Chapter forty-eight
Rory
The pub is louder than usual tonight. Or maybe it just feels that way because my brain has been doing that irritating thing all evening where it keeps circling back to the same person regardless of what conversation I’m technically supposed to be part of.
She’s across the room when I walk in and for a moment I actually forget what I was about to say to the group behind me because she looks…
Jesus. She looks incredible. She’s laughing at something Clara says and there’s a softness to her face that does something very inconvenient to my dick.
I look away before it grows any more than it already has.
Which is harder than it should be considering we’ve spent the last four days practically glued to each other in Wales.
But that’s exactly the problem. Because now we’re back in Oakwood and everything suddenly feels real again.
The pub fills quickly with the usual crowd. Chairs scraping, pints arriving, people greeting each other across the room like nobody has seen anyone in weeks instead of days.
Mark nudges me as we move toward the bar. “You good man?”
“Yeah why?”
“You’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re listening but your brain is somewhere else.”
“I’m tired.”
“Bullshit.”
We shuffle forward in the queue and he glances over my shoulder toward the booth where the girls are sitting. Mark follows my line of sight and lets out a low whistle.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“That.”
I sigh.
“You’re subtle as a brick.”
“Something happened, didn’t it?”
I nearly drop the empty glasses in my hand. “Jesus, Mark.”
“What?”
“How did you even…”
He shrugs. “You’ve been swooning over her since I’ve known you. And that’s a long fucking time. It was inevitable.”
“That’s not confirmation.”
“Mate,” he says dryly, “you’ve been looking at her like someone who has either just slept with her or desperately wants to.”
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “Can you keep your voice down?”
Mark grins. “So I’m right.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t need to.”
The line moves forward. He leans slightly closer while Rowan pulls pints for the group ahead.
“You look terrified though,” he adds.
“I’m not terrified.”
“You look like your entire life is about to change and you’re shitting yourself.”
That, annoyingly, is not entirely inaccurate.
“Mind your own business,” I mutter.
Mark lifts his hands. “Just saying.”
We collect the drinks and head back to the table.
The conversation folds around us easily enough.
People swapping seats, stories from the trip, someone arguing about the football on the television over the bar.
But the whole time there’s a quiet pull in my chest every time Freya laughs or turns slightly toward me.
I realise about halfway through my pint that I’m not going to survive this evening pretending nothing has changed between us.
Because something has. And the longer I sit here acting like it hasn’t, the more ridiculous it feels.
Rowan is behind the bar when I eventually stand and wander over under the pretence of getting another round.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
I hesitate. “Can I borrow the party room for a bit?”
He raises an eyebrow. “For what?”
“Just a chat.”
“With Freya?”
I stare at him. “Am I that obvious tonight?”
“Painfully.”
He jerks his head toward the hallway. “Go on then. I’ll lock the door so nobody wanders in.”
“Cheers mate.”
I head back toward the table. Freya is mid-sentence when I reach her.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
She looks up. There’s a small pause. “Hi.”
“Can you come talk to me for a second?”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Should I be worried?”
“I… Uhh.”
Clara watches this entire exchange with the sort of undisguised delight normally reserved for reality television.
Freya slides out of the booth. “Back in a minute,” she tells the table.
I take her hand by instinct without really thinking about it.
Her fingers curl around mine easily as we walk through the hallway toward the small party room at the back of the pub.
The door clicks shut behind us. The noise from the main room softens immediately, replaced by a quiet hum of music through the wall and the faint clink of glasses somewhere in the distance.
Freya turns toward me. “Well,” she says gently. “This feels ominous.”
I laugh quietly. “It’s not.”
“Good.”
There’s a pause. Her hand is still in mine. I realise I haven’t let go. Neither has she.
“I needed to talk to you,” I say eventually.
Her expression softens slightly. “Okay.”
My thumb brushes against her knuckles without thinking. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this all evening,” I admit. “And the truth is I’m not entirely sure there’s a neat way to do it.”
Freya watches me quietly. “You can just say it,” she says.
Right. I take a breath. “You scare me a bit.”
She blinks. “Romantic.”
I laugh under my breath. “Let me finish.”
“Okay.”
I run a hand through my hair. “It’s not you exactly,” I say. “It’s… what you mean to me.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around mine.
“I spent years with Sienna feeling like I was trying to live in someone else’s life,” I continue slowly. “Everything about it felt slightly off. The people. The expectations. The way she wanted things to look.”
Freya doesn’t interrupt.
“She didn’t leave me out of nowhere,” I add quietly. “By the time she found someone else we were barely even together anymore. I just never really… showed up properly.”
“Why?” Freya asks softly.
I shrug. “Because I didn’t feel like I fit in that world. And the longer it went on, the more I convinced myself that I wasn’t enough for it.”
The words feel strange out loud.
“But with you,” I say, meeting her eyes again, “it’s the opposite. You fit,” I say simply.
The room is quiet. The music through the wall fades to something softer.
