Maybe Now (Maybe #2) Read online

  I wish I could find a good mental balance. I want to do things, see things, live a normal life. And sometimes there are stretches where I do that and it’s all fine. But then I have days or weeks where the illness reminds me that I’m not in full control.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m two different people. I’m Maggie, the girl who chases down items on her bucket list at one hundred miles per hour, the girl who turns down hot doctors because she wants to be single, the girl who sneaks out of hospitals because she enjoys the thrill, the girl who broke up with her boyfriend of six years because she wants to live her life and not be held down.

  The girl who feels full of life, despite her illness.

  And then there’s this quieter version of Maggie, who’s been looking back at me in the mirror these last few days. The Maggie who lets her worries consume her. The Maggie who thinks she’s too much of a burden to date a man she’s completely into. The Maggie who has moments of regret for ending a six-year relationship, even though it absolutely needed to end. The Maggie who allows her illness to make her feel like she’s dying, despite being very much alive. The Maggie whose doctor was so concerned about her today, she called in a prescription for anti-depressants.

  I don’t like this version of myself. It’s a much sadder, lonelier me, and luckily only appears once in a blue moon. The original version of myself is what I strive to be at all times. Most of the time that’s who I am. But this week…not so much. Especially after the visit with my doctor today. She’s never seemed as concerned for me as she was today. Which makes me more concerned than I’ve ever been. Which is why I just pulled out my IV, am changing out of this gown, and am about to sneak out of this hospital.

  I need to feel like the original Maggie for a few hours. The other version is exhausting.

  The walk out of my room and down the hallway is surprisingly uneventful. I even pass one of the shift nurses in the hospital, and she just smiles at me like she has no idea she refilled my IV solution an hour ago.

  When I step off the elevator and into the lobby, I can see Warren’s car idling outside. I’m instantly filled with adrenaline as I rush across the lobby and out the doors. Ridge steps out of the passenger seat and opens the door for me. He forces a smile, but I can see it all over his face. He’s angry that I’m leaving before being discharged. He’s angry that Warren is encouraging it. But unlike pre-breakup Ridge, he says nothing. He holds his tongue and holds the door as I climb quickly inside. He closes my door, and I’m putting on my seatbelt when Warren leans across the seat and kisses me on the cheek.

  “Missed you.”

  I smile, relieved to be in this car. Relieved to see both him and Ridge. Relieved to be getting the hell out of this hospital. Warren reaches between us and holds up a Twix and a Diet Dr. Pepper. “We brought you dinner. King Size.”

  I immediately open the package and pull out one of the bars. I say, “Thank you,” with a mouthful of chocolate. I hand Warren one of the four bars just as he hits the gas and drives away from the hospital. I turn around, and Ridge is sitting in the middle of the backseat, looking out the window.

  His gaze meets mine, and I hand him one of the Twix bars. He takes it and smiles at me. “Thank you,” he says.

  My mouth falls open so far, chocolate almost falls out of it. I laugh and cover my mouth with my hand. “You”—I look at Warren—“He spoke.” I look back at Ridge. “You’re speaking?”

  “Pretty cool, huh?” Warren says.

  I’m dumbfounded. I have never heard him speak a single word. “How long have you been verbalizing?” I sign.

  Ridge shrugs like it isn’t a big deal. “A few months.”

  I shake my head, completely in shock. His words are exactly how I imagined they would sound. Our relationship with the deaf culture is what ultimately brought all of us together. Warren’s parents. Mine and Ridge’s hearing loss. But Ridge’s hearing loss is much more profound. Mine is so mild, it doesn’t even hinder my life in any way. Which is why, for years when we were together, I did all of his speaking for him. Even though we could both communicate using ASL, I still wanted so badly for him to learn to speak out loud. I just never really pushed him because I don’t know what it’s like to have profound hearing loss, so I didn’t know what it was that was holding him back.

  I guess he figured it out, though. And I want to know every detail. I’m excited for him. This is huge! “How? Why? When? What was the first thing you said out loud?”

