“Fergie, no,” I plead. “Millie likes Callum.Likes, okay?” I try, desperation edging into my voice.
He tilts his head as if processing what I just said. “Millie loves Callum,” he insists stubbornly before flying to the kitchen.
Just my luck.
I groan and follow him. Grabbing his favourite treat from the cupboard, I wave it in the air. “Look what I’ve got.”
He flutters toward me, eyes laser-focused on the snack.
“Millie loves Callum,” he repeats.
“No, Fergie.”
He clicks his beak, then tilts his head again. “Millie pretty?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Yes. Good boy.” I hand him the treat and stroke his feathery head. “Now, let’s go back to the couch. Second half is starting.”
On screen, the players are filing back onto the pitch, and the camera pans to Callum, who waves to the away stand before jogging into position.
“Callum playing,” Fergie says proudly, bouncing on the edge of the coffee table.
“Yes, he is.”
“You lose,”he adds to the screen, shuffling along the edge of the table. Then, he looks at me. “Callum loves Millie.”
My heart skips a beat, and I freeze, not sure I heard him correctly, but then he says it again.
I blink. “What did you say, Fergie?”
“Callum loves Millie.”
“You mean… Millie loves Callum, right?” I say, my heart thudding like a drum.
Fergie stares at me for a second, eyes narrowed in deep thought. Then, turning back to the TV, he says again with confidence, “Callum loves Millie.”
I sit there, unable to move a finger. The match is starting up again, but I can’t focus. Why would Fergie say that? Did he hear Callum say it at some point? Or is he just switching the words around for the fun of it? I ask him again, but of course he ignores me now, too busy shouting at the TV.
Fergie hasn’t said a word about Callum and me since yesterday. Part of me is relieved that he’s finally keeping my secrets to himself instead of squawking them like they’re the news of the century. But the other part of me? That part is desperate to get to the bottom of it. Roxy’s right. This whole situation is going to drive me absolutely insane.
Time to put on my big girl pants and tell Callum how I feel. So what if he doesn’t return my feelings? At least I’ll stop wondering, stop looping through all the maybes and what-ifs. I’m an adult. I can take it.
But the second Callum walks into the living room, tall, relaxed, and fresh from a win, every ounce of my determination melts away like ice cream in July.
“Congrats on your victory,” I say instead, plastering a smile on my face. “Good game.”
“Thanks.” He kicks off his shoes. “How are you? How’s the little monster?”
“We’re both good.” I nod, a little too fast. “I just fed him.”
As Callum heads upstairs to say hello to Fergie, I trail behind him, my stomach doing somersaults. My hands are clammy, and I keep smoothing my shirt for no reason.
Fergie hops onto the top of his cage, flaps his wings once, and waddles to Callum for his usual scratches.
“You lose,” he tells him solemnly.
Callum rolls his eyes. “Right. Did you even watch the match?”
I laugh. “He was too busy scolding the players. I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s the coach.” Drawing a shaky breath, I glance down at myphone. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I want to stop by my place before work. Bye, Fergie.” I wave at him.
