Chapter twenty-five
freya.
I’m angry. At Rory. At myself. At the universe for taking a perfectly good boy and turning him into someone who thought shiny city lights were more important than the girl who would’ve loved him through the dark.
I’m angry at Sienna, which is unfair because she didn’t know me, didn’t steal him in some dramatic showdown.
But she still got the version of him that stayed.
The public one. The chosen one. I’m angry at everyone who got the life that might have been mine.
And underneath all of that? This awful, hollow ache.
I blow out a breath and grab my phone. It’s girls’ night. Thank God.
Tequila, Tequila ??
Hannah: OUTFIT CHECK. Leather trousers or black mini??
Emma: Mini. Always mini. It’s Christmas, not a staff meeting.
Clara: I need tequila. PRONTO. The kids have been arseholes today.
Abigail I’m wearing the red dress. The danger one.
Lou: Oh we are DRESSING dressing tonight ??
Freya: I was thinking jeans and a nice top.
Hannah: BOOOO. You have revenge-body energy right now, use it.
Emma: Girls, Eleanor’s coming too, hope that’s okay? Felt bad after the split. She needs a fun night.
Clara: The more the merrier. Although is she not going to be deeply offended by how we all behave on tequila? She seems much more proper than us. Also more witnesses to Freya’s love sick puppy dog eyes.
Freya: I am not love sick.
Lou: WAIT! What did I miss?
Clara: That man looks at you like you’re the tastiest slice of pizza
Hannah: I have SEEN the way he watches you. It’s borderline feral.
Emma: Honestly it’s embarrassing for him. Man is DOWN BAD.
I stare at the screen, stomach flipping.
Freya: Except he’s not. And even if he was, he doesn’t get to just have me as his back-up plan.
Clara: You are nobody’s back-up plan Sunshine.
Freya: We may have nearly kissed the other day and he said that he loved me, ya know, before.
The chat explodes.
Hannah: WHAT??
Emma: FREYA COLLINS
Lou: SCREAMING
Abigail: AND???? What’s happening now?
Clara: Girls, she’s gunna need some serious tequila tonight
I chew my lip, heart thudding again just thinking about it.
Freya: Save it for tonight. Drinks first. Emotional breakdown later.
Hannah: I am ordering tequila in advance.
I take one last look in the mirror before I leave and, for once, don’t immediately find ten things to criticise.
Okay. Fine. I look hot tonight. I’m wearing a burgundy, backless mini dress that has a giant bow on the back with the ends of the bow dangling down to past my knees.
The front is low cut and adorned with pearls.
It cinches in at the waist then pops right back out at my hips giving me that hourglass shape.
I’ve paired it with the cutest pair of sparkly gold heels to add to the festive look.
Revenge? No. Emotional coping strategy? Absolutely.
The Old Oak is already glowing when we pull into the car park, warm golden light spilling from the little Tudor windows.
From the outside, it looks like the kind of place you’d take your nan for a quiet half-pint; white walls, black beams, flower boxes under every window.
Inside? Chaos. Community. Questionable decisions.
The wooden beams run low across the ceilings, the floors creak, and every surface smells faintly of polish, ale, and a thousand nights of laughter soaked into the walls.
It used to be a proper old-man pub; flat caps, dominoes, and the world’s best Sunday roast. Then old Jim and Doreen retired, and Rowan, a local farmer, broad shoulders, permanently rolled-up sleeves, took over.
Now it’s the busiest place in Oakwood. Karaoke Saturdays.
Line dancing Sundays. Quiz night chaos, feral bingo Fridays, book club that’s 40% wine, 60% gossip.
You want wholesome? Sure. You want unhinged? Also available.
And tonight is karaoke girls’ night.
I am so lucky to have a great group of girls.
Clara and I became close when Ollie and Theo were little.
We bonded over sleepless nights and breastfeeding.
I’ve known Hannah and Emma for practically my whole life since we all grew up in Oakwood but I only really became close to Hannah when I started working at the school.
She slotted into mine and Clara’s friendship beautifully and now we are like a terrible trio.
Hannah’s sister Emma doesn’t get out much but she always makes girls night and brings along her friends Abigail and Lou.
Perfect Eleanor is coming tonight too, although I should probably stop calling her that.
I’ve never been a huge fan of hers and quite frankly, she’s always seemed to be rude but I do feel sorry for her.
I know what it’s like to be cheated on and be left as a single parent so I can sympathise and put my big girl pants on and be a supportive friend.
We push through the door in a gust of cold air and perfume, greeted by the usual wave of warmth, chatter, and the tail end of someone absolutely butchering “Mr. Brightside.”
Our booth sits on the little raised platform near the stage and dance floor.
Prime position. Close enough to the bar, equal distance to the toilets, maximum people-watching potential.
We claimed it years ago and, at this point, I think Rowan just automatically reserves it on girls’ night, once a month.
If anyone ever sits there first, they face Clara. Or worse, Abigail.
Rowan himself is behind the bar tonight, like he usually is on busy nights. He grins when he sees us. “Well, trouble’s here,” he calls.
Hannah actually fans herself. “Why do farmers look like that now?”
“Because life is unfair,” Emma replies solemnly.
We pile into the booth, coats flying, drinks already being shouted across the table.
For a little while, the noise and the lights and my ridiculous friends wrap around me like armour.
Until the tequila kicks in. Tequila is a liar.
Tequila says, one more won’t hurt and you’re fine and texting him is a good idea actually.
By the fourth shot, I’m warm, floaty, and significantly less emotionally stable than when I arrived.
