Page 89 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Maybe I hadn’t outgrown this life.

Maybe I was just… rearranging it.

One bloom at a time.

…

I pressed the phone tighter against my ear as the line rang for the fifth time. Then the sixth. The familiar voicemail prompt kicked in, Damien’s deep voice clipped and professional. It didn’t match the version of him I knew—the one who kissed my shoulder while brushing flour off his shirt or whispered sweet nothings between the garden beds we planted together.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said after the beep, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice. “No big reason for the call. Just… wanted to hear your voice.”

I hesitated, then added more softly, “I missed you today. Thought you might want to know that the garden room turned out beautifully. Marge and Eleanor practically cried when I told them we could host our first event in three weeks. And Hazelcalled dibs on booking the first birthday party—even though it’s not for another six months. Classic Hazel.”

Still no answer. Just the eerie silence after a voicemail sends and the echo of too much space between us.

I set the phone down and stared at it like it might blink to life with a message, a missed call, a sign.

Nothing.

So I opened the recording app and hit the button for a voice note. My voice came out low and careful, like I was writing with a pen I wasn’t sure still had ink.

“Hi, Damien. I know you’re probably swamped—and if this is about work, that’s okay. I just wanted you to know I’m here. I know we’re both navigating something big right now, and maybe we’re not saying everything we should. But I believe in us. In this. In whatever we’re building, even if the blueprint keeps changing. So just… when you’re ready, call me, okay?”

I stopped the recording, heart thudding in my chest like I’d just run a race instead of poured my feelings into a digital bottle and tossed it into the sea of silence.

It was after nine when I wandered out into the garden.

The string lights Damien had hung months ago flickered gently overhead, casting soft halos on the stone path. The air was cool, but not cold, and the scent of lavender and late-blooming roses drifted around me like the memory of his cologne.

I sank onto the wooden bench beneath the pergola, wrapping my arms around myself and staring at the space beside me—where he’d sat so many nights with his thigh brushing mine and his fingers laced through mine.

It felt hollow now.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and whispered into the quiet, “Tell me you’re still in this with me.”

The breeze rustled the leaves but gave no reply.

I closed my eyes.

It wasn’t like Damien to vanish. He didn’t play games. He wasn’t the kind of man who ghosted. He was solid, steady—even when broody. Which meant something was wrong. Or heavy. Or hard.

And I couldn’t fix it with fresh-cut flowers or warm muffins or another heartfelt voicemail.

I needed his voice.

Just as I started to rise, the phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket.

Damien.

I didn’t even check the screen before I answered. “Hey.”

His voice cracked down the line, low and uneven. “Ruby.”

My breath caught.

There was silence for a beat too long, and then he exhaled like he’d been holding it all day.

“I need to talk,” he said, the edge of something raw in his voice. “I did something today I haven’t done in a long time—and it changed everything.”

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