Chapter forty-seven
freya
By Friday evening I have changed my outfit three times, rejected two pairs of jeans, one dress, and an entire version of myself that briefly thought maybe she could pull off leather trousers, and am now standing in front of the mirror wearing black jeans, a soft fitted top, boots with just enough heel to feel like I’ve made an effort, and the sort of makeup that says I’m not trying too hard while having, in fact, tried exactly hard enough.
This is ridiculous. It is a night at the pub.
Not a gala. Not a first date. Not even technically a date at all, because a group of us are going, which means I am simply a normal woman in a normal pub outfit going to drink normal pub tequila and absolutely not a woman who has spent the better part of twenty minutes wondering whether Rory will notice if I’ve curled my hair.
He will not notice. And if he does notice, it will not mean anything.
And if it does mean something, I will deal with that later, ideally after alcohol.
Theo is with James tonight, which means I have done the usual logistical handover that co-parenting seems to require, involving a small backpack, three reminders about inhalers, and Theo attempting to negotiate an additional snack allowance before he even leaves the driveway.
James is leaning against his car when I come outside, keys in hand.
Theo runs past us both, already halfway through explaining something about conkers he apparently collected in Wales, and I hand over the bag.
James takes it automatically. Then he looks at me.
Properly looks. His eyes flick over my outfit, taking in the jeans, the boots, my hair. There’s a brief pause.
“Well,” he says eventually.
I raise an eyebrow. “Well what?”
“You look… nice.”
It’s not a compliment exactly. More like an observation he didn’t mean to say out loud. Which, weirdly, makes it better.
“Thanks,” I say lightly.
Theo has already climbed into the back seat and is now asking if he can have popcorn when they get home. James glances at him, then back at me.
“Going somewhere?”
“Just the pub,” I say.
He nods slowly.
There’s something in his expression then.
Something I can’t quite name. Not jealousy exactly.
Not regret either. But a flicker of something that suggests he’s suddenly seeing me slightly differently.
And if I’m honest, that tiny moment lands in a way that feels…
good. Because for a long time after everything happened, after the cheating and the fallout and the quiet rearranging of our lives, I felt like the woman who had been left behind in someone else’s story.
Tonight, for half a second, it feels like maybe that isn’t entirely true.
James shuts the car door and walks around to the driver’s side.
“See you Sunday,” he says.
“See you.”
Theo waves enthusiastically through the window as the car pulls away and I stand there for a second longer than necessary, the cool evening air brushing against my cheeks, before turning back toward the house to grab my coat.
Because whether Rory notices my hair or not…
I still look good. And that, I decide as I head out toward the pub, is a perfectly acceptable place to start the evening.
The night air is cold enough to sting my cheeks as I walk down the street, and Oakwood in the evening has that cosy, lit-from-within look it always gets when everyone has retreated indoors and the village glows softly around the edges.
The pub is already busy when I push through the door, a rush of warmth and chatter and the smell of wine and chips hitting me all at once.
Some of the girls are already there, of course.
Clara spots me first and raises a hand from the booth at the back.
“There she is.”
Hannah turns, her eyes flicking over me once and then narrowing in a way that is instantly suspicious. “Why do you look fit?”
I laugh, sliding into the booth and shrugging off my coat. “I always look fit, thanks.”
“Not like that,” Clara says.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve made… effort.”
I scoff. “I put mascara on. Calm down.”
“Your hair is curled,” Emma says.
“It naturally does this.”
“It absolutely doesn’t,” Hannah adds.
I open my mouth to defend myself and then close it again because unfortunately I have known these women too long to lie convincingly.
Clara slides a glass of wine toward me. “Drink that,” she says. “Then tell us what is going on with you.”
“Nothing is going on with me.”
Three faces stare back at me with varying degrees of disbelief.
“Right,” Hannah says. “And you came here dressed like that for the darts team.”
Emma leans in slightly. “You’re glowing.”
“I am not glowing.”
“You are,” Hannah says. “Either you’ve had a facial or you’ve had sex. Or maybe a facial during sex.”
I nearly choke on my first sip. “Jesus Christ,” I splutter.
Clara’s eyes widen. “Oh my God.”
“No.”
