Backstage Secrets

Chapter Four - Wrong Number, Wrong Time

The drive home from school was supposed to be quiet. Just me, the hum of my ancient car, and the steady rhythm of my thoughts reminding me what an idiot I was for letting Hannah and Chloe talk me into this concert.

Instead, my phone lit up on the passenger seat, buzzing like it owned me.

Liam.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. For a second, I considered ignoring it, letting his name vanish into missed calls. But curiosity—or maybe weakness—made me swipe anyway.

"What do you want?" My voice came out flat, sharper than I intended.

On the other end, he chuckled. That same smug sound that used to make me melt. Now it just made my stomach twist. "Hey, Ivy. Relax. I just wanted to hear your voice."

I rolled my eyes at the windshield. "Congratulations. You heard it. Now goodbye."

"Wait," he rushed, like I might actually hang up. "Look, I screwed up, okay? I shouldn't have texted you like that. It was... stupid. I was stupid."

"Understatement of the year," I muttered, flicking my blinker on.

"I miss you." His voice dipped lower, almost pleading. "I can't stop thinking about you."

I pressed my lips together, hard. God, why now? Why when my friends had finally convinced me to breathe again?

"Don't," I whispered. "Don't do this, Liam."

"I mean it," he insisted. "You know I always liked you, Ivy. You're different. You're not like the other girls."

I barked a laugh so harsh it startled even me. "Not like the other girls? That's your line? You dumped me in the middle of history class, Liam. You humiliated me."

Silence filled the line for a beat. Then, softer: "I regret it. I want you back."

The worst part? A tiny, traitorous part of me almost believed him. Almost wanted to cave. Because being wanted, even by the wrong person, felt better than being left behind.

But then I remembered Hannah's words. Distraction. Something epic. Something he'd hate knowing you enjoyed without him.

"I'm busy," I said, forcing steel into my tone.

"With what?"

I smirked at the road, even though he couldn't see it. "Floor tickets. Saint Creed. Tonight."

The line went so silent I thought he'd hung up. Then he practically spat the words: "You've got to be kidding me. That washed-up wannabe? You hate him."

"No, Liam. You hate him," I corrected. "Turns out, I don't really care what you think anymore."

And before he could respond, I ended the call, tossed the phone back onto the seat, and cranked the radio loud enough to drown out the pounding in my chest.

For the first time in days, I smiled. Maybe this concert wasn't such a bad idea after all.