Page 68 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
My thumb hovers over her contact. I can already picture her seeing my name flash up and letting it go to voicemail. Again. The silence is worse than anger—at least anger means she still gives a shit.
Texting’s like trying to play a drum solo with one stick and a sock on your hand. How the hell do you strip off years of polished charm and show someone your actual heart through a screen? But with Rachel dodging my calls—and yeah, fair play, it’s not surprising—these half-arsed words are all I’ve got left.
Slumped on my bed, I type and delete a dozen messages. Explanations that sound like excuses. Apologies I don’t even buy myself. In the end, I send the only thing that feels true:
It’s not what you think, Rachel. She’s my sister, Briar.
And that was her idea of looking out for me. Call me. Please.
I stare at my phone, waiting for the screen to light up with that tiny word: Read.
Nothing.
I start to pace. End up downstairs, checking in on Briar. She’s out cold, face soft, peaceful—finally. No sign of the girl who turned up on my doorstep at midnight last night with a suitcase and eyes still full of hurt.
Even so, I can’t be angry at her. She thought she was protecting me. That’s what we do, always have. But, Jesus, I wish she hadn’tblown up my one shot with Rachel. The shot I never thought I’d get. And now it’s gone.
When I get back upstairs, my phone lights up. Rachel’s seen the message. A new kind of waiting begins. I asked her to call me, but that’s a hell of an ask—to trust me, after everything. She’s probably thinking this is textbook Teddy: one girl after another tumbling into my bed like it’s part of the itinerary, and me spinning some polished cover story to make it all sound reasonable. I hate how right she’d be about the man I was only a couple of months ago. But that’s not me anymore. This time, there’s no one else—only Rachel.
Around half nine, I crack and call her again. She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t mean it’s over. Just means she needs time.
I’ll call her tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next.
Until she answers.
Chapter 25
IfIhadashred of common sense, I’d have blocked Teddy the moment I got in the car, but I didn’t. Now I’m perched on the edge of my bed, listening to his voicemails again. I’ll give credit where it’s due—the man can spin a bloody good story. Comes with practice, I suppose.
Is this how he cuts a woman out of his life and makes space for the next one? A neat excuse, a handful of messages insisting you’re all he wants, so when you finally do the sensible thing and end it, it looks like you dumped him, not the other way around. Even if it’s just his way of soothing his conscience and not a genuine attempt to explain the disastrous scene on his doorstep, the sound of his voice still gets under my skin.
Before I know it, I’m googling Briar Hargrove, half-hoping to catch him out in a lie. Instead, I find pictures of the fierce woman who, a few hours ago, glared at me like she wanted to push me down his steps. Promo photos from shows, reviews, even an Instagram post of her in the same pink dressing gown. So, no, he wasn’t lying.
Which is why, when my phone rings again and his name flashes up, a part of me aches to answer. I don’t.
I stare at his last message.Call me. Please.I understand exactly why he chose those three words. They’re a hand on my wrist tugging me off-balance. God help me, I want to believe him. But I’m a mess—one moment certain, the next unravelling, swinging between hope and doubt, strength and fear.
If I pick up and he hits the right notes, the soft parts of me will say yes before the sensible parts get a word in; if he fumbles, I’ll torch what’s left out of sheer self-defence. I want to trust Teddy, to hear the reassurance I crave, but every time I reach for it, the warning is loud and clear: don’t be the girl who gets replaced.
Phone in hand, I hover on the edge of calling him, but it’s too risky. I can argue someone else’s case, my words coming out sure, my delivery cool. With Teddy on the other end of the line, I’ll flounder. He deserves an explanation—an apology even—for my lurching emotions. If I’m going to give him that, I’ll do what I’m best at: put it in writing. Give myself time to get it right.
I open a blank text and start typing.
Me:Okay. I believe you about Briar. And I know you probably think I over-reacted. But I have my reasons. Last week was one of the best times of mylife.Yesterday was one of the hardest. You’re one of the good ones. I know that. You pull people in with ease. Make them laugh. You’re kind. But it also feels like you hold people lightly, which makes it easy to let them go. Replace them. I don’t want to be someone you put down when something shinier comes along. I don’t want to be replaceable.
Seeing another woman at your door hurt. It put me straight backin a story I swore I wouldn’t repeat.
I like you. More than is sensible. And that scares me. I’m not ready for a call, but I don’t want to end this either. If you want me to try, I need actions, not promises. If you mean what you’ve said, ask me for a way to let you prove it.
My thumb hovers, then I hit send before I can chicken out. Dots appear almost at once.
Teddy:I hate that I hurt you. Thank you for trusting me anyway. Please give me the chance to show you I won’t drop you when it’s hard. Tell me how to prove it. Set the rules. I’ll follow them. I’m not going anywhere.
I breathe out, the tight band around my ribs easing a notch. Proof, not promises. Right then.
