Chapter thirty
Rory
The first school run back after Christmas always feels more chaotic than every other day in the school calendar.
It’s that shock to the system when routine reclaims you and the fairy lights have been boxed away and suddenly everyone is meant to behave like normal humans again.
Like they haven’t existed on cheese and chocolate for the last few weeks.
Isla is talking non-stop beside me, something about a bracelet kit and whether Theo would wear one if she made him one in boy colours, and I’m nodding in the right places while my mind drifts to the house across the cul-de-sac and the fact that I haven’t seen Freya since our ‘Frory’ Christmas where things as friends felt incredibly awkward.
“Dad,” Isla says, tugging my coat sleeve. “You’re doing the thinking face again.”
“I don’t have a thinking face.”
“You do. It’s like you’re arguing with someone in your brain.”
How does this kid know everything?
The school gates are the usual mess of coats and noise and parents who are thrilled to be back in structure but not thrilled to have to be at school and organised by this ungodly hour.
I scan automatically, because apparently that’s what I do now, and I spot her almost immediately.
She’s standing just inside the gates, sleeves pulled over her hands against the cold, laughing at something someone’s said, and it hits me the same way it always does, that sound of her laughing like it’s been there my entire life and my body hasn’t quite adjusted to the idea that I don’t get to react to it like this anymore.
I start towards her, telling myself to be normal, to be the version of myself who agreed to boundaries and meant it.
And then I see him. Tall, dark hair, late thirties maybe.
Sleeves rolled up despite the January air, holding a clipboard and looking faintly unsure of himself in that way men do when they’re new somewhere and trying to look competent without asking too many questions.
Freya is walking beside him, gesturing towards the main building as she talks.
She’s explaining something, animated, hands moving in little circles the way they do when she’s in work mode, and he’s leaning down slightly to hear her over the noise of the playground.
She says something and he laughs. He says something back.
She tips her head and laughs properly, the real one, and rests her hand briefly against his forearm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It’s nothing. It is absolutely nothing. People laugh.
People touch arms. So why does it feel like someone has quietly rearranged my ribcage?
Isla has already disappeared towards her classroom door by the time I realise I’ve slowed down. I stand there way longer than necessary, watching them head towards the entrance together.
Mrs Patel greets me and I realise I’ve been staring. By the time I look back, Freya and clipboard guy are already inside. Inside together.
Fine. It’s fine. I’m fine. Absolutely fine.
I catch up to Isla and kiss her head, tell her I’ll see her at three, and leave before I do something embarrassing like ask someone who he is.
Rowan’s farm is exactly the same as it was when we were fourteen, which is either comforting or deeply concerning.
The air smells of damp earth and diesel and something vaguely animal that clings to your clothes long after you leave, and it does the job of dragging me out of my own head for at least the first five minutes.
Rowan is hammering a fence post when I pull up, sleeves rolled, chewing on something.
“You look like someone’s just died,” he says.
“Morning to you too.”
He studies my face for a second too long and then grins in that infuriating way that suggests he already knows the answer. “Freya.”
It isn’t a question.
“Why does everyone assume everything is about Freya?” I mutter.
“Because everything is about Freya,” he replies lightly, handing me a mug of tea he’d already prepared.
I lean against the fence beside him and try to sound casual. “There’s some bloke at the school.”
He waits.
“New handyman or builder or something.”
He waits some more.
“She was showing him around.”
Rowan turns slowly, stares at me, and then laughs so loudly a sheep startles three fields over.
“You look like your dog died because Freya is sharing the same air as another man?”
“It isn’t… I don’t…” I snap. “Fuck.”
“It’s tragic Rory. I’m so sorry man.” He stifles a laugh.
I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
I hesitate, which is apparently enough of an answer. “We’re friends,” I say finally.
He makes a face like I’ve just confessed to believing in flat earth theory. “You want to be friends?”
“No.”
“Then why are you?”
Because it’s safer. Because if I don’t try properly, I can’t fail properly.
Because she told me I don’t get to come back and claim her like nothing happened, and she was right.
“Because she deserves someone certain,” I say instead, staring out across the field.
“Someone who doesn’t disappear and hurt her. ”
Rowan snorts softly. “And you’re not certain?”
I don’t answer.
He nudges my shoulder. “Mate. You’ve loved that girl since you were fifteen, maybe even younger. Playing it cool now doesn’t make you noble. It makes you a coward.”
I exhale slowly. “If she chooses someone else, I don’t get to lose her completely. Friends means I still get to be around.”
“And if this handyman asks her out?”
I feel blood start rushing to my face and my heart rate speed up. “He’s not going to.”
“And if he does?”
I picture her laughing like she did this morning and clench my jaw.
“It’s none of my business,” I say.
Rowan raises his eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief. “Sure it isn’t.”
I shake my head. “I’m not doing that possessive caveman thing again. She called me out. She was right.”
“Being braver doesn’t mean dragging a man away from her,” he says quietly. “It means telling her you want her.”
“I did.”
“Not properly.”
He isn’t wrong, which is the worst part.
“So what do I do?” I ask Rowan.
“You need to tell her how you feel and what you want. That’s if you even know what you want.”
I do. At least I think I do. Nothing feels right unless it’s with her. But I don’t get to be selfish. She has said it herself; I don’t get to come back here and claim her. Being friends was her idea and I have to respect that.
On the drive back, I replay the image of her hand on that bloke’s arm far more times than is healthy.
I tell myself I’m overreacting. I tell myself she was just being friendly.
I tell myself that if I’m serious about this whole ‘friends’ arrangement, I don’t get to care.
And yet I do. I care more than I should.
Which is exactly the problem I’ve been avoiding since I was twenty.