CHAPTER NINE
RORY
I stay sitting in the glow of her nightlight for a minute longer than I need to, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing until I feel my own settle a little. Then I get up and close her door softly behind me.
The house is quiet in a way that feels heavier after nights like this.
Glitter still clings to the hallway carpet, my cowboy hat is hanging off the banister and there’s a faint trace of Isla’s strawberry shampoo in the air.
And underneath it all, threaded through everything, whether I like it or not, is Freya.
I head downstairs and pour myself a glass of water, leaning back against the counter as the silence presses in.
I saw Theo’s Dad again this morning, wandering into their house with Theo on his shoulders, Freya grinning from the kitchen window.
Seeing them as a happy gives me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Moments like this remind me that she’s not mine.
She never was. They are all happy together and beneath the hurt, I am happy for Freya too.
So that’s that. End of story. Except apparently not. Because when she stood on my doorstep tonight, looking at me like I’d just personally offended her nervous system by existing in a towel, all that logic went straight out of the window.
I push away from the counter and pace the length of the kitchen once, twice. This is stupid. She has someone. I don’t get to circle back ten years later and start imagining things.
I drag a hand through my hair, already aware of the direction my thoughts are heading and hating it. I exhale slowly through my teeth.
You are a grown man.
And she is another man’s woman.
That should be enough. It is not enough.
I head upstairs, telling myself I’m just tired, just wired from the night, just replaying things because that’s what brains do when they don’t know how to settle or how to deal with old feelings coming back up.
In my room, I shut the door and sit on the edge of the bed for a second, barely contemplating what I’m about to do. This is a bad idea. I know it is. But I lie back anyway. It’s not romantic. It’s not tender. It’s not slow. It’s frustration. Pure and simple.
I shouldn’t want her. I absolutely should not be about to do this while thinking about the way she flushed when I looked at her. But I am. And I can either sit here pretending I’m above it, or I can deal with it and move on.
So I do.
Her name almost slips out of my mouth once and I clamp my teeth down hard enough to stop it, letting out a low groan.
When it’s over, the room is quiet again and I feel… irritated. Relieved, physically but annoyed, emotionally.
I turn onto my side and reach for my phone, resisting the ridiculous urge to stalk her Facebook page and assess how happy she really is with this James guy.
I am not that guy.
I toss the phone onto the bedside table instead and switch the lamp off.
Tomorrow I’ll look at more houses. Tomorrow I’ll focus on Isla. Tomorrow I’ll stop thinking about the way Freya Collins gawked at me in a towel. But for now, she’s all I can think about.