Chapter thirty-five
Freya
Theo has packed three times already. Not because he needs that much stuff, but because he keeps remembering one more essential item that he cannot survive four days in Wales without.
First it was his torch. Then his “survival whistle.” Then, for reasons that remain unclear, a plastic dinosaur he claims is “moral support.”
“I don’t think you need Gary the T-Rex,” I say gently, folding yet another pair of socks into the holdall.
Theo gasps like I’ve suggested abandoning him at the motorway services. “Mum. It’s wilderness. What if people feel home-sick and need a boost?”
“Of course,” I nod solemnly. “How foolish of me.”
I check the list again even though I know it by heart. Waterproofs. Spare trainers. Sleeping bag. Extra batteries. Snacks I’ve labelled even though no one asked me to. I am, unfortunately, incapable of doing anything by halves when it comes to my child.
Theo launches himself at me in a sudden hug, arms tight around my waist. “It’s going to be the best trip ever,” he says into my jumper, voice vibrating with excitement. “We get tents and fires and actual knives.”
“Supervised knives,” I correct immediately.
He pulls back. “You’re coming. You’ll see.”
Yes. I am coming. Because I am a teaching assistant at this school and therefore technically a responsible adult.
And because I am a control freak who volunteered within twelve seconds of the residential being announced.
And because the idea of Theo sleeping in a tent in the Welsh countryside without me hovering somewhere within a fifty-metre radius felt physically impossible.
So here we are. Bags packed. Boots by the door.
Coach due at eleven. And somewhere in the background of all of this, humming quietly but persistently, is the fact that Rory is also going.
I know that because I absolutely did not use my staff access to glance at the parent register.
“Isla + parent.”
There is a small, ridiculous part of me that wondered if Sienna might suddenly develop a passion for wilderness bonding, but realistically, no.
Which means it is Rory. Which means four days.
Four days of tents and campfires and survival classes and being in close proximity with the man who shook my hand and called us friends and has stuck to it.
I zip Theo’s bag shut and take a slow breath. It will be fine. I am absolutely not spiraling. I don’t even believe my lies to myself anymore
The school playground at departure time looks like a mildly chaotic expedition base. Children in oversized waterproofs. Parents triple-checking medication forms. Teachers clutching clipboards like flotation devices.
Theo spots Isla immediately and sprints toward her. “ISLA! I brought Gary!”
Isla holds up what appears to be an entire backpack dedicated to glitter pens. “I brought glitter!”
They disappear into a world of their own.
Rory is standing by the coach, Isla’s rucksack slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing, baseball cap low over his eyes, sleeves pushed up in that infuriating way that makes him look like he’s accidentally stepped out of a photoshoot titled Rugged Single Dad Goes Camping.
He catches my eye and I do my best to bury my thoughts and not let any of my emotions be visible to him.
“Morning,” he says as I approach.
“Morning.”
“Ready for four days of organised chaos?”
“I was born ready,” I reply “I have labelled snacks.”
He laughs at that, properly, head tipping back slightly. “Of course you have. I wouldn’t expect anything less, Frey.”
We load bags. Herd children. Conduct head counts twice because I don’t trust my own handwriting under pressure.
Eventually everyone is seated and the coach lurches forward.
Theo and Isla, naturally, claim the seats together near the front, already mid-debate about who will be chief fire builder.
Which leaves… Me and Rory. Side by side.
For what Google Maps informs me is approximately four hours.
Brilliant. We sit down with the kind of polite choreography you perform when you’re both hyper-aware of elbows and knees and hips.
“Plenty of room,” he says, shifting slightly.
“Loads,” I agree, even though our thighs are absolutely brushing.
The coach fills with noise quickly. Singing. Snack packets rustling. Someone already asking if we’re nearly there.
I focus on the clipboard in my lap trying desperately to not give Rory a glimpse of the awkwardness I’m currently feeling.
“So,” Rory says after a few minutes, tone easy, “did you check the register to see if I was coming?”
I look at him sharply. How the hell does he know?
He grins without looking at me. “You’ve got that look.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mmm.”
I hate that he knows me.
“I may have glanced,” I admit eventually. “Purely for safeguarding reasons.”
“Of course.”
“And I assumed it would be you. I can’t see Sienna trading Pilates for a campfire.”
That slips out before I can stop it.
He huffs a laugh. “She’s not exactly… outdoorsy.”
There’s no bitterness in it. Just fact. The coach hits a bump and our shoulders knock together harder this time.
“Sorry,” we say at the same time. We both laugh. It’s small. It’s easy.
Theo twists around in his seat. “Mum! We’re playing cards! You and Rory can play too!”
I blink. “We’re supervising.”
“You can supervise cards.”
Rory leans forward. “What’s the game?”
“Cheat!” Isla announces proudly.
We end up half-twisted in our seats, passing cards back and forth across the aisle while Theo attempts to bluff with the subtlety of a foghorn. Rory is terrible at hiding a smile. Isla is ruthless. Theo is indignant when caught. At one point Rory accuses me of cheating.
“I would never,” I say, scandalised.
“You absolutely would.”
“I am a pillar of integrity.”
“You always cheated at Monopoly, Frey.”
“That is not evidence. I was a kid.”
We are laughing properly now. The kind that makes your stomach ache a little. The kind that feels unguarded. And for a short while, it doesn’t feel complicated. It just feels… familiar.
Somewhere after the third round and a particularly dramatic accusation from Isla, the rhythm of the coach becomes heavier.
The road smooths out. The children’s volume dips from feral to drowsy.
Theo and Isla turn back around to face forward, heads bent together over something in a book.
I lean back in my seat, meaning only to close my eyes for a second.
I am not entirely sure when sleep finds me, but it does.
It’s the warmth. The steady hum of the engine.
The fact that I have been running on emotional fumes since Christmas.
I drift. And when the coach hits another small bump, my head tips sideways.
Onto something solid, warm and broad. There is a moment where my brain hasn’t caught up.
And then I realise I am asleep on Rory’s shoulder.
Mortifying. I jolt slightly, but he shifts just enough to steady me.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, low enough that only I hear it. “You can stay.”
I should move. But I don’t. Because his shoulder is solid and warm and smells faintly of clean soap and something deeper underneath, and for the first time in weeks, I feel… held.
My cheek presses more fully into him before I can stop myself. And if he notices, if his breathing changes even slightly, he doesn’t say.
The coach rolls on, children dozing and teachers whispering over paperwork, and I let myself exist there for a little while longer. Just friends. Except my body does not seem to have signed that agreement.