Chapter Three Camouflage and Cracks #2
His mum might be chaotic. Scattered as dandelion fluff and forever chasing some harebrained business venture that never quite took off.
But at least she let him feel . Let him and Piper be loud, messy, heartbroken if they needed to be.
She never once told them to be tougher, harder, quieter.
Never even flinched when Freddie came out gay or when Piper got pregnant two months into a new relationship.
And when their dad had walked out before Piper could even say daddy , she never let that absence become an authority.
No man had a say in who they could be.
Not like Nathan.
Not like that day.
Now, as Freddie sat in the car across the road, watching the older man move in and out of the porch light, Ron looked like any other pensioner Freddie might have to talk down from a shouting match or shuffle home from the pub on a Friday night.
Another worn-out soul the years had softened around the edges.
He was the local mechanic now. Owned a garage.
Near to the station. Freddie took his car out of town when it needed an MOT to avoid having to see him.
Under the porch bulb, Nathan hobbled down the drive, dragging the bags behind him, a limp unmistakable. Injury or old wound? Freddie didn’t know. Only that it made his gut twist. Because he didn’t know how that had happened. He’d missed it all.
He should look away.
Should put the car in gear and drive back to the life that didn’t include Nathan Carter.
But he couldn’t.
He shifted out of sight, ducking low. Studying Nathan as if this was another surveillance job.
Nathan reached the bin, dumped the bags in with a grunt, then paused.
Stood there at the edge of the drive, breathing as if he hadn’t done that all day, head tilted back, hands on his hips, and closed his eyes beneath the sprinkling of stars.
And in that quiet, splintering second, Freddie saw him. Not the man from earlier, not the stranger behind a pane of glass, but his Nathan. The boy who used to laugh too loud, who kissed as if he was drowning, and swore he’d never turn out like his old man.
Freddie’s heart cracked at the edges.
He wanted to call out. Step from the shadows and close the aching distance between them. Say something that might bridge years of silence.
But his phone rang.
Loud.
Freddie swore under his breath, scrambling for it in the dark. Across the road, Nathan’s head jerked in his direction, eyes scanning the street.
Freddie froze.
But a voice calling from the doorway tore through the moment, “ Dad! ”
Nathan turned away.
Freddie ducked low, heart hammering, and jabbed at the screen to silence the call.
The ringtone died with a pathetic chirp, but the damage was done, and he clutched the phone, hardly daring to move as Nathan limped back up the drive, urgency in his stride.
He reached the porch, exchanged a few words with Alfie , then disappeared inside.
The red door closed behind him with quiet finality.
And Freddie blew out a close-call breath.
“Freddie? You there?”
Shit. Freddie fumbled with the handset, plugged it into the car’s console, and turned the ignition enough to light up the screen. “Hey, Jude.”
A pause. Then a wry voice crackled through, a hint of a more northern accent than Freddie was used to from these parts. Yorkshire based probably. He didn’t know because he’d not really asked and Jude hadn’t offered.
“Most people sing that line, you know.”
Freddie huffed a half-laugh, focus still fixed on the red door as if sheer will might make it swing open again. “Yeah, well. I like to be different.”
“Yeah.” Jude paused, the stretch poignant. “You are.”
Freddie didn’t answer that. He let it hang and finally peeled himself away from the kerb, setting his phone on the dash as he eased the car out of Faraday Road, red door disappearing in the rearview mirror.
“I was calling to see if you fancied the pub quiz down the Dog and Duck tonight?” Jude said.
“We’re a player down on the teacher’s team.
We’ve got all the bases covered. Obviously, I’ve got history locked down.
Tom’s our English Lit whiz, Mel’s numbers and science, Donna’s drama and our resident celeb/media addict. ”
“Lemme guess.” Freddie turned onto the bypass. “PE teacher dropped out.”
“Yep. Quit completely.”
“The team?”
“The school. So I thought of you. ”
Freddie snorted. “Because of my lifelong passion for sport?”
“You play in the emergency services five-a-side tournament, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“And you run. Go to the gym. I’ve even seen you look at a rugby match when it was on the pub screens. You’ve got more sport knowledge than any of us.”
At the next roundabout, Freddie slowed, one hand on the wheel, the other scrubbing down his face.
Exhaustion and grit clung to him. But he should say yes.
Let himself be pulled into something light and normal.