“And that’s terrifying,” I admit.
Freya’s expression shifts. “Why?”
“Because if I mess this up,” I say quietly, “I don’t just lose a girlfriend. I lose my best friend.”
Her breath catches slightly.
“And Theo and Isla…” I continue. “Their friendship matters too. All of this matters.”
The words hang there between us. For a moment she just looks at me. Then she steps closer.
“Can I say something?” she asks.
“Always.”
“I’m scared too.”
That surprises me slightly. “Really?”
She nods. “I spent years thinking I wasn’t enough either,” she says quietly. “James cheating did a number on my confidence, whether I like admitting that or not.”
My chest tightens. I had no idea he did that to her. What fucking idiot cheats on Freya Collins?
“But,” she adds softly, “I’m glad it happened.”
I frown. “You’re glad?”
“Yes.”
She squeezes my hand gently. “Because if it hadn’t… I wouldn’t be here with you now.”
The words land somewhere deep in my chest.
“You are more than good enough, Rory,” she continues. “You always have been.”
I stare at her. She steps even closer, we are practically chest-to-chest now, her staring up at me with her icy blue eyes.
“So maybe we stop trying to protect ourselves from something that might actually be good.”
There’s a moment where neither of us moves.
Then I kiss her with a deep, passionate and certain kiss.
The kind of kiss that feels less like hesitation and more like finally stepping forward.
Her hands slide up to my shoulders immediately as she kisses me back, warmth flooding through my chest in a way that makes the entire week suddenly make sense.
Our tongues swipe against each other and our hands roam each others bodies, desperately wanting to feel everything that we’ve been missing for all of these years.
When we finally pull back slightly we’re both laughing a little, breathless.
“Well,” she says.
“Well,” I echo.
She glances toward the door. “We should probably go back before Clara sends a search party.”
“Or,” I say, “we could sneak out the window.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Are you serious?”
“Very.”
She looks at the window. Then back at me. A grin spreads slowly across her face. “Oh my God,” she says. “We’re doing it. Clara may kill me, or be proud of me, but we are doing it!”
I head over to the window and slide it upwards. Freya comes to stand beside me and peers out. “It’s higher than I expected.”
“It’s about four feet.”
“That’s still higher than a usual first floor window.”
“Very observant.”
She elbows me lightly. “Helpful.”
I swing one leg over the sill and drop down onto the cobblestones outside before turning back to her.
“Alright,” I say. “Your turn.”
Freya leans over the sill and looks down. “You’re going to catch me if I fall, right?”
“Obviously.”
She raises an eyebrow. “That sounded suspiciously confident.”
“Freya.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve carried tent poles, crates of dishes, and half a log pile this week. I think I can manage you.”
She laughs. “Alright, rugby boy. Don’t drop me.”
She climbs onto the sill, turning slightly so she can swing one leg over. And that’s when my brain becomes deeply unhelpful. Because the view is… Right. Focus.
Freya shifts slightly, trying to find her balance. “Why are you so quiet?” she asks over her shoulder.
“Concentrating.”
“On what?”
“I…Safety.”
“Uh-huh.”
She scoots forward another inch, gripping the frame with both hands as she tries to lower herself.
“You could help instead of gawking,” she says.
I step closer. “Alright,” I say, reaching up to steady her by the waist.
Her body tenses for half a second when my hands settle there. “You’ve got me?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Properly?”
“Freya.”
“Yes?”
“You are currently half out of a window.”
“Good point.”
She laughs softly and lowers herself a little further.
My hands tighten instinctively around her waist as her feet search for the ground.
“Nearly there,” I say.
“I can’t reach.”
“You’re about two inches off the ground.”
“That’s still falling distance.”
“Just let go.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
She scoffs. “You’re the worst.”
“Possibly.”
She finally releases the window frame and drops the last few inches. I catch her automatically. She turns and her arms land around my shoulders as her feet hit the ground, our bodies suddenly very close together in the dark. For a second neither of us moves. Freya looks up at me.
“You absolutely watched my bum while I climbed out that window,” she says.
I grin. “I’m not denying that.”
“Unbelievable.”
“You could have just jumped.”
“That would have been less dignified.”
“You were halfway through a pub window, Freya. Dignity had already left the building.”
She laughs again, still holding onto my shoulders. “You are such a child.”
“You agreed to the plan.”
“That’s because you are a terrible influence.”
“Probably true.”
Neither of us steps back straight away. The night air is cool around us, the pub glowing warmly behind us through the open window. Inside, the muffled noise of the crowd continues completely unaware that two fully grown adults have just escaped like fugitives.
Freya glances back at the window. “Clara is going to murder us.”
“She’ll survive.”
“She absolutely won’t.”
“She’ll just assume we went somewhere together.”
Freya pauses. Then looks back at me slowly. “Which… we did.”
“Technically.”
Her smile softens slightly. “Well,” she says. “That was surprisingly fun.”
“See? Excellent decision.”
She brushes an imaