Chapter forty
Freya
The problem with camping is that everyone insists it’s relaxing.
Fresh air. Nature. Simplicity. Early nights.
All of which sounds lovely in theory until you are lying in a sleeping bag on a slightly lumpy ground mat while your brain decides now is the perfect time to replay the most chaotic yet amazing five minutes of your life on an endless loop.
I roll onto my side for what must be the twentieth time and stare at the faint outline of the moon glowing through the tent canvas.
Outside is quiet now. Not completely silent.
Forests never are. There’s the occasional rustle of wind through the trees, the distant hoot of an owl, the gentle shifting sounds of canvas as someone somewhere turns over in their sleeping bag.
But compared to the daytime chaos, it feels almost peaceful.
Which would be lovely if my brain would shut up for five minutes.
Unfortunately, it will not. Because my brain is currently replaying Rory’s mouth on mine in extremely vivid detail.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Right. That helps.
Except it doesn’t. If anything it makes it worse, because now the memory arrives with sound effects.
His voice when he said my name. The way his moans melted with mine.
Brilliant. I flop onto my back again and stare up at the tent ceiling.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to absolutely no one.
Because it is. It was a kiss. Okay, technically it was…
more than a kiss. We dry humped like horny teenagers.
But still. People kiss people all the time without immediately spiralling into a full-blown emotional crisis in the middle of a field in Wales.
I shove my hands over my face and groan quietly into my sleeping bag.
The problem isn’t really the kiss. The problem is how much I wanted it.
How natural it felt. How my entire body apparently decided that yes, this was exactly what we had been waiting for and we should absolutely lean into it.
And apparently, Rory’s body decided that too.
Which is deeply inconvenient. Because Rory is Rory.
My friend. The man who shook my hand a few months ago and promised we would keep things simple.
I turn onto my side again. And immediately glance toward the tent flap.
Because another problem has now presented itself.
Rory’s tent is only about ten metres away.
Ten metres. Which is a dangerously short distance when your brain is currently suggesting extremely poor life choices.
I stare at the fabric flap like it might open on its own.
What if he’s awake too? What if he’s lying there thinking exactly the same thing?
My stomach does an unhelpful little flip.
Because if he is… Well. It would be very easy to just…
No. Absolutely not. I sit up abruptly, dragging my hands through my hair.
“That is a terrible idea,” I mutter. For several reasons.
One: we are on a school trip.
Two: there are approximately thirty children within screaming distance.
Three: this is Rory. And Rory complicates things. He always has. He always will.
I flop back down again with a dramatic sigh that rustles the sleeping bag loudly then I reach for my phone.
Because clearly the only logical solution here is to involve Clara.
Clara, who has absolutely no sense of restraint when it comes to these things and will absolutely suggest I head into Rory’s tent and finish what we started.
The screen lights up my sleeping bag like a tiny torch. I open our messages.
Freya: Are you awake?
Three dots appear almost immediately. Of course she’s awake.
Clara: Yes. Trouble in paradise Sunshine?
Freya: Hypothetically speaking… if someone kissed someone today… on a school trip… in a kitchen…
I hit send. There’s a pause. Then:
Clara: YOU KISSED RORY?!
Freya: Yes but Shhhh.
Clara: I AM WHISPERING IN TEXT.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Freya: It just happened.
Clara: I NEED DETAILS
Freya: It was a moment of weakness.
Clara: DETAILS!!!
Clara: You have been weak for that man for like your whole life
Freya: That is not helpful.
Clara: Was it good?
I stare at the screen.
Freya: Yes.
Clara: HOW good?
I hesitate. Because unfortunately the answer is… extremely.
Freya: Very. Like INSANELY good
Clara: Right. Excellent. Continue.
Freya: We almost got caught.
Clara: Even better.
Freya: This is not a rom com.
Clara: It literally is.
I sigh quietly into my pillow.
Freya: What am I supposed to do now?
Clara: Well.
Fuck, here she goes.
Clara: If it were me I would simply walk into his tent and quietly continue where you left off.
I choke slightly on absolutely nothing. I knew it.
Freya: I am not doing that.
Clara: Why not?
Freya: Because we are friends.
Clara: Debatable. You were not behaving like friends in that kitchen.
She’s not wrong. Which is extremely annoying.
Freya: And because we are surrounded by 30 children.
Clara: That’s why I said do it quietly!
I stare at the message thread while my brain replays the kiss again. The way his hands tightened on my waist. The way he looked at me afterwards. The fact that he clearly wanted it just as much as I did.
Clara: You like him.
Freya: I know.
Clara: He likes you.
Freya: I know.
Clara: So maybe… stop overthinking it and see what happens.
I lie there staring at the words. Because that is both the simplest and the most terrifying suggestion imaginable.
My brain immediately tries to produce seventeen reasons why that is a terrible idea.
Friendship. History. Children. The possibility that we ruin everything and end up awkwardly avoiding each other at school events for the rest of our lives.
But underneath all of that… There’s another thought.
A quieter one. Maybe Clara is right. Maybe the reason this feels so big is because we’ve been pretending it isn’t there for too long.
Maybe I’m not going to march across the campsite tonight and climb into his tent like some sort of woodland temptress.
But the next time we’re alone? The next time the moment appears again?
Next time… I’m not running from it. Next time I’m going to see what happens with Rory.
Which is probably a terrible idea. But apparently terrible ideas are becoming a bit of a theme this week.