Page 52 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
He threads his fingers through mine and pulls me past a bewildered Ollie. His hand is warm, steady. I don’t let go, though I probably should. No idea if Sam noticed, but I don’t need her putting two and two together. After all her teasing about liking Teddy, I’d hate to prove her right.
In the ballroom, just as he did yesterday, Teddy drops into place at the piano like it belongs to him. I lean against it, tambourine dangling from one hand, not sure what I’m meant to do.
My palm still tingles from his grip. The chill from the morning ride is gone now, replaced by something warmer. Closer. Maybe it’s the heat still clinging to my skin from the shower, or the scent of him that won’t quite rinse away. I tell myself it’s only soap lingering, not him. Label it chemistry, not feeling. Or maybe it’s the memory of last night, sitting quietly like a breath held between us. I slide it into the file marked ‘One Week’ and tuck it away.
Somewhere in the dark, Teddy stopped being just a distraction. That wasn’t the plan. Liking him wasn’t the plan. Call it proximity, and carry on.
Teddy rolls his shoulders, stretching, then plants his hands on the keys.
“What song are we doing?” I ask. “And what do you actually want me to do?” I lift the tambourine and give it a playful shake. Its sharp tingle cuts the hush of the empty ballroom.
“The final song for the next album,” he says. “Mine.”
“The one you said you weren’t sure about?”
“The one I’m sure about now.” He glances up. “Thanks to you.”
I blink. “I don’t see how me flailing a tambourine is going to add much.”
“It will. Just having you there. Knowing you believe in me. In this. It’s enough.” His eyes hold mine. Quiet. Unflinching.
He hesitates, then goes on, voice lower, like he’s afraid to name it out loud. “That I’m talented. That I’ve got something. You didn’t say it like it was a compliment. You said it like it was a fact. You don’thand out bullshit, Rachel. So when you said that…I don’t know. It stuck.”
He sits up taller at the piano. Not cocky, not casual, but settled. Centred. Like he’s shaken off the version of himself that used to second-guess.
“When I saw myself through your eyes…I thought…I might actually be good enough. Maybe the song could be too.”
I should say something. A joke. A quip. Anything to pull the focus off me, because I’m not used to mattering this much.
But I just nod, because the look on his face—as if I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking for years—has me rooted to the spot.
Maybe Iamthe difference.
“So,” he says, like it’s already decided. “You and I are doing this song tonight. And I’m taking it to the others. For the album.”
I prop a hip against the curve of the grand piano, my palm flat on the cool lacquer like a torch singer waiting for her cue. But I’m not the main event. He is.
The melody starts out simple, almost tentative. A few quiet notes, played like he’s not sure he wants anyone to hear them. Then it builds, gathering weight and urgency, the rhythm tightening as it goes. I feel it through the heel of my hand—wood humming, a soft pedal thud. I close my eyes and let it pull me under, the sound all-consuming for a moment, until it cuts out. No warning. Just silence. Then he plays the opening again, soft and steady, like it was never anything else.
“Teddy, it’s beautiful,” I say as the final note shimmers in the air. It doesn’t feel like enough. But how do you put words to something that pulls you apart and puts you back together in under three minutes? And that’s before I’ve even heard the lyrics.
“So, where do you want me?”
He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans, unfolds it with care and hands it to me. It’s covered in a scrawl of blue ink. Underlines, crossings-out. As I read, it feels like opening his diary. Even after only a few days, this feels raw. Honest. Something I doubt he’s shared before. I swallow hard.
“Fuck, Teddy,” I say, trying to pretend I didn’t just see this guy’s soul laid bare, “with handwriting like that you could have been a doctor.”
He smiles up at me. “Just as long as you can read the parts I’ve underlined. Throw in a bit of harmony. I can handle the rest.”
We spend the next hour practising. Well, I do. Teddy already knows exactly how to deliver this song. His voice wavers in the top notes, so fragile and vulnerable it raises goosebumps. My own voice finds its place next to his without effort, like it knows how to fold itself around him.
As I open the ballroom door to leave, Haley’s there.
“Oh!” Her eyes widen. “Sorry, I wasn’t spying or anything.” She giggles, and for a second, I just want to pull her into a hug. I love this girl and, thanks to all the challenges, I haven’t seen her enough this week. “It’s just…I don’t think I’ve heard that one before. Don’t tell Christian there’s a Stellar Riot song I don’t recognise right away. And it better not be one he wrote.”
“No, you’re good,” Teddy sayswith a grin. “It’s not one of his.”
Two hours later, the ballroom we’d had to ourselves is almost unrecognisable. Chandeliers glow low and buttery over rows of wheelchairs and tartan lap-rugs; peppermint humbugs crack between dentures while Loreena distributes pencils and scoresheets. Laughter ricochets off the garland-draped walls, filling the room with a festive bustle.
