I've Got Your Number

That’s what I’m doing now.

So we’ll meet.

You never said your mum had died.

I’ve typed it and pressed send before I can stop myself. I stare at the screen, cringing at my own crassness. I can’t believe I said that. Of all the times. Like this is going to be his priority right now.

No. I never did.

I’ve reached the edge of what seems to be a croquet lawn. There’s a wooded area ahead. Is that where he is? I’m about to ask him, when another text bleeps into my phone.

I just get tired of telling people. The awkward pause. You know?

I blink at the screen. I can’t believe someone else knows about the awkward pause.

I understand.

I should have told you.

There’s no way I’m guilt-tripping him over this. That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I wanted him to feel. As quickly as I can, I type a reply:

No. No should. Never any should. That’s my rule.

That’s your rule for life?

Rule for life? That’s not exactly what I meant. But I like the idea that he thinks I have a rule for life.

No, my rule for life is …

I pause, trying to think. A rule for life. That’s quite a huge one. I can think of quite a few good rules, but for life  …

On tenterhooks here.

Stop it, I’m thinking.

Then, suddenly, inspiration hits. Confidently, I type:

If it’s in a bin it’s public property.

There’s silence, then the phone bleeps again with his reply:

I stare in disbelief. A smiley face. Sam Roxton typed a smiley face! A moment later he sends a follow-up.

I know. I don’t believe it either.

I laugh out loud, then shiver as a breeze hits my shoulders. This is all very well. But I’m standing in a field in Hampshire with no coat and no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. Come on, Poppy. Focus. There’s no moon, and all the stars must be hidden behind clouds. I can hardly see to type.

Where ARE you? In the wood? Can’t see a thing.

Through the wood. Other side. I’ll meet you.

Cautiously, I start picking my way through the trees, cursing as a bramble catches my leg. There are probably stinging nettles and snake pits. There are probably man traps. I reach for my phone, trying to text and avoid brambles at the same time.

My new rule for life. Don’t go into spooky dark woods on your own.

There’s silence a moment—then my phone bleeps.

You’re not on your own.

I clutch the phone more tightly. It’s true; with him on the other end, I do feel secure. I walk on a bit more, nearly tripping over a tree root, wondering where the moon’s got to. Waxing, I suppose. Or waning. Whichever.

Look for me. I’m coming.

I peer at his text in disbelief. Look for him? How can I look for him?

It’s pitch-black. Hadn’t you noticed?

My phone. Look for the light. Don’t call out. Someone might hear.

I peer into the gloom. I can’t see anything at all except the dark shadows of trees and looming mounds of bramble bushes. Still, I guess the worst that can happen is I fall off a cliff and break all my limbs. I take another few steps forward, listening to my own padding footsteps, breathing in the musky, damp air.

OK?

Still here.

I’ve reached a tiny clearing and I hesitate, biting my lip. Before I go on, I want to say the things I won’t be able to when I see him. I’ll be too embarrassed. It’s different by text.

Just wanted to say I think you’ve done an amazing thing. Putting yourself on the line like that.

It had to be done.

That’s typical of him to brush it off.

No. It didn’t. But you did it.

I wait a little while, feeling the breeze on my face and listening to an owl hooting above me somewhere—but he doesn’t reply. I don’t care, I’m going to press on. I have to say these things, because I have a feeling no one else will.

You could have taken an easier path.

Of course.

But you didn’t.

That’s my rule for life.

And with no warning I feel a hotness behind my eyes. I have no idea why. I don’t know why I suddenly feel affected. I want to type I admire you, but I can’t bring myself to. Not even by text. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, I type:

I understand you.

Of course you do. You’d do the same.

I stare at the screen, discomfited. Me ? What have I got to do with it?

I wouldn’t.

I’ve got to know you pretty well, Poppy Wyatt. You would.

I don’t know what to say, so I start moving through the wood again, into what seems even blacker darkness. My hand is wrapped round the phone so tightly I’m going to get a cramp. But somehow I can’t loosen my fingers. I feel as though the harder I grip, the more I’m connected to Sam. I feel as though I’m holding his hand.