Chapter twelve
Rory
now
The kettle hums and clicks off and I stand, staring at the rising steam as if it might rearrange my thoughts into something more useful than Freya Collins.
It is deeply unhelpful that she lives directly opposite my parents’ house.
It is even more unhelpful that I keep having to see her playing happy families.
“Daddy!”
Isla barrels into the kitchen, skidding slightly on the tiles, hair already half loose from whatever whirlwind she’s been creating upstairs. “Can I have cereal? And juice? And can I go to Theo’s house soon?”
I blink, dragged back into the room.
“A playdate,” she clarifies, climbing onto the stool and leaning forward conspiratorially. “He said we should build a mega fort. Like, with blankets and the good cushions.”
How does the word playdate suddenly feel way more complicated than it should?
“Yeah,” I hear myself say, because saying no would be ridiculous and saying maybe would invite questions I don’t have the patience to answer. “I’ll ask his mum.”
The words sit between us for a moment. I’ll ask his mum. As though that is a neutral act. As though that wouldn’t involve stepping into her kitchen and pretending I’m not hyper-aware of every inch of space between us.
Isla beams and throws her arms around my waist, hugging me tight enough to knock the breath from my lungs, and I hug her back automatically, grounding myself in something uncomplicated and solid.
This is what matters. Breakfast. School. Being steady. Being the one who shows up. Not Freya and whatever version of her life I’ve decided to imagine in my head.
I see her at the school gate standing slightly apart from the main crowd, tote bag slipping down her shoulder, coffee balanced carefully in one hand, eyes scanning the line of children. The sight of her sends a jolt of electricity through me.
Isla tugs my hand impatiently. “Now?”
“Relax,” I mutter, though I’m not entirely sure which of us needs to hear it more.
We walk over.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my tone easy, as if my pulse hasn’t just picked up for no sensible reason.
“Morning,” she replies, and there’s that small, unguarded smile before she reins it in.
The kids dissolve into chatter almost instantly, Isla and Theo already planning structural engineering projects that will inevitably involve every cushion in her house.
Now would be the moment. Ask about the playdate. Keep it simple. Keep it about the kids.
I glance at her and catch her looking at me at exactly the same time, and something quiet and electric hums in the space between us.
The idea of stepping inside her family home, sitting at her kitchen island, making small talk with her and her partner while trying not to notice how fucking beautiful she is suddenly feels like a very bad plan.
Not because I don’t want to. Because I do. But I know myself, and I know it’s not a good idea.
“Everything okay?” she asks lightly, noticing the hesitation.
“Yeah,” I say, too quickly. “Just didn’t sleep great.”
Which isn’t a lie, exactly. She nods and doesn’t press, turning back to Theo as he begins a dramatic retelling of something that definitely did not happen the way he’s describing it.
The moment passes. And I let it. Because I don’t trust myself to sit across from her at a kitchen table and be normal.
I don’t trust myself not to look at her longer than I should.
I don’t trust myself not to resent a man I don’t even know.
We walk part of the way home together later, the kids racing ahead and arguing about whose house has better snacks.
“Is it good to be back?” she asks after a while.
“Yeah,” I reply, and there’s more in that than I intend. “Feels different.”
“Different good?” she asks.
“I’m still figuring that out,” I say, because it’s safer than the truth, which is that everything feels slightly off balance when she’s this close.
We reach the point of the cul-de-sac where our paths split.
“Well,” she says, adjusting her bag. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I reply, stepping back just enough to re-establish some distance. “See you.”
I watch her walk away then force myself to turn in the opposite direction.
I’ll ask another time about the playdate.
When I can be sure I’m doing it for Isla and not because I’m looking for an excuse to stand in Freya’s kitchen and pretend I don’t still react to her like this.
Because right now, standing too close to her, feeling my heart race and my dick twitch, I am not entirely convinced I would make the sensible choice.