  Something immediately changes in his expression. He becomes guarded, like it’s not something he wants to talk to me about. I glance at Warren, who is staring straight at the road like he just purposefully checked out of this conversation. I look back at Ridge, but he’s looking out the window again.

  And then I get it.

  Sydney.

  She’s why he’s talking now.

  I suddenly feel envious of them. Of her. It makes me wonder what it was about her that made him overcome whatever obstacle it was that held him back. Why wasn’t I enough of a motivator to ever make him want to say things to me out loud?

  And here she is again: the insecure, depressing version of myself.

  I grab the Dr. Pepper and take a drink, trying to drown this sudden onslaught of jealousy. I’m happy for him. And I’m proud of him. It shouldn’t matter what spurred him to want to learn how to communicate in more ways. All that matters is that he is. And even though my chest still burns a little, I’m smiling. I turn back around and make sure he can see the pride in my expression.

  “Have you cussed out loud yet?” I sign.

  He laughs, wiping the corner of his mouth with his finger. “Shit was my first cuss word.”

  I laugh. Of course it was. He liked watching me say that word when I was angry. I realize speaking words out loud without being able to hear them probably isn’t as satisfying as being able to hear your own voice, but it has to feel a little good, finally being able to cuss out loud.

  “Call Warren an asshole,” I say.

  Ridge looks at the back of Warren’s head. “You’re an asshole.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand, completely in shock that Ridge Lawson is verbalizing. It’s like he’s this whole new person.

  Warren looks over at me, taking the steering wheel with his knee so that he can sign what he’s saying for Ridge. “He isn’t a toddler. Or a parrot.”

  I punch Warren in the shoulder. “Shut up. Let me enjoy this.” I look back at Ridge and rest my chin on the head rest. “Say fuck.”

  “Fuck,” he says, laughing at my immaturity. “Anything else? Damn. Goddamn. Mother-fucker. Hell. Son of a bitch. Bridgette.”

  I die with laughter as soon as he includes her name in his string of profanity. Warren flips him off. I turn around and face the road again, still laughing. I take a sip of my drink and then relax against the seat with a sigh.

  “I’ve missed you guys,” I say. Only Warren knows I’ve said it.

  “We’ve missed you, too, Maggot.”

  I roll my eyes, hearing that nickname again. I look over at him but make sure my headrest is a barrier between me and Ridge so that he can’t read my lips. “Is Sydney mad that he came?”

  Warren glances over at me briefly and then stares back at the road. “Mad isn’t the right word. She did react, but not like most people would have reacted.” He pauses for a moment and then says, “She’s good for him, Maggie. She’s just…good. Period. And if this whole situation weren’t so damn weird, I feel like you would really like her.”

  “I don’t dislike her.”

  Warren looks at me out of the corner of his eye. He smirks. “Yeah, but you won’t be getting manicures together and going on road trips with her anytime soon.”

  I laugh in agreement. “That’s for damn sure.”

  Ridge leans forward between the seats and grips both the front headrests. He looks at me and then he looks at Warren. “Rearview mirrors,” he says. “It’s like a sound system for deaf people.” He leans back in his seat. �
��Stop talking about us like I’m not right here.”

  Warren laughs a little. I just sink into my seat, ruminating over that last sentence.

  “Stop talking about us like I’m not right here.”

  “Stop talking about us…”

  “Us.”

  He refers to himself and Sydney as an us now. And he speaks out loud. And…I take another sip of my drink because this isn’t quite as easy to swallow as I assumed it would be.

  I don’t know what’s more awkward: watching Ridge leave to go stay the night with his ex-girlfriend, or sitting in his apartment, alone with Bridgette.

  As soon as Warren and Ridge left, Bridgette’s phone rang. She answered it and walked to her bedroom without acknowledging me. It sounded like she may have been talking to her sister, but that was an hour ago. Then I heard her shower start running.

