Maybe Now (Maybe 2)

Sydney: Apparently not as eventful as yours.

Her text confuses me. I look at Warren, who is walking out of the bathroom. “Did you tell Sydney about the argument last night?”

“Nope,” Warren says. “I haven’t talked to either one of them today. My guess is that they’re hungover and still in bed.”

My chest tightens because her text is unlike her.

Ridge: What do you mean?

Sydney: Check Instagram.

I immediately close out my texts to her and open Instagram. I scroll down until I see it.

Son of a bitch.

Maggie posted a picture of us. She’s making a silly face up at the camera and I’m next to her. In her bed. Asleep. The caption reads, “Haven’t missed his snoring.”

I fist my phone in both hands and pull it to my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut. This. This is why I should have stayed home.

I stand up. “Where’s Maggie?”

Warren nods toward the hallway and signs, “The laundry room.”

I walk to her laundry room and find her casually hanging up a shirt like she didn’t just try to sabotage my relationship with Sydney with her petty Instagram post. I hold up my phone. “What’s this?”

“A picture of you,” she says, matter-of-fact.

“I see that. But why?”

She finishes hanging up the shirt and then leans against her washing machine. “I also posted a picture of Warren. Why are you so mad?”

I roll my head and throw my hands up in frustration. I’m confused why she did it in the first place, and now I’m confused as to why she’s acting like it isn’t a big deal.

She pushes off her washing machine. “I didn’t realize we had rules to this friendship. I’ve posted pictures of all of us for six years. Are we catering our lives to Sydney now?” She tries to walk toward the door, but I step in front of it.

“You could show a little respect for our situation.”

Maggie’s eyes narrow. “Are you serious right now? Did you really just ask me to show respect to the relationship you’re in with the girl you cheated on me with?”

That is not fair. We’re past that now. At least I thought we were. “You could have posted any picture of me, but you chose to post one of me in your bed. A bed I was in because I stayed up for hours to make sure you were okay. Using that as an opportunity to throw my mistake back in my face is not fair, Maggie.”

Her jaw hardens. “You want to talk fair? How fair is it that you’re the one who had an emotional affair, but I’m the one who has to be sensitive about what I post on Instagram? How fair is it that I’m the bad guy for eating a Twix? I wanted a fucking Twix, Ridge!” She pushes past me, so I follow her. She spins around when she reaches her living room. “I forgot how I’m never allowed to have any fun when you’re around. Maybe you shouldn’t come back, because this is the worst day I’ve had in months!”

In all my years of knowing her, I’ve never been this mad at her. I don’t know why I thought this could work. “If you have an actual emergency, let me know, Maggie. I’ll be here for you. But until then, I can’t be friends with you.” I walk to the front door and swing it open, then face Warren. “Let’s go.”

Warren is standing in the living room, frozen, at a complete loss as to what to say or do. “What about Maggie’s car?”

“She can take an Uber.” I walk out of Maggie’s house and head for Warren’s car.

It takes him a few minutes to finally walk outside. I’m sure he was reassuring Maggie. Let him. Maybe he can reassure the unreasonable, but I sure can’t.

When Warren finally makes it to his car, I open up my texts to Sydney. I don’t even try to justify the picture with an excuse. I’ll explain it all to her when I’m face to face with her.

Ridge: I’m sorry she posted that, Sydney. I’m on my way back to my apartment now.

Sydney: No hurry. I won’t even be at your apartment when you get here.

I get a separate text from Bridgette.

Bridgette: Dick. You’re a dick. Dick, dick, dick.

Sydney: And don’t bother coming to my apartment. Me and Bridgette are having another sleepover.

Bridgette: NO DICKS ALLOWED!

I close out the texts to both of them and lean my head against the seat. “Drive to Sydney’s apartment first.”

I sit down on the couch after Warren closes the door. I stare at the floor.

I bury my face in my hands.

What is wrong with me?

I pushed Jake away. I pushed Ridge away. I even told Warren to get the hell out of my house when he stayed back and tried to get me to tell him why I was acting the way I was.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me this week. This isn’t me. I, honest to God, don’t want to be in a relationship with Ridge, but when I woke up this morning and saw him asleep next to me, it felt good to have him back. I’ve missed him. But not in a romantic way. I’ve just missed his company. And I started wondering if he missed my company, or if Sydney is all he needs now. Then I started feeling insecure again because he was here, even though he expressed just how much he didn’t want to be here. And as I laid there and stared at him, I started thinking about the day I found all the messages between him and Sydney and I got angry all over again.

I shouldn’t have posted the picture. I know that. But I think I did it because I thought it would make me feel better in some twisted way. I missed him, I was angry at him, I was angry at myself. I feel like years of just trying to live despite this illness is catching up to me. Because Ridge is right. I don’t take care of myself like I should, but it’s because I’m sick of this illness, and sometimes I don’t care if it wins. I really don’t.

I pull out my phone and delete the picture; then I open a text to Ridge.

Maggie: It’s been the shittiest week of my life and I took it out on you and I’m sorry. Tell Sydney I am so sorry. I deleted the picture.

I hit send and then power off my phone and lie down. I press my face into the couch and I cry.

The problem with hating yourself when you’re all alone is that you have no one to remind you of any of your good qualities. Then you just hate yourself even more, until you sabotage anything good in your life and in yourself.

I’m at that point.

Maggie Carson. Not so much of a badass today.

I had so much fun last night.

I ate Bridgette’s disgusting pizza and then she told me all about how she and Warren started dating. That only solidified my opinion of their weirdness. Then we watched Justice League and fast forwarded through all the parts Jason Momoa wasn’t in.

I don’t remember much after that because we were several bottles of wine in. My sleep and my fun were both cut abruptly short today when Bridgette shook me awake and shoved Maggie’s Instagram post in my face.

I’m more hurt than angry. I’m sure Ridge will have an excuse. He always does. But what’s Maggie’s excuse? I know, in a sense, I’m the other woman who came between them. I was the Tori in that situation. But I honestly thought we were all beyond that. From the way Warren and Ridge made it sound, she took it well and was even mature about it. But this feels so…petty. Gross, even.

I couldn’t stand being in Ridge’s apartment after seeing her post. The way I felt reminded me of the stark and pitiful misery I went through while I lived there. And the entire place smelled like pepperoni and anchovies. I told Bridgette I was going back to my place, and she went to her room to grab her stuff and told me she was going with me.

I think she might be just as upset as I am, because she brought another bottle of wine with her, and now we’re drinking again and it’s barely two o’clock in the afternoon. But I don’t mind that she’s here. I actually prefer it, because I really don’t want to be alone right now or I’ll over-analyze this entire situation and come up with far-fetched reasons for him being on that bed before he can even explain himself.

Bridgette is sitting cross-legged on my bed. She reaches to the flo

or and grabs her purse, pulling her phone out of it. “That’s it. I can’t take it. I’m commenting on her Instagram post.”

I try to pull her phone away. “Don’t. I don’t even want her to know I saw it. It’ll serve her purpose.”

Bridgette rolls onto her stomach to protect her phone from me. “That’s why I said I’ll comment. I’ll say something to make her feel as insecure as she’s trying to make you feel. I’ll tell her she looks healthy. Everyone knows when you tell someone they look healthy, it really means fat.”

“You can’t say that to someone who is actually sick. And really skinny.”

Bridgette groans and then rolls onto her back, tossing her phone aside. “She deleted it! Dammit!”