CHAPTER THIRTY-one
FREYA
The blind has been broken since October, which means every afternoon I end up wrestling with it while Year Two stare at me like I’m personally responsible for the sun. So when Ben appears in the doorway at break time with a toolbox and an apologetic smile, it feels strangely momentous.
“Hi,” he says, knocking lightly on the frame even though the door is open. “I’ve come to tackle the rebellious blind.”
I laugh, stepping aside. “Be my guest. It’s been plotting against me for months.”
He sets the toolbox down with an easy familiarity, not flashy, not dramatic. Just competent. He doesn’t fill the room with noise the way some men do. He just gets on with it, taking in the window, the wonky pull cord, the slant of the blind where it’s come away from the bracket.
The classroom still smells faintly of felt tips and playdough.
There’s a damp wool scent from thirty tiny coats hung along the back wall.
A couple of children have forgotten scarves draped over chair backs.
The fairy lights from December are still looped along the window frame because I haven’t quite had the heart to take them down yet, as if the moment I do, all the warmth will slip out and we’ll be left with grey January for ever.
Ben moves with quiet purpose, setting the ladder down carefully so it doesn’t scrape the floor too loudly, glancing up as if he’s mapping the room.
“Was it always like this?” he asks, examining the mechanism.
“Only since one of mine tried to see if it could spin,” I say dryly.
He smiles, not judging. “Of course.”
It’s a small thing, that lack of judgement, that willingness to accept that the children are chaos and it isn’t anyone’s fault. It settles something in me before I even realise it needs settling.
He opens the toolbox and starts pulling out bits like he’s done this a thousand times. Screwdriver. Drill. A handful of screws in a little plastic pot. He checks the drill battery, presses the trigger once, the quick whirr controlled and brief, then sets it down on the table.
“There’s a bracket loose,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “Do you mind if I move this table a bit? I don’t want to accidentally drop anything on the children’s work.”
“No, go for it.” I step forward to help, gripping one end of the table and lifting with my knees in the way occupational health drills into you until it becomes muscle memory.
Ben catches the other end without being asked, his hands already there, and for a second we’re moving in sync, the table sliding a few inches, the legs squeaking faintly against the lino.
“Teamwork,” he says.
It’s a silly word but I feel a ridiculous little urge to smile too much, like a teenager who’s forgotten how to act normal around a boy who’s said something mildly complimentary.
I clear my throat, because apparently I’m fourteen. “Yep. Could put it on the school newsletter.”
He chuckles, a low sound that doesn’t demand attention, then he adjusts the ladder again, checking it’s stable, pressing down on the rungs with his palm like he’s testing it.
“There we go,” he says, more to himself than to me, then looks up. “Right. If I fall, please tell everyone it was very heroic.”
I blink. That is… flirtation. Is it flirtation?
Or is it just banter. Men are allowed to banter.
Humans banter. I can banter. I used to banter.
I open my mouth and my brain offers me absolutely nothing other than: don’t be weird, don’t be weird, don’t be weird.
“What, like you fell saving the children from the sun?” I manage, and it comes out a fraction too earnest, like I’m reading it off a cue card.
Ben’s smile widens anyway, like he’s willing to meet me where I am. “Exactly like that.”
He climbs the ladder, one foot then the other.
He’s tall enough that he doesn’t need to stretch too dramatically, but he still braces one hand on the window frame, the other working at the bracket.
His shoulders shift under his jumper, and I do the thing I hate myself for doing, which is noticing.
Noticing the line of a man’s back. Noticing how calm he is in a space that makes most men look a bit out of place.
I lean against the nearest desk, folding my arms, but then unfolding them again because suddenly my body feels like it doesn’t belong to me, like it’s forgotten all the normal positions it’s allowed to be in.
I pick up a whiteboard marker and spin it between my fingers like I’m cool and calm and not a woman trying to remember how to inhabit her own skin and not stare at the handyman.
Before I know it, I’m in my own head. He’s not Rory.
The thought arrives uninvited. Jesus, Freya, can you just forget about Rory for like three seconds.
I tell myself it’s normal. Rory is the person my brain does this with.
The person it compares everything to. The person it returns to like a tongue prodding at a sore tooth, even when it hurts, even when I’m trying not to.
Ben doesn’t give me that restless energy or make my knees weak.
There’s no sense of something else between us, no tug, no push, no electric undercurrent that makes the air feel too tight.
He’s just steady, and after everything, steady is not an unattractive quality.
I mean, let’s be honest, things with Rory haven’t exactly been plain sailing.
Ben shifts on the ladder, pausing as the screw resists him. He doesn’t swear. He doesn’t huff. He just adjusts his angle, presses again, like he expects problems and isn’t offended by them. My chest gives a tiny, traitorous ache.
It’s not even about romance, not really. It’s about what steadiness represents. Someone who doesn’t make you feel like you’re constantly bracing for impact.
The door bursts open before I can spiral any further.
“Mum!”
Theo skids into the classroom, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes bright, hair sticking up at the back where his hat has done that static thing.
“Hi, baby,” I say automatically, crouching to his level. “What are you doing out of the playground?”
“I needed the toilet and then I saw the ladder!” he announces, as if that explains everything.
Ben chuckles softly from above us. “You must be Theo.”
Theo straightens immediately, all suspicion and bravery. “Yeah. Who are you?”
“Ben,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “I fix things that misbehave.”
Theo’s eyes widen. “Like, with drills?”
“Sometimes.”
Ben climbs down from the ladder slowly, keeping the drill in his hand but away from Theo, making it clear with his body that he understands boundaries without needing to announce them.
He sets it down on the desk, then kneels so he’s at Theo’s height, palms open and relaxed, like he’s used to children and knows you don’t tower over them if you want them to trust you.
“If it’s okay with your mum,” he says, glancing at me first, “I can show you how it works. You won’t touch it. Just watch.”
I study him. He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t overstep. He checks with me, and something in my throat tightens in that way it does when someone gives you respect you didn’t realise you were missing.
“That would be fine,” I say carefully.
Theo practically vibrates.
Ben picks up the drill, turning it slightly so Theo can see the trigger. “This bit here is what makes it go. But you don’t just press it and hope for the best. You hold it steady, and you make sure you’re lined up first.”
Theo’s eyes follow every movement, his mouth slightly open like he’s watching magic.
“And you never put your fingers near the spinning bit,” Ben adds. “Ever.”
Theo nods.
I watch the two of them and something in me softens in a way that makes my eyes sting. Ben isn’t trying to impress him or perform. He’s just including him, explaining things, like Theo is worth the time.
When Theo’s attention drifts to the ladder again, Ben stands, setting the drill out of reach, then gestures to the ladder with a grin. “Do you want to be my official ladder inspector?”
Theo gasps. “Yes.”
“Right then.” Ben places Theo’s small hand on the side rail. “Give it a wobble. Tell me if it’s safe.”
Theo wobbles it dramatically, putting his whole body into it, then steps back as if assessing a crime scene. “It’s safe.”
“Excellent,” Ben says. “We could not do this without you.”
Theo beams like he’s just been given a medal.
I feel something else then too, quieter and more complicated, a little grief for all the times Theo has had to be “fine” around grown men who don’t know how to talk to him, or worse, who talk to him like he’s an inconvenience.
The world is full of men who expect children to be invisible until it suits them.
Ben looks at Theo and sees him for him. Just that. No big deal. No performance. Just a simple, steady acknowledgement.