’s room and bring him back to bed with me. That way, when he woke up crying, I could help him. Which brings me back to the point of this story, how I came up with the band name. I learned how to differentiate chords and sounds through all the nights my body and my ears were pressed against the cedar floor. Hence Sounds of Cedar.
Inhale, exhale.
Beat, beat, pause.
Contract, expand.
I don’t even realize how on edge I am until I see the white in my knuckles as I grip my phone. We both remain still for several moments while I attempt to get the image of the five-year-old Ridge out of my head.
It’s gut-wrenching.
Me: I guess that explains how you can differentiate vibrations so well. And I guess Brennan agreed once you told him the name, because how could he not appreciate that?
Ridge: Brennan doesn’t know that story. Once again, you’re the first person I’ve ever shared it with.
I lift my eyes back to his and inhale, but for the life of me, I can’t remember how to exhale. He’s a good three feet away, but I feel as if every single part of me that his eyes fall on is being directly touched by him. For the first time in a while, the fear etches its way back into my heart. Fear that one of these moments will be one neither of us can resist.
He sets his laptop on the counter and folds his arms across his chest. Before his eyes meet mine, his gaze falls on my legs, and then he slowly works his eyes up the entire length of my body. His eyes are narrow and focused. The way he’s looking at me makes me want to lunge for the freezer and crawl inside.
His eyes are fixed on my mouth, and he quietly swallows, then reaches beside him and picks up his phone.
Ridge: Hurry, Syd. I need a serious flaw, and I need it now.
I force a smile, although my insides are screaming for me not to text him back a flaw. It’s as if my fingers are fighting with themselves as they fly over the screen in front of me.
Me: Sometimes when I’m frustrated with you, I wait until you look away, and then I yell mean things at you.
He laughs, then looks back up at me. “Thank you,” he silently mouths.
It’s the first time he’s ever mouthed words, and if he weren’t walking away from me right now, I’d be begging for him to do it again.
Heart 1.
Sydney 0.
• • •
It’s after midnight, but we finally finish adding icing to the fifth and final cake. He cleans the last of the ingredients off the counter while I secure the Saran wrap around the cake pan and slide it next to the other four pans.
Ridge: Do I finally get to meet the raging alcoholic side of you tomorrow night?
Me: I’m thinking you just might.
He grins and flips off the kitchen light. I walk to the living room to power off the TV. Warren and Bridgette should come home sometime in the next hour, so I leave the lamp on in the living room.
Ridge: Will it be weird for you?
Me: Being drunk? Nope. I’m pretty good at it.
Ridge: No. I mean Maggie.
I look up at him where he’s standing in front of his bedroom door, watching his phone, not making eye contact with me. He looks nervous that he even asked the question.
Me: Don’t worry about me, Ridge.
Ridge: Can’t help it. I feel like I’ve
put you in an awkward situation.
Me: You haven’t. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it would help if you weren’t so attractive, but I’m hoping Brennan looks a lot like you. That way, when you’re shacking up with Maggie tomorrow night, I can have drunk, wild fun with your little brother.
I hit send, then immediately gasp. What the hell was I thinking? That wasn’t funny. It was supposed to be funny, but it’s after midnight, and I’m never funny after midnight.
Shit.
Ridge is still looking down at the screen on his phone. His jaw twitches, and he shakes his head slightly, then looks up at me as if I’ve just shot him through the heart. He drops his arm and runs his free hand through his hair, then turns to walk to his room.
I. Suck.
I rush to him and put my hand on his shoulder, urging him to turn back around. He rolls his shoulder to brush my hand off but pauses, only partially turning to face me with a guarded expression. I step around to his front so he’s forced to look at me.
“I was kidding,” I say, slowly and very seriously. “I’m sorry.”
His face is still tense and hard and even a little disappointed, but he lifts his phone and begins texting again.
Ridge: And therein lies the problem, Sydney. You should be able to screw whoever you want to screw, and I shouldn’t give a shit.
I suck in a breath. At first, it pisses me off, but then I focus in on the one word that reveals the entire truth behind his statement.
Shouldn’t.
He didn’t say, “I don’t give a shit.” He said, “I shouldn’t give a shit.”