CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EMMA
I knew the night was going to be feral the moment Clara suggested tequila before nine.
The Old Oak was already humming when we arrived, warm light spilling through the Tudor windows, fairy lights strung up like the building itself was tipsy.
Rowan clocked us immediately.
“Ah,” he said, polishing a glass. “The chaos committee.”
Clara blew him a kiss.
Freya looked unreal.
I mean properly unreal. Burgundy backless dress. Giant bow trailing down her spine like she was gift-wrapped vengeance. Gold heels that said I am absolutely not here for closure.
I leaned toward Hannah and muttered, “If Rory sees her tonight he’s going to need CPR.”
Hannah fanned herself. “Forget Rory. Half the pub needs CPR.”
We piled into our booth, the booth. Our booth. The one we’ve claimed for years. The one that says women of Oakwood Primary: emotionally unstable but hydrated with tequila.
Drinks landed. Coats flew. Lou announced she was “only having two” which is historically inaccurate.
And I felt… good. Not desperate-to-escape good. Not emotionally-numb good. Just… settled.
I caught Clara watching me.
“What?” I asked.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve had sex.”
I choked on my prosecco.
“I— what?”
Hannah gasped. “Oh my God you absolutely have.”
Lou leaned in. “It’s the shoulders. She’s holding them differently.”
“Shut up,” I hissed, but I could feel my cheeks burning.
Abigail sipped her drink slowly. “Regular sex or we-accidentally-broke-furniture sex?”
I tried to look offended.
Failed.
Clara slapped the table. “IT WAS GOOD SEX.”
Freya blinked at me. “Wait. You and Dan are back-back?”
I hesitated. Because that was the thing. We weren’t just “back.” We were… trying.
“Something shifted,” I admitted. “We stopped keeping score.”
Lou’s eyebrows lifted. “Score?”
“You know. I unloaded the dishwasher. You owe me a blow job.”
A chorus of groans.
Hannah gagged theatrically. “Transactional dick is a plague.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And I realised I didn’t feel wanted. I felt… obligated.”
Freya’s face softened.
“So what changed?” Eleanor asked and I can’t actually decide how I feel about Eleanor being on girls night. Perfect Eleanor and her snide comments but she’s… different somehow.
I swirled my drink, thinking about the kitchen counter. The dancing. The way Dan had looked at me like he hadn’t seen me in years.
“He started flirting again,” I said quietly. “Not grabbing my bum while I was holding a bin bag. Actually flirting.”
Clara raised her glass. “To the death of chore-play.”
We clinked.
Freya stared into her tequila for a second.
“Must be nice,” she muttered.
And that’s when the energy shifted. Because Freya wasn’t glowing. She was vibrating.
The tequila did the rest.
And suddenly she was standing, waving a lime wedge like a courtroom exhibit.
“I just don’t understand why he didn’t say it back!”
We all leaned in.
And as she unravelled, Rory, the city, the history, the fifteen-year ache, I felt two things at once.
First: fury on her behalf.
Second: relief.
Relief that I wasn’t the woman crying over a man who hadn’t chosen her.
Not tonight.
When Clara dragged Freya onto the stage for Kelly Clarkson, I stayed back for a second.
Lou nudged me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, watching Freya belt like her life depended on it. “Just… remembering.”
“Good remembering or bad remembering?”
“Both.”
Because watching Freya sing “Since U Been Gone” like she was exorcising a demon reminded me of the years Dan and I had nearly lost.
The quiet resentment. The roommate phase.
The wondering. And the fact that, somehow, we hadn’t let it swallow us whole.
Clara shrieked the high note. Hannah nearly fell off the stage. The pub roared. Freya came back glowing.
And then she froze.
The girls’ faces changed instantly.
I followed her line of sight.
Rory.
Standing by the door looking like he’d seen a ghost.
Oh.
Oh no.
I leaned toward Clara. “If this ends in public crying I am not emotionally equipped.”
Freya laughed shakily. “You see him too, right?”
“I see him,” Clara muttered darkly.
I watched Rory watch her.
And it hit me. That look. I’ve seen that look before. Dan used to look at me like that. Like the air had shifted. Like he was physically struggling not to cross a room.
Freya marched toward him.
We all held our breath.
And when they disappeared into the back room, Hannah whispered, “Well. That’s either closure or conception.”
Lou turned to me. “Do you think he loves her?”
“Yes,” I said instantly.
Because men don’t look like that unless they’re already lost.
Abigail studied me carefully.
“And Dan?”
I didn’t even hesitate.
“Yes.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Good,” she said. “Because you look like someone who’s finally being chosen.”
That hit. Harder than tequila. Because that’s what it was. Not sex. Not flirting. Not chore negotiations.
Chosen.
When Freya came back later, hair wild, lips swollen, eyes dazed, Clara screamed.
Hannah demanded details.
Lou nearly knocked over a cocktail.
I just smiled.
Because for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t watching someone else’s love story and wondering if mine was dying.
Mine was messy.
Complicated.
Still learning.
But alive.
And when my phone buzzed in my clutch, I glanced down.
Dan: You look unreal tonight.
Dan: Also I miss you.
Dan: Also come home soon before I start texting you things that will get me in trouble with the girls.
Heat rushed up my neck.
Clara leaned over immediately. “What does it say.”
“Nothing,” I lied.
Freya narrowed her eyes. “He’s sexting you, isn’t he.”
I bit my lip.
Hannah shrieked. “SEND A FILTHY ONE BACK.”
I typed before I could overthink it.
Me: Behave.
Me: Or don’t.
Me: I’m wearing my black lacey underwear again.
Three dots appeared instantly.
And I realised something.
Watching Freya fight for hers relationship. Watching Eleanor change into something softer, more vulnerable after her divorce. Watching women around this table laugh and rage and survive.
Love doesn’t look the same for any of us.
But tonight?
It felt possible.
For all of us.