Page 87 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
I fish the launch-party invitation from my jacket. His handwriting is bolder than usual, certain; proof he’s ticking off his list, proving he can be what I need. But I need other things too: my name on a partner’s door, years of slog validated. Unfair? In every way.
I retreat to my bedroom, a place that holds no memories of him. My law diploma hangs above the desk, a relic of nights fuelled by instant noodles and sheer bloody grit. Am I ready to gamble all of it on the possibility of love with a man with his history? Teddy’s voice echoes:I’m done with six-week romances, Rache. I want something that sticks.He means it—he really does—but can he change? That’s the gamble I’d be taking. Do I back the longshot or bet on the sure thing?
My phone buzzes with a message; I flinch.
Teddy:Can’t wait to see you in that dress.
I know that can’t happen. If I put myself out in public again, smiling at his side while the cameras flash, the thing I’ve worked toward for my entire adult life goes up in smoke.
I try to type a reply, backspace, try again. For someone paid to craft watertight clauses, I can’t string three honest words together. And breaking up with someone by text is a shitty thing to do, anyway.
Am I breaking up with him? Maybe. At least for now. Will he still want me if I press pause and he slips back into the easy carousel of beautiful, no-strings women? Unlikely.
I thumb the mic button. He deserves to hear me say it.
“Teddy, these two weeks have been unreal. Thank you—for the dinner, the flowers, all of it. But my boss…” A sob snags; I swallow it down. Steady myself. “My boss has made it clear: I can have pictures in the papers or a partner’s seat. I’ve got no choice. I’ve worked too long. Worked so hard.” I choke as hot tears flood my cheeks; my vision blurs. “Teddy, I need to press pause on us… please understand.”
My finger shakes, hovering, refusing to commit. Then it crashes onto the blue paper-plane. And it’s done.
Three dots pulse for a moment… then vanish.
One renegade tear breaks free, lands on the glass, and turns “Teddy” into a watery smudge.
Chapter 31
Firstbreathoftheday and her scent’s still here—a decadent hit of jasmine and that deeper wisp of smokiness she swears is sandalwood. She’s never set a foot inside this room. But her fragrance has, stealing up the stairs, curling round the pillows, promising she’ll come back.
I roll onto the cold half of the bed and picture her sprawled across these sheets, hair a halo, lips parted, while I make myself slow. When she walks back through my door—and she will—I won’t rush a single inch of her until she’s certain the only thing I’m reaching for is her trust.
I stretch out an arm, grab my phone. Her voicemail glows on the screen, a clean stab, straight to the chest. But I don’t blame her for wanting out. Bloody paparazzi. Frigging tabloids. Forty-eight hours and they’ve shredded the fortnight I spent proving I’m worth her risk. But pause is not the end of the track. Not for us.
I scroll through a few texts, reply to none. A few months back, in this situation, I’d be lying here, thumb hovering over half thealphabet, deciding which name got the invite. Today, I flick over to my DMs and delete a dozen flirty messages without opening them. Each disappears with a satisfying ‘whoosh’, like a cymbal hit, tight and final.
That’s about all I can think of to do. Live my life like the man I want to be, prove it to her in front of the cameras that dog my every step—and wait. I’m not one for playing the long game, but this time, I need to dig deep and keep the beat going for as long as it takes.
After a pummelling with scalding water in the shower, to try and clear my head, I make my way downstairs. I flop on the couch in front of the tv with a bowl of Coco Pops drowning in milk, shovelling in mouthfuls between screaming laps around a racetrack in a virtual F1 car. It keeps my mind from replaying the last week, trying to work out what I could have done differently.
By ten I’m at the studio, frustration turning into down-strokes. I snap the snare so tight the heads vibrate like they’re swearing back at me.
We cut some of ‘Deep End.’ The vocals come easy, my voice rough silk instead of the usual rasp. I leave just enough space in the mix, a place for her when she returns.
“You know she was the first set of ears on this?” I mutter as Garrett gives his amp dial a gentle nudge, listening for a tone only he seems to hear.
He grunts. “Figured. You don’t sing like a guy hiding behind cymbals anymore.”
From the control room, producer Dex Kincaid leans on the talkback toggle. “Harmonies. You want me ringing round, or waiting?”
I tap the talk-button, letting the silence ride the room. “Hold it for now. I have someone.”
Garrett just nods, eyes slicing sideways as he brushes a thumb across a bass string so it hums once. The others hear the warning, and nobody dares voice the question forming on their lips. I’m not afraid to answer it; she’ll be back.
Benji, the assistant engineer, swings in, balancing a tray of flat whites.
“Shot o’ caffeine, Teddy?”
My heel’s already jack-hammering 140 BPM into the floor. I wave him away.
“You sure, mate?” Benji grins, tray balanced on one palm. “You’ll need it out there.” He jerks a thumb toward the foyer. “There’s a bird waving a sign—Teddy, can I have your babies?”