  Now, here I am, cleaning their kitchen and doing their dishes. I know Ridge told me not to worry about it, but I won’t be able to sleep if I know there’s food out all over the counter.

  I load the last of the silverware when Bridgette walks out of her room with pajamas on. Her phone is to her ear again, but this time she’s looking at me. “You aren’t like gluten-free or vegetarian, are you?”

  Wow. We’re really doing this. And wow. I’m actually a little bit excited. I shake my head. “I’ve never met a slice of pizza I didn’t like.”

  Bridgette puts the phone on the bar and puts it on speaker as she opens the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of wine. She hands it to me, expecting me to open it, so I take it and look for the bottle opener.

  “Pizza Shack,” a guy says, answering her call. “Will this be carry-out or delivery?”

  “Delivery.”

  “What can I get you?”

  “Two large pizzas with everything. One thick crust, one thin.”

  I open the wine bottle while she continues to order.

  “Do you want all the meats?”

  “Yeah,” Bridgette says. “Everything.”

  “You also want feta cheese added?”

  “I said I want everything.”

  There’s a tapping sound, like fingers against keys while the guy takes a moment to enter the order. “Do you want pineapple?”

  Bridgette rolls her eyes. “I’ve said everything like three times. All the meats, all the vegetables, all the fruits. Whatever you have, just put it on there and bring us the damn pizza!”

  I pause and glance over at her. She makes a face at me like she’s on the phone with the biggest idiot in the world. Poor guy. He doesn’t ask her any more questions. He takes her address, and she gives him Warren’s debit card number before she ends the call.

  I’m curious to see what kind of pizzas we’re about to get. I pray that restaurant doesn’t have sardines or anchovies. I pour two glasses of wine and hand Bridgette one. She takes a sip and then folds her arms over her chest, holding the wine glass to her lips as she looks me up and down.

  She’s really pretty, in a sexy way. I can see why Warren is so drawn to her. They really are the most interesting couple I’ve ever met. And when I say interesting, I don’t necessarily mean that as a compliment.

  “I used to hate you,” Bridgette says, matter-of-fact. She leans against the bar and takes another drink of her wine.

  So casual, like this is how people are supposed to interact with other people. She reminds me of one of my friends from childhood. Her name was Tasara, and she said anything and everything that was on her mind. I swear, she spent more days in detention than she did in class. I think that’s why I was drawn to her, though. She was mean, but she was honest.

  It’s one thing when you’re mean and you lie. But it’s a lot more endearing when you’re just brutally honest.

  Bridgette doesn’t seem like the type to waste time on lying, and for that reason, her comment doesn’t offend me. And if I’m going to dissect her words, I have to acknowledge that her sentence was past tense. She used to hate me. That’s probably the best compliment I’ll ever get from her.

  “You’re starting to grow on me, too, Bridgette.”

  She rolls her eyes, then walks past me to the cabinet below the sink. She reaches for the Pine-Sol and then grabs two shot glasses. The wine isn’t enough?

  She pours the shots, and as she hands me one, she says, “That wine isn’t strong enough. I get really awkward when people are nice to me. I’m gonna need liquor for this.”

  I laugh and take the shot glass from her. We raise them at the same time, and I make a toast. “Cheers to women who don’t need their boyfriends in order to have a good time.” We clink our shot glasses together before downing the liquor. I don’t even know what it is. Whiskey, maybe? Whatever. As long as it does the job.

  She pours us another shot. “That toast was way too cheerful, Sydney.” We hold up our glasses again, and she clears her throat before speaking. “Cheers to Maggie and her mad skills at remaining friends with both of her ex-boyfriends, to the point that they are somehow still at her beck and call, even when sex isn’t involved.”

  I’m dumbfounded as she clinks her glass against mine and then downs her shot. I don’t move my shot glass. When she sees her words made me speechless, she pushes my shot glass toward my mouth and uses her fingers to tilt it up. I finally down it.

  “Good girl,” she says. She takes the shot glass from me and hands me my wine glass. She pulls herself up onto the bar and sits cross-legged. “So,” she says. “What do girls do when they hang out like this?”