A few pints. A laugh. Quiz questions and bad team names.
Maybe finally meet the people Jude talked about so often.
Maybe let someone take care of him for five minutes.
“Had a pretty shitty shift, to be honest,” he sighed. “I stink.”
“Have a shower here, then.” Despite the boldness of the statement, Jude’s voice was tentative. As if reaching out but half-expecting to be pushed away. “I’ll cook something. We can walk to the pub from here.”
A pause.
“You can stay the night.”
Freddie tightened his grip around the steering wheel, knuckles pale. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The words hung there, suspended in static.
“I’m…”
Why was he hesitating?
Twenty-four hours ago, he would’ve said yes without thinking.
Would’ve driven straight over, stripped off in Jude’s tiny bathroom with its novelty soap and cold tile floor, and let the evening go wherever it wanted.
No questions. No hesitation. They’d been seeing each other a few weeks now.
Ever since Freddie had been roped into giving one of those “community policing” talks at the local secondary school—stay away from gangs, don’t carry knives, the police are your friends, not your enemies.
Jude had been at the back of the hall, arms folded, watching with a look that said he didn’t fully buy it, but was too polite to say so.
They’d exchanged numbers after. Grabbed a pint the following week.
A kiss had followed, mellow and unassuming, outside the pub.
That was it. Nothing more. Freddie had figured it was a slow burn.
Polite smiles. Lingering touches. Flirting staying safely within the lines.
He’d been waiting for the moment they’d push it further.
Turn up the heat. Let it slip into something more.
But now, all he could think about was Nathan.
Suddenly, waiting wasn’t a problem anymore.
Usually, for Freddie, sex came first. That was the easy part. Like with Reece. A bit of mess, some sweat, then the soft stuff, if it came at all, would follow. With Reece it hadn’t. Not really. And after the third time of trying, even the sex fizzled out.
But this careful dance of getting to know someone, of taking it slow, was unusual. And now, instead of being excited, he felt… off. Disoriented. As if he was about to walk into something wearing the wrong skin.
As if he was lying.
To whom, though? Jude? Or himself?
“If you’d rather go home, I understand—”
“I’ll be there in five,” Freddie cut in, his subconscious pushing him towards where he should be.
A beat. Then: “Great.”
He ended the call, letting the silence rush in to fill its place. His skin prickled, that low hum of unease spreading beneath his collar, crawling up the back of his neck. He couldn’t name the feeling exactly. Restlessness? Guilt? Something colder? But it clung to him like damp air.
He told himself it was nothing. That as soon as he walked into Jude’s house, the shadow of Nathan Carter would lift clean off his back. That a hot shower, a warm meal, and a night tangled in fresh sheets would reset whatever had got stuck in his head.
He’d done it before. More times than he could count.
His libido had a talent for wiping memories clean.
Freddie pulled up alongside the semi-detached cottage, killed the engine, and stepped out into the cool evening air.
The house was tucked off the main road, a squat little thing with cared-for greenery creeping up the brickwork and a pale blue door with a porch light glowing like a welcome sign.
A far cry from the dilapidated Faraday Road.
And there was Jude, already pulling the door open.
He looked as impossibly charming as ever, standing barefoot in the doorway as if he belonged in some lifestyle magazine spread.
A mop of brown curls flopped over his forehead, glasses slipping down his nose, his face clean-shaven and freshly scrubbed.
He wore a threadbare T-shirt with some indie band logo faded across the chest and that easy, open smile that usually made Freddie forget whatever crap he was carrying.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he felt hollow.
“Hope you like fajitas.” Jude stepped aside. “It was all I had in.”
Freddie nodded, forcing a smile. “Sounds great.”
Jude leant in, and Freddie instinctively tilted his head for a kiss, but Jude’s nose brushed his neck instead.
“You smell alright to me.”
Freddie snorted. “Then you’ve got a fetish for copper grit. ”
“Maybe I do.” Jude grinned, playful as ever, and gestured him inside with a tilt of his head.
Freddie stepped over the threshold, into a house that didn’t quite feel lived in yet.
The front room smelt faintly of furniture polish and supermarket flowers, the walls a dove grey, the furniture neat but impersonal.
Recently purchased and come as part of a set.
A single framed print hung above the mantel, abstract and forgettable.
No clutter. No books stacked by the sofa. No photos.
It felt like a place waiting for someone to make it a home.