Chapter forty-five
freya
Morning arrives at the campsite on our last day of the residential.
I lie very still inside my sleeping bag and stare up at the pale canvas roof of the tent while my brain slowly catches up with reality.
First thought: we’re packing up and going home today.
Second thought: I slept with Rory last night.
Not kissed. Not an “almost” kiss. Not the sort of thing you can pretend didn’t quite happen if you just avoid eye contact for long enough.
Actually slept with him. On a sofa, in the common room, during a school residential.
Which, when you phrase it like that, does sound very much like the beginning of a disciplinary hearing.
I drag the sleeping bag briefly over my face. Really strong decision making from me this week.
Outside the tent Theo is already talking at full volume like he has been awake for hours and is personally responsible for alerting everyone else that it’s time to get up.
“MUM.”
“Yes?” I call back.
“Is it breakfast?”
“No.”
“Is it nearly breakfast?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“I’m starving.”
“Shocking.”
I push myself upright and unzip the tent, blinking slightly against the pale morning light spilling across the clearing.
The campsite looks like the aftermath of a small but cheerful disaster.
Boots scattered around the fire pit. Someone’s hoodie draped over a log.
The faint curl of smoke still rising from last night’s embers.
Theo is sitting cross-legged on the grass beside Isla with a cereal bar already half demolished.
“You said breakfast wasn’t ready,” he says accusingly.
“That’s not breakfast.”
“It’s pre-breakfast.”
Around us the clearing slowly begins to stir into life as parents and teachers crawl out of tents with the resigned expressions of people who have slept approximately four hours and now have to supervise energetic children in cold weather.
Someone starts boiling water on a small camping stove.
One of the instructors is already doing a lap of the site reminding everyone that bags need to be packed and on the coach by ten.
I glance around. Rory is near the equipment shed, talking to one of the other dads while coiling up a length of rope.
He looks up. For a second our eyes meet across the clearing.
And something small but unmistakable passes between us.
Not awkwardness. Not regret. Just the quiet acknowledgement of two people who both remember exactly what happened the night before.
He gives a small smile and I smile back.
Then Theo decides this is the perfect moment to loudly accuse Isla of stealing his torch and the moment dissolves into normal life again.
Breakfast is chaos. Packing up is worse. Unpacking and putting tents up is hard work but it’s fun, exciting and new. Taking it all down again is just cruel.
Children are attempting to stuff damp clothes and muddy boots into bags that were clearly not designed to contain this much evidence of adventure.
Teachers move between tents checking under groundsheets for lost items and reminding everyone that, no, the coach driver will not wait while you finish building a stick fort.
I’m crouched beside Theo’s bag attempting to compress a sleeping bag into submission when a shadow falls across the ground beside me.
“Need a hand?”
Rory’s voice is calm, casual, like we didn’t completely rearrange the emotional landscape of our friendship about twelve hours ago.
“I’ve got it,” I say automatically.
“You don’t.”
He crouches beside me anyway and takes the sleeping bag before I can argue further, rolling it neatly with his huge, strong hands and tightening the straps in about half the time it would have taken me.
“I was getting there,” I mutter.
“Eventually.”
Theo watches this exchange with deep suspicion.
“Did you two argue?” he asks.
“No,” we both say at the same time.
Jesus, we did quite the opposite. But I’m not going to tell my eight-year-old that.
Theo considers that for a moment like a small detective. “Okay,” he says eventually, before wandering off in search of Isla.
Rory glances at me briefly. “You alright?”
I shrug lightly. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
A small pause settles between us while he finishes tightening the straps.
“You?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
He straightens, handing the bag back to me. Another quiet moment hangs there, the sort that feels heavier than it probably should.
“Freya,” he says.
“Yes?”
He hesitates just long enough to make me suspicious. “About last night.”
My heart skips a beat. Shit. Is he going to say it was a mistake? Is he going to go back inside his Rory shaped shell and pretend it never happened?
“Yes?”
He looks at me, expression steady but softer than usual. “No regrets.”
It isn’t phrased like a question. It’s a statement and my reply comes easily. “None.”
Something in his shoulders relaxes slightly. “Good,” he says.
Then one of the instructors starts shouting about loading bags and the moment disappears into the general chaos of departure.
The coach takes ages to load. Bags are crammed underneath.
Children scramble into seats with snacks and card games already in hand.
Teachers do the final frantic headcount to make sure nobody has accidentally been left behind in a bush.
Theo and Isla claim their seats together near the front again, already halfway into a discussion about whose compass was more accurate yesterday.
I slide into a seat halfway down the aisle.
A moment later Rory drops into the seat across from me.
Not beside me. Across. Probably sensible.
Also, faintly ridiculous considering the circumstances and the fact that he was inside me less than a day ago.
The coach pulls away from the campsite with a low groan of gears and a cheer from the children. The road winds through the hills, the forest slowly thinning as we move further away from the wilderness.
Inside the coach the noise builds quickly. Games appear, snack packets rustle, chats about the trip erupt. Someone starts singing something loudly and incorrectly. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes for a second.
Across the aisle Rory is listening to Isla explain something complicated involving maps and shortcuts and the reason her group was technically not lost yesterday. He glances over at me. I open one eye.
“Do you think they’ll talk this much all the way home?” I ask quietly.
He considers this. “Yes.”
“Excellent.”
“You could always volunteer to lead a sing-along.”
“Absolutely not.”
He smiles faintly at that.
The coach bumps slightly over a pothole. Under the seats, his shoe nudges lightly against mine. He doesn’t move it. Neither do I. Whatever last night was… It wasn’t a mistake. And it doesn’t feel like the end of anything. If anything, it feels more like the beginning.