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.