“Look,” Warren says, throwing his hands up in the air. “Ridge and Maggie were way overdue for a conversation about this. I wasn’t doing it to be malicious. I was trying to be helpful!”
“Yeah, sounds like the entire trip was a success,” I say.
Warren shrugs, placing his hands on his hips. “There may not be a resolution yet, but Maggie needed to hear everything Ridge had to say. In fact, I think you’d be proud of him. After last night and everything he said to defend you, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that he’s one hundred percent aboard the Sydney train.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “You mean you had doubts before last night?”
Warren looks up at the ceiling. “Not what I meant.” He looks at Bridgette, and I can tell he’s done with this day already. “Let’s go. They need privacy. So do we.”
Bridgette pulls out a chair at the bar and takes a seat. “No. I’m not finished with my wine.”
Warren walks to the counter and grabs the bottle of wine. Then he takes her glass out of her hands and walks out the front door with it. Bridgette looks at the door and then at me. Then at the door and then at me again. Her eyes are full of panic. She points helplessly at the door. “Wine.”
“Go,” I say, walking around Ridge, toward the door.
She rushes to the door and I shut it behind her. When I turn back around, Ridge is leaning his head against the refrigerator, staring at me. I sigh and stare back at him, hating how tired he looks. As irritated as I am at Warren, I’m relieved he explained everything. I’m not as angry at Ridge.
Ridge pulls his phone out and starts to text me. I go to my room and get my phone and then head back to the kitchen as I read his text.
Ridge: I have no idea what’s been happening for the last ten minutes. No one signed a single word of any of that and it’s really hard to read lips when people are angry and moving around.
My shoulders drop when I read his text. I feel bad that we all just excluded him while we argued around him.
Sydney: To sum it up, Warren said you were innocent and he was guilty and Maggie was bitter and it was just a huge cluster-fuck of a slumber party.
Ridge reads the texts and then shrugs a shoulder.
Ridge: No matter the reason, I shouldn’t have been on Maggie’s bed without thinking about how that would make you feel. But for the record, I fell asleep during her treatment and then moved to the couch as soon as I woke up.
Sydney: Well, it wasn’t soon enough. Because it bit you right in the ass.
Ridge: Whoever said Karma is a bitch must have never met her. Because Karma is very friendly and she follows me around everywhere I go. Everywhere. All the time.
I smile, but Ridge just looks so sad. I hate that we’re in the position to have to make up after another argument, and we haven’t even been together a week. I hope this isn’t any indication of how the rest of our relationship is going to go. Of course, the first argument was all his fault and he was being a tool. But this one…
I don’t know. From what I gathered through Warren’s explanation, Ridge really is making a huge attempt at putting me first. It’s just hard when there are so many obstacles. Oh, man. Did I just refer to Maggie as an obstacle? She’s not an obstacle. Her recent behavior is the obstacle.
Ridge: Can I please kiss you? I need to. So bad.
I smile a little as I read his text. He must see it because he doesn’t even wait for me to look up and answer him. He just rushes toward me and lifts my face and then presses his mouth firmly to mine. He kisses me like he’s starved for me. It’s my favorite kind of kiss from him. It’s so desperate and mostly one-sided from him that the strength behind his kiss ends up forcing me backward. He continues kissing me until my back is against the living room wall. But as desperate as it is, it’s not a sensual kiss. It’s just full of need. A need to feel me and know I’m not upset. A need for reassurance. A need for forgiveness.
After a good minute of him kissing me, he presses his forehead to mine. Still, even after I’ve let him kiss me, he seems distraught. I slide my hand up to his cheek and brush my thumb across it, bringing his eyes to mine.
“Are you okay?”
He inhales and then slowly exhales. He nods unconvincingly and then pulls me against him. I barely have time to wrap my arms around him when he bends down and slides an arm behind my knees and lifts me up. He carries me to the bedroom and lowers me to the bed.
Whatever is still bothering him can wait, because his mouth is on mine again. But this time his kiss isn’t a need for my reassurance. It’s just a need for me. He pulls his shirt over his head and then stands up and slides off my pajama bottoms. Then he’s over me again, his tongue in my mouth, his hand sliding up my thigh, lifting my leg.
I want to hear him. Since the moment I described how hot his noises were last night, I’ve been craving them all. I unzip his jeans and slip my hand inside, pulling him out and guiding him inside of me.
His mouth is against my neck when I get his groan. It rumbles up his chest as he pushes into me, and then he sighs, softly, as he pulls out. He repeats the rhythm and I close my eyes. The entire time he makes love to me, I remain quiet and listen to the sensual sounds of Ridge.
There are three things that produce such beautiful sounds, that countless poems have been written about them.
Oceans, waterfalls, and rain.