“Oh my God,” she repeats louder, pointing at me with one bright pink nail. “That is not a no face. That is absolutely an oh my God don’t say it too loudly in public face.”
“I hate all of you,” I mutter.
“YOU SLEPT WITH HIM?” Hannah hisses, somehow managing to whisper and shout at the same time.
My entire body goes hot. “Can you lower your voices before the woman two doors down learns my business?”
Clara slaps a hand over her mouth, eyes huge with delight. “It happened.”
I take another long drink of wine because apparently that is my coping mechanism now. “It happened,” I admit.
All three of them make the exact same strangled noise.
“When?” Hannah demands.
“In Wales.”
Clara’s jaw drops. “In Wales?”
“Yes.”
“On the trip?” Emma asks.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
I stare at her. She stares back in disbelief and utter confusion. Clara puts a hand on her chest and says, deeply wounded, “I think I deserve details after the emotional investment I’ve had in this situation since he moved back. And haven’t you been in love with this guy for like a decade?”
“It wasn’t a decade.”
“It was at least a decade.”
“Try two decades,” Hannah mutters darkly into her drink.
I ignore that. Mostly because I don’t want to admit that she’s right.
“Nothing happened at first,” I say, because once I start talking it actually feels impossible to stop, like the words have been pressing against the back of my teeth waiting for permission.
“Well. Things happened. Then he ignored me all day. Then we argued in the common room on the last night and then…”
“And then?” Clara says, leaning so far across the table she is practically horizontal.
“And then we definitely stopped arguing.”
That earns me a full-body shudder from Hannah.
“Finally.”
I laugh, hiding behind my glass. “But now I don’t know what’s happening,” I admit. “Which is probably obvious from the fact I have curled my hair for what is technically a group trip to the pub.”
Clara softens a bit then, some of the amusement giving way to something warmer. “How was he when you got back?”
“Fine,” I say. “Normal. Nice. Not weird. Which is somehow making me feel weirder.”
Hannah nods like she gets it entirely. “Because now it’s real.”
“Exactly.”
Emma gives me a look over the rim of her drink. “And how do you feel?”
I open my mouth with something sensible prepared. Something measured. Something mature and emotionally responsible. Instead what comes out is, “I think if he smiles at me in public tonight I might actually vomit or faint.”
Clara laughs so loudly that even Rowan, behind the bar turns around. “Right,” she says. “So you’re in deep.”
“I’m not in deep.”
“Freya.”
“I am perhaps ankle-deep.”
“Neck-deep,” Hannah says.
“Face-down in it,” Emma adds helpfully.
I glare at them. Unfortunately that’s the exact moment the pub door opens, letting in a rush of cold air and a cluster of people from outside.
In walk Mark, Dan and of course, Rory. My whole body recognises him before my brain does.
It’s instant, that awareness, like something low in me straightens and turns toward him.
Suddenly, I can’t hear anything else in the room at all.
God. He looks gorgeous. Not polished, not in a trying-too-hard way, not like a man who has stood in front of a mirror and consciously assembled himself for female attention.
Just Rory, in dark jeans and a charcoal jumper that fits him in a way I find personally offensive, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms, his hair slightly messy from the cold outside.
There is something about him tonight that feels looser than usual, more open somehow, and the second he looks up and spots me across the room, his whole face changes.
And I feel it everywhere. Clara sees it happen and physically slaps my arm.
“Oh my God,” she hisses. “The look.”
“Do not narrate this.”
“He lit up,” Hannah mutters, sounding almost scandalised.
Rory says something to one of the men beside him, then he looks over at me again.
I make the mistake of holding his gaze. The smile at the corner of his mouth deepens slightly, enough that my stomach does a full, mortifying little somersault and heat rushes down to my lower belly. Fuck. Pub vomit remains a possibility.
“Go get another drink,” Emma says immediately.
“I still have one.”
“Then go get him one.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I would rather fling myself into traffic than run over to him immediately like a desperate teenager.”
Clara falls back against the booth laughing and Hannah actually has to take a sip of wine to cover her grin.
“You are unbelievable,” I mutter.
“Freya,” Hannah says, softer now, “he’s looking at you like he already knows that you’re like a desperate teenager.”
Which is, frankly, true and enough to make me need a second drink.