CHAPTER eleven
RORY
twenty YEARS OLD
Oakwood always smelled like cut grass and someone’s barbecue when the sun was out.
I’d barely dropped my bag inside Mum and Dad’s before I was back out the door.
“Don’t be late for dinner!” Mum called after me.
“Won’t!” I lied, already halfway across the cul-de-sac.
First place I ever went when I came home from the city, from training, from anywhere, was Freya.
Always Freya. I didn’t even knock properly, just did that quick double-tap we’d had since we were about eight.
Her mum shouted, “He’s here!” like I was a recurring delivery.
Freya came down the stairs a minute later, sunlight caught in her hair, that smile already waiting for me like it had known I’d show up.
“Miss me?” she asked.
“Obviously,” I said. “I’m unbearable without you.”
She snorted. “You’re unbearable with me.”
We fell into step like we hadn’t spent weeks apart. No catch-up needed. No effort. Just the same rhythm we’d always had.
We stopped at Rose’s Café, same as always. Jam doughnut for me, chocolate for her. Rose winked at us like we were part of a storyline she’d been quietly rooting for since we were young. Then we headed for the woods.
Our clearing wasn’t far, just off the main path, hidden enough that you had to know it was there. The grass was warm and dry, sunlight flickering through the leaves in lazy patches.
Freya kicked off her sandals and dropped onto the grass with a sigh, stretching out on her back. Pale yellow sundress, soft fabric shifting when she moved. Her hair fanned out around her shoulders.
I remember thinking, very clearly, that I was in trouble.
Proper trouble. I’d spent most of my teenage years convinced she was out of my league.
Too sharp. Too kind. Too everything. I’d been the lanky rugby idiot with muddy knees and big dreams. She’d always felt steadier than me, like she knew where she was headed.
But things were changing. Rugby was going well.
Scouts were calling. There was talk of contracts.
For the first time, I didn’t feel like I was standing next to her by accident.
I started wondering what it would look like if I actually…
chose her. If I asked. I’d practised it on the drive down. Like a loser.
“You’re my best friend. I don’t want to ruin that. But I don’t want to pretend I don’t think about you either.”
In my head it sounded calm. Confident. Mature. In reality my hands were sweating and my knees were shaking.
She rolled onto her side, propped up on one elbow, chocolate sitting at the corner of her mouth.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” I asked immediately, panic flaring.
“Dunno. Just weird.”
“I’m not weird.”
She raised an eyebrow.
I sat up, heart hammering so loudly I was convinced she could hear it.
“Frey, I…”
“GET THEM!”
A water balloon exploded against my shoulder. Freya shrieked as another burst at her feet, spraying her dress. A pack of kids from the street came charging through the trees, armed like tiny, feral assassins.
“Fuck sake!” I yelled, scrambling to my feet as another balloon hit me square in the chest.
Freya was laughing so hard she could barely stand, hands up in surrender as she got drenched.
Within thirty seconds we were soaked, chased halfway back toward the path by ten-year-olds with terrible aim and endless enthusiasm.
By the time we escaped, dripping and breathless, the moment had shifted. Now was not the time for the big speech.
She nudged me with her shoulder as we walked back toward the café.
“You were about to say something,” she said, grinning.
“Was not.”
“You were.”
“Probably stupid.”
She bumped me again. “Good. I like stupid.”
I told myself I’d say it later. That there’d be another afternoon. Another moment when it felt exactly right. There’s always another chance. Isn’t there?