I’ve only been to the ocean once. Sounds of Cedar played a gig in Galveston two years ago and I joined them for the trip. The morning after the concert, I walked to the beach. I took my shoes off and sat down in the sand and watched the sun rise.
I remember this feeling building inside me as I watched it. Almost like every negative emotion I’ve ever felt was evaporating with each new ray of sun that trickled out over the horizon.
It was a feeling of complete and utter awe, like nothing I had ever experienced. And as I sat there, I realized I was in awe of something that occurs every single day, and has occurred every single day since the very first sunrise. And I thought to myself, “How can something be so magnificent when it isn’t even a thing of rarity?”
The sun and its rise and fall is the most expected, dependable, and repetitive natural occurrence known to mankind. Yet, it is one of the few things that maintains a universal ability to render a man speechless.
In that moment as I sat alone on the beach, my toes buried in the sand, my hands wrapped around my knees…I wondered, for the first time, if the sunrise made a sound. I was almost positive it didn’t. If it did, I was sure I would have read about it. And I was sure there would be more poetry about the sound of the sunrise than there is about oceans or waterfalls or rain.
And then I wondered what that same sunrise must feel like to those who could hear the ocean as the sun broke itself free from the constraints of the horizon. If a soundless sunrise could mean so much to me, what must it mean to those who watch it as it’s accompanied by the roll of the water?
I cried.
I cried…because I was deaf.
It’s one of the few times I’ve ever felt resentful about this part of me that has limited my life so significantly. And it’s the first and only time I’ve ever cried because of it. I still remember how I felt in that moment. I was angry. I was bitter. Upset that I had been cursed with this disability that hindered me in so many ways, even though most of my days were spent not even thinking about it.
But that day—that moment—gutted me. I wanted to feel the complete effect of that sunrise. I wanted to absorb every call of the seagulls flying overhead. I wanted the sound of the waves to enter my ears and trickle down my chest until I could feel them thrashing around in my stomach.
I cried because I felt sorry for myself. As soon as the sun had risen fully, I stood up and walked away from the beach, but I couldn’t walk away from that feeling. The bitterness followed me throughout the entire day.
I haven’t been back to the ocean since.
As I sit here with my hands pressed against the tile of the shower, the spray of the water beating down on my face, I can’t help but think about that feeling. And how, until that moment, I never truly understood what Maggie probably feels on a daily basis. Bitter and hurt that she was dealt a hand in life that she’s expected to accept with grace and ease.
“Yeah, sounds like the entire trip was a success,” I say.
Warren shrugs, placing his hands on his hips. “There may not be a resolution yet, but Maggie needed to hear everything Ridge had to say. In fact, I think you’d be proud of him. After last night and everything he said to defend you, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that he’s one hundred percent aboard the Sydney train.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “You mean you had doubts before last night?”
Warren looks up at the ceiling. “Not what I meant.” He looks at Bridgette, and I can tell he’s done with this day already. “Let’s go. They need privacy. So do we.”
Bridgette pulls out a chair at the bar and takes a seat. “No. I’m not finished with my wine.”
Warren walks to the counter and grabs the bottle of wine. Then he takes her glass out of her hands and walks out the front door with it. Bridgette looks at the door and then at me. Then at the door and then at me again. Her eyes are full of panic. She points helplessly at the door. “Wine.”
“Go,” I say, walking around Ridge, toward the door.
She rushes to the door and I shut it behind her. When I turn back around, Ridge is leaning his head against the refrigerator, staring at me. I sigh and stare back at him, hating how tired he looks. As irritated as I am at Warren, I’m relieved he explained everything. I’m not as angry at Ridge.
Ridge pulls his phone out and starts to text me. I go to my room and get my phone and then head back to the kitchen as I read his text.
Ridge: I have no idea what’s been happening for the last ten minutes. No one signed a single word of any of that and it’s really hard to read lips when people are angry and moving around.
My shoulders drop when I read his text. I feel bad that we all just excluded him while we argued around him.
Sydney: To sum it up, Warren said you were innocent and he was guilty and Maggie was bitter and it was just a huge cluster-fuck of a slumber party.
Ridge reads the texts and then shrugs a shoulder.
Ridge: No matter the reason, I shouldn’t have been on Maggie’s bed without thinking about how that would make you feel. But for the record, I fell asleep during her treatment and then moved to the couch as soon as I woke up.
Sydney: Well, it wasn’t soon enough. Because it bit you right in the ass.
Ridge: Whoever said Karma is a bitch must have never met her. Because Karma is very friendly and she follows me around everywhere I go. Everywhere. All the time.