“I just…” I start, gesturing wildly with a lime wedge. “I just don’t understand why he’s here doing this now.”
All six of them, even Eleanor, lean in like I’m delivering a national address. Hannah slides a glass of water toward me. I ignore it.
“I always thought it was me and him then he disappeared and left me alone” I continue, voice wobbling despite the alcohol bravery, “And now he’s back and trying to kiss me and telling me he loved me and looking all perfect with his chiselled jaw and muscley arms.”
“He is a very pretty man.” Clara says, oblivious to my mental breakdown.
“He didn’t even try to fight for you? Didn’t try for something between you? Something more than sexual tension and an ‘almost’ kiss?” Emma asks, already outraged on my behalf.
I shake my head, blinking fast. “And then the other week he’s all caveman with Scott like ‘you deserve better’… well where was that energy fifteen years ago, Rory??”
“RORY,” Abigail echoes, scandalised. “As in Rory Bennett. Ravens Fullback Rory Bennett?”
“Yes Rory Bennett!” I snap.
Lou rubs my arm. “Babe, that’s devastating behaviour from him.”
“I’m just so angry,” I say, words tumbling now.
“At him for leaving. At myself for still loving him. At that stupid city and stupid Sienna and stupid Instagram engagement posts.” My voice cracks.
“I built my whole life without him. I had to. And now he just comes back looking all… sexy and sorry and emotionally confusing.”
Hannah grips my shoulders. “Okay. Listen to me very carefully.”
I squint at her.
“You are too hot to be crying over a man in a pub that sells J?gerbombs in plastic cups.”
Emma nods firmly. “Correct. Illegal, frankly.”
Clara points toward the stage where someone is absolutely murdering an Ed Sheeran song. “What you need is therapeutic rage singing.”
Eleanor gasps. “Kelly Clarkson.”
Abigail slams her hand on the table. “Since U Been Gone.”
Hannah is already half out of the booth. “UP. You’re going up there.”
“I can’t sing.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m emotional.”
“Perfect.”
“I might cry.”
“ICONIC.”
Before I know it, they’re dragging me toward the stage while Rowan cues up the track with the grin of a man who has seen many breakdowns set to early 2000s pop.
The opening guitar riff starts. The girls scream like I’m headlining Glastonbury.
And somewhere between the second chorus and Clara attempting a high kick that nearly ends in a floor face-plant, I realise they’re right.
I might be heartbroken. But I’m not crying over a man in The Old Oak. Not now, not ever.
The sadness is gone. Burned off by tequila, belted out through Kelly Clarkson, shaken loose in the way my voice cracked on the high note and the entire pub cheered like I’d just won The X Factor.
I don’t sit when I get back to the booth. I can’t. There’s a fizz under my skin now, wild, reckless, alive.
“I need to dance,” I announce, already moving.
Clara doesn’t even hesitate. She slides out after me, grabbing my hand, and the two of us claim the bit of floor right in front of our booth just as Spice Girls blasts through the speakers.
“STOP RIGHT NOW, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.”
We scream it at each other, hands in the air, hips moving, laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
My hair’s loose down my back, swishing as I spin, the hem of my dress riding up my thighs as I move.
For the first time all day, I don’t feel heartbroken.
I feel hot. Free. Wanted. And judging by the way half the pub is watching?
Message received. I catch men looking, not subtle glances, but full-on staring.
Smiling into their drinks. Nodding appreciatively.
One nearly walks into a table. I lean into Clara, breathless. “Mama’s still got it.”
“Oh you never lost it,” she yells back.
Even Rowan is looking over from behind the bar, though his attention seems split, because Eleanor, new to our chaos, is perched on a stool nearby and he looks very interested in topping up her wine. Interesting.
Clara and I keep dancing, singing into imaginary microphones, hands in the air. I turn to grin at the girls in the booth…and freeze. They all look… weird. Sheepish. Wide-eyed. Like kids who’ve just been caught passing notes in assembly. I laugh. “What? Did I split my dress or something?”
No one answers. My stomach drops. Slowly, I turn around.
And there he is. Rory. Standing just inside the door like the air’s been punched out of him.
He looks like he’s seen a ghost. Or maybe like he’s just realised the ghost can dance in heels.
For a split second, it’s just us. Across the room.
Noise fading. Lights blurring. His eyes drag over me, hair, dress, legs, then snap back to my face like he feels guilty for looking but physically cannot stop. And then…
“RORY, MY MAN!” Rowan’s voice booms across the pub.
Rory blinks like he’s waking up. His head turns, focus breaking, and Rowan waves him over from the bar with a grin.
“You finally decided to pay your old buddy a visit!”
Rory hesitates, actually hesitates, like he’s considering bolting straight back out the door. But he doesn’t. He walks over, shoulders tight, jaw set, and climbs onto a bar stool as far away from me and the girls as he can possibly get without leaving the building.
I’m still staring. My vision starts to narrow at the edges.
The music is loud, my pulse louder. Tequila hums through my veins.
Emotions from earlier claw back up my throat.
He’s here. After the ‘almost’ kiss. After what I said.
After what he said and didn’t say. And he’s sitting there like he doesn’t know whether to stay… or run.
I turn back to Clara, but my voice comes out thin. “You see him too, right?”
“Oh I see him,” she mutters. “And if he ruins your night, I will trip him on the way to the toilets.”
I laugh, but it wobbles. Because the worst part? Not the anger. Not the history. Not even the heartbreak. It’s the pull. Like no matter how loud the music is, how many people are in this room… Every part of me still knows exactly where he is.