Chapter nineteen
Rory
The walk back from school is loud. Oakwood is doing its usual mid-afternoon hum, cars rolling slowly past the green, someone mowing somewhere they probably don’t need to mow. Isla is vibrating beside me like she’s had three energy drinks and a motivational speech.
“Daddy, do you think Theo has Lego dragons?” she asks, skipping slightly. “Because if he does, I’m bringing my castle. But if he doesn’t, then maybe I should bring the purple unicorn. But the unicorn is technically from my birthday set and I don’t want it getting lost.”
“You’re overthinking this,” I say, which is rich considering I have been mentally rehearsing my exit strategy for the last ten minutes.
I am not staying. That is the plan. Drop her off.
Polite hello. Casual smile. Quick excuse about needing to be somewhere.
Leave before I start eye fucking Freya in front of her man.
Isla is still talking. “And if Theo doesn’t like unicorns then that’s fine because I can show him how to train dragons instead.”
“Bring both,” I say absently.
We get home and Isla bolts upstairs to change. I lean against the kitchen counter and exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my jaw. This is fine. It is just a playdate. It is not a psychological experiment designed to test my restraint.
Mum peers over her glasses from the table.
“You look tense,” she says mildly.
“I’m not tense.”
She makes a noise that says she does not believe me.
“Where are you off to?”
“Dropping Isla at Freya’s. Playdate with Theo.”
Mum’s expression shifts in a way I don’t like. Too knowing. Too amused.
“Oh lovely,” she says. “Freya’s always been a good girl.”
Yes. Thank you. Not helpful.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I add quickly. “Just dropping her off.”
Dad folds his newspaper without looking up. “Don’t forget your manners.”
“Christ,” I mutter under my breath.
Isla reappears in leggings and a jumper with suspiciously excessive sparkle, arms full of toys.
“Ready!”
The walk across the cul-de-sac feels longer than usual. The Collins’ house looks exactly the same from the outside. Same red bricks. Same slightly crooked hanging basket. Same window where Freya used to wave at me when we were thirteen and pretending not to like each other.
We knock. I tell myself to keep it normal.
The door opens. And there she is. She looks…
different. Not dressed up. Not trying. Just soft and effortless in jeans and a pale jumper, hair loose around her shoulders like she hasn’t bothered to tame it.
There’s something warmer about her here, in her space, framed by her hallway light.
I immediately make a conscious effort not to stare.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
Theo barrels into view behind her, nearly knocking her sideways in his enthusiasm. “ISLA!”
The kids disappear past us in a blur before I can even process the threshold.
“So, you coming in?” Freya asks innocently.
I pause. Don’t do it Rory. Don’t fucking do it.
“Sure.”
Fuck.
I step inside because I have to. Because it would be strange not to. That’s what I tell myself anyway. And then I immediately regret it. Shit. What have I done?
The house smells faintly like cinnamon, vanilla and washing powder.
Nothing has changed. And yet, everything has.
The hallway still holds the same narrow table with the chipped edge where we used to dump our school bags.
The door frame still has pencil marks climbing up the wood, little scribbled dates beside them.
Freya’s height. Eight. Nine. Ten. And then mine, starting a year later because I insisted on being included.
The fireplace in the front room still houses the old iron grate we used to roast marshmallows over in winter while her dad told terrible stories about ghosts in the woods.
The rug is new. Softer. There are more cushions now.
Brighter ones. And everywhere I look there are signs of Theo.
Small trainers tucked by the radiator. A school jumper draped over the banister.
Lego pieces abandoned like landmines. It’s more feminine than it used to be. More hers.
We move further inside and my eyes catch the photos lining the staircase wall.
Freya and Theo at the beach. Theo missing his front teeth.
Freya laughing with women I recognise from school gates.
Theo in a football kit. Theo covered in cake.
Theo. Freya. Friends. But not a single photo of the man I’ve been mentally preparing to meet. Not one. That’s… odd.
Freya’s voice pulls me back. “Do you want a drink?”
I hesitate for half a second too long. “No, I should probably…”
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
Brilliant.
“Tea, Coffee? I don’t have anything stronger I’m afraid. Not unless you want neat Vodka or a 10 year old bottle of gross looking champagne?”
“Tea is fine” I say, awkwardly stepping into the space.
We sit opposite each other at the kitchen island, and it’s awkward in that charged, careful way where neither of us quite knows where to rest our hands.
“So,” she says lightly, filling the kettle. “You survived the fair.”
“Just about.”
A beat of silence stretches.
“I won’t stay long,” I add, because I feel like I should say it.
“You don’t have to rush off,” she replies. “They’ll be up there for at least an hour building something structurally unsafe.”
I nod, like this is fine. It is not fine. Because I need to know. The question has been sitting in my throat since spotting the lack of any trace of a man in this house. No larger shoes, no photos, no big coat hanging in the hallway.
I clear it casually. “What time does your partner get in from work? I’d love to meet him.”
It sounds polite. Easy. Mature.
Her forehead creases. “Partner?”
I feel something inside me tighten.
“Yeah. The guy I see here with Theo sometimes.”
Realisation dawns slowly across her face. “Oh. James? That’s Theo’s dad.”
My stomach drops slightly. “And…?”
“And we haven’t been together since I was pregnant,” she says, matter-of-fact. “We split up years ago.”
The world shifts. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just a quiet internal detonation. My pulse spikes so fast I’m certain she can see it in my neck. I sit back slightly because if I don’t move I might do something profoundly stupid.
She’s single. She’s been single this whole time.
The image of James in the doorway rearranges itself in my head. Not partner. Co-parent. Not husband. Not the man she goes to bed with. The father of her son.
I must look unhinged because she tilts her head slightly. “You thought…?” she begins.
I run a hand through my hair, buying time. “I just assumed.”
Of course I did. Because that was safer. Because it meant I had a boundary to hide behind.
Inside, something is combusting. All those moments at the fair. The jealousy. The restraint. The constant reminder to myself that she belongs to someone else. She doesn’t. She never did. My chest feels tight and my shoulders are locked and I have absolutely no idea what my face is doing.
Get it together.
She’s watching me now with open curiosity.
“Rory?”
“Yep,” I say cough out quickly.
Internally I am spiralling at high speed.
She’s single. She’s single. She’s single Fuck.
Which means the only thing stopping me before was an assumption and knowing that our ship sailed long ago.
Which means I have been behaving like a martyr for no reason.
Which means I have even less of an excuse now.
Footsteps thunder overhead and then the kids burst into the kitchen, mid-argument about dragons and castle placement, breaking whatever fragile thing was building between us.
Thank god.
“Daddy!” Isla shouts. “Theo’s Lego is amazing!”
Theo beams at Freya. She laughs, easy and warm, and I look at her properly this time.
Not like she belongs to someone else. Not like she’s completely off-limits.
And even though I know this changes everything, even though I can feel the ground shifting beneath my carefully constructed restraint, I also know that knowing she’s single doesn’t magically make this simple.
History still exists. Risk still exists.
The fact that I hurt her still exists. But as I watch her push Theo’s hair back from his face and smile at something Isla says, I realise something far more dangerous than jealousy.
I am not pulling back anymore because I have to.
I am pulling back because I’m scared of what happens if I don’t.