I smile, but Ridge just looks so sad. I hate that we’re in the position to have to make up after another argument, and we haven’t even been together a week. I hope this isn’t any indication of how the rest of our relationship is going to go. Of course, the first argument was all his fault and he was being a tool. But this one…
I don’t know. From what I gathered through Warren’s explanation, Ridge really is making a huge attempt at putting me first. It’s just hard when there are so many obstacles. Oh, man. Did I just refer to Maggie as an obstacle? She’s not an obstacle. Her recent behavior is the obstacle.
Ridge: Can I please kiss you? I need to. So bad.
I smile a little as I read his text. He must see it because he doesn’t even wait for me to look up and answer him. He just rushes toward me and lifts my face and then presses his mouth firmly to mine. He kisses me like he’s starved for me. It’s my favorite kind of kiss from him. It’s so desperate and mostly one-sided from him that the strength behind his kiss ends up forcing me backward. He continues kissing me until my back is against the living room wall. But as desperate as it is, it’s not a sensual kiss. It’s just full of need. A need to feel me and know I’m not upset. A need for reassurance. A need for forgiveness.
After a good minute of him kissing me, he presses his forehead to mine. Still, even after I’ve let him kiss me, he seems distraught. I slide my hand up to his cheek and brush my thumb across it, bringing his eyes to mine.
“Are you okay?”
He inhales and then slowly exhales. He nods unconvincingly and then pulls me against him. I barely have time to wrap my arms around him when he bends down and slides an arm behind my knees and lifts me up. He carries me to the bedroom and lowers me to the bed.
Whatever is still bothering him can wait, because his mouth is on mine again. But this time his kiss isn’t a need for my reassurance. It’s just a need for me. He pulls his shirt over his head and then stands up and slides off my pajama bottoms. Then he’s over me again, his tongue in my mouth, his hand sliding up my thigh, lifting my leg.
I want to hear him. Since the moment I described how hot his noises were last night, I’ve been craving them all. I unzip his jeans and slip my hand inside, pulling him out and guiding him inside of me.
His mouth is against my neck when I get his groan. It rumbles up his chest as he pushes into me, and then he sighs, softly, as he pulls out. He repeats the rhythm and I close my eyes. The entire time he makes love to me, I remain quiet and listen to the sensual sounds of Ridge.
There are three things that produce such beautiful sounds, that countless poems have been written about them.
Oceans, waterfalls, and rain.
I’ve only been to the ocean once. Sounds of Cedar played a gig in Galveston two years ago and I joined them for the trip. The morning after the concert, I walked to the beach. I took my shoes off and sat down in the sand and watched the sun rise.
I remember this feeling building inside me as I watched it. Almost like every negative emotion I’ve ever felt was evaporating with each new ray of sun that trickled out over the horizon.
It was a feeling of complete and utter awe, like nothing I had ever experienced. And as I sat there, I realized I was in awe of something that occurs every single day, and has occurred every single day since the very first sunrise. And I thought to myself, “How can something be so magnificent when it isn’t even a thing of rarity?”
The sun and its rise and fall is the most expected, dependable, and repetitive natural occurrence known to mankind. Yet, it is one of the few things that maintains a universal ability to render a man speechless.
In that moment as I sat alone on the beach, my toes buried in the sand, my hands wrapped around my knees…I wondered, for the first time, if the sunrise made a sound. I was almost positive it didn’t. If it did, I was sure I would have read about it. And I was sure there would be more poetry about the sound of the sunrise than there is about oceans or waterfalls or rain.
And then I wondered what that same sunrise must feel like to those who could hear the ocean as the sun broke itself free from the constraints of the horizon. If a soundless sunrise could mean so much to me, what must it mean to those who watch it as it’s accompanied by the roll of the water?
I cried.
I cried…because I was deaf.
It’s one of the few times I’ve ever felt resentful about this part of me that has limited my life so significantly. And it’s the first and only time I’ve ever cried because of it. I still remember how I felt in that moment. I was angry. I was bitter. Upset that I had been cursed with this disability that hindered me in so many ways, even though most of my days were spent not even thinking about it.
But that day—that moment—gutted me. I wanted to feel the complete effect of that sunrise. I wanted to absorb every call of the seagulls flying overhead. I wanted the sound of the waves to enter my ears and trickle down my chest until I could feel them thrashing around in my stomach.
I cried because I felt sorry for myself. As soon as the sun had risen fully, I stood up and walked away from the beach, but I couldn’t walk away from that feeling. The bitterness followed me throughout the entire day.
I haven’t been back to the ocean since.
As I sit here with my hands pressed against the tile of the shower, the spray of the water beating down on my face, I can’t help but think about that feeling. And how, until that moment, I never truly understood what Maggie probably feels on a daily basis. Bitter and hurt that she was dealt a hand in life that she’s expected to accept with grace and ease.