  She is so unlike anyone I’ve ever spent time with as an adult. She’s like an entirely different class of animal. There are amphibians, reptiles, mammals, birds, fish—and then there’s Bridgette. I shrug and laugh a little, then pull myself up onto the kitchen bar across from her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a girl’s night, but I think we’re supposed to bitch about our boyfriends while we talk about Jason Momoa.”

  She cocks her head. “Who is Jason Momoa?”

  I laugh, but she looks at me like she’s clueless. Oh, my God. She’s serious? She doesn’t know who Jason Momoa is? “Oh, Bridgette,” I say with pity. “Really?”

  She still has no clue who I’m talking about. I grab my phone, but don’t feel like jumping off the bar to enlighten her. “I’ll text you his picture.”

  I find a picture of him and text it to her. I’ve only ever sent her one text in the history of knowing her. Sending her a second one practically makes us best friends now.

  When I hit send, I go back to my messages and open up a missed text from Ridge. He sent it five minutes ago.

  Ridge: Just letting you know that Maggie didn’t want to stay at the hospital tonight so she talked Warren into helping her sneak out. We’re taking her home and we’ll probably stay there just to make sure she’s fine. Are you okay with that? Also, are you having fun with Bridgette?

  I read his text twice. I want to be casual about it all, despite my warring emotions, but I’m scared if I’m too casual, he’ll run to her anytime she misses him. But if I’m not casual enough, I’ll be disappointed in my inability to empathize with Maggie’s situation. I don’t know how to respond, so I do the unthinkable and look up at Bridgette.

  “Ridge says they’re taking Maggie home. She left before she was discharged. Now he and Warren are probably staying the night at her house.”

  Bridgette is staring at her phone. “That’s shitty.”

  I agree. But I don’t know which part she thinks is shitty. Maggie asking them to come when it doesn’t seem like a medical emergency? Ridge saying they might stay the night? Or the entire situation as a whole?

  “Does it ever bother you that she and Warren are so close?”

  Bridgette immediately lifts her head. “Fuck yeah, it bothers me. Warren flirted with her every time she was here. But he also flirts with you and every other woman he comes across. So, I don’t know. For the most part, I trust him. Besides, my Hooters uniform would slide right off that shapeless figure of hers, and tha
t uniform is Warren’s favorite part about me.”

  That explanation was going in such a good direction before it took a nosedive. I don’t even know why I asked how she reacts to their situation, because theirs is so different from ours. Warren dating Maggie for a few weeks when she was seventeen hardly compares to Ridge spending six years of his life with her up until a few months ago.

  Bridgette must see the worry in my expression while I stare back down at the text. “I really don’t think you should stress about it,” she says. “I’ve seen how Ridge is with Maggie and I’ve seen how Ridge is with you. It’s like comparing chopsticks and computers.”

  I look at her, confused. “Chopsticks and computers? How is that—”

  “Exactly,” she says. “You can’t compare them because they’re incomparable.”

  That…somehow…makes complete sense. And makes me feel so much better. I think about the glitter bomb and how Bridgette smiled at me and Ridge when we were laughing together on the floor. I can’t believe I’ve never hung out with this girl before. She’s actually not so mean when you peel back all the layers of…mean.

  “Holy. Shit.” Bridgette is staring at her phone, and based on how she says those two words, it can only mean one thing. She opened the pic I just sent. “Who is this exemplary specimen of man that has somehow never been introduced into my life?”

  I laugh. “That is Jason Momoa.”

  Bridgette brings her phone up to her face and licks her phone screen.

  I cringe and laugh at the same time. “You’re as gross as Warren.”

  She holds up her hand. “Please don’t mention his name while I stare at this man. It’s ruining my moment.”

  I give her a moment to Google image search him while I finish off my glass of wine and reopen my text from Ridge. I type out a response to him and try to avoid the elephant in the room. Or would it be elephant in the phone, since Ridge and I aren’t in the same room?