Maybe Someday: Prologue

Ridge

Ridge

Maggie leans forward and kisses my forehead. “I need to go.”

I’m on my back with my head and shoulders partially propped against my headboard. She’s straddling my lap and looking down at me regretfully. I hate that we live so far apart now, but it makes the time we do spend together a lot more meaningful. I take her hands so she’ll shut up, and I pull her to me, hoping to persuade her not to leave just yet.

She laughs and shakes her head. She kisses me, but only briefly, and then she pulls away again. She slides off my lap, but I don’t let her make it very far before I lunge forward and pin her to the mattress. I point to her chest.

“You”—I lean in and kiss the tip of her nose—“need to stay one more night.”

“I can’t. I have class.”

I grab her wrists and pin her arms above her head, then press my lips to hers. I know she won’t stay another night. She’s never missed a day of class in her life, unless she was too sick to move. I sort of wish she was feeling a little sick right now, so I could make her stay in bed with me.

I slide my hands from her wrists, delicately up her arms until I’m cupping her face. Then I give her one final kiss before I reluctantly pull away from her. “Go. And be careful. Let me know when you make it home.”

She nods and pushes herself off the bed. She reaches across me and grabs her shirt, then pulls it on over her head. I watch her as she walks around the room and gathers the clothes I pulled off her in a hurry.

After five years of dating, most couples would have moved in together by now. However, most peoples’ other halves aren’t Maggie. She’s so fiercely independent it’s almost intimidating. But it’s understandable, considering how her life has gone. She’s been caring for her grandfather since I met her. Before that, she spent the majority of her teenage years helping him care for her grandmother, who died when Maggie was sixteen. Now that her grandfather is in a nursing home, she finally has a chance to live alone while finishing school, and as much as I want her here with me, I also know how important this internship is for her. So for the next year, I’ll suck it up while she’s in San Antonio and I’m here in Austin. I’ll be damned if I ever move out of Austin, especially for San Antonio.

Unless she asked, of course.

“Tell your brother I said good luck.” She’s standing in my bedroom doorway, poised to leave. “And you need to quit beating yourself up, Ridge. Musicians have blocks, just like writers do. You’ll find your muse again. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She smiles and backs out of my bedroom. I groan, knowing she’s trying to be positive with the whole writer’s block thing, but I can’t stop stressing about it. I don’t know if it’s because Brennan has so much riding on these songs now or if it’s because I’m completely tapped out, but the words just aren’t coming. Without lyrics I’m confident in, it’s hard to feel good about the actual musical aspect of writing.

My phone vibrates. It’s a text from Brennan, which only makes me feel worse about the fact that I’m stuck.

Brennan: It’s been weeks. Please tell me you have something.

Me: Working on it. How’s the tour?

Brennan: Good, but remind me not to allow Warren to schedule this many gigs on the next leg.

Me: Gigs are what gets your name out there.

Brennan: OUR name. I’m not telling you again to stop acting like you aren’t half of this.

Me: I won’t be half if I can’t work through this damn block.

Brennan: Maybe you should get out more. Cause some unnecessary drama in your life. Break up with Maggie for the sake of art. She’ll understand. Heartache helps with lyrical inspiration. Don’t you ever listen to country?

Me: Good idea. I’ll tell Maggie you suggested that.

Brennan: Nothing I say or do could ever make Maggie hate me. Give her a kiss for me, and get to writing. Our careers are resting squarely on your shoulders.

Me: Asshole.

Brennan: Ah! Is that anger I detect in your text? Use it. Go write an angry song about how much you hate your little brother, then send it to me. ;)

Me: Yeah. I’ll give it to you after you finally get your shit out of your old bedroom. Bridgette’s sister might move in next month.

Brennan: Have you ever met Brandi?

Me: No. Do I want to?

Brennan: Only if you want to live with two Bridgettes.

Me: Oh, shit.

Brennan: Exactly. TTYL.

I close out the text to Brennan and open up a text to Warren.

Me: We’re good to go on the roommate search. Brennan says hell no to Brandi. I’ll let you break the news to Bridgette, since you two get along so well.

Warren: Well, motherfucker.

I laugh and hop off the bed, then head to the patio with my guitar. It’s almost eight, and I know she’ll be on her balcony. I don’t know how weird my actions are about to seem to her, but all I can do is try. I’ve got nothing to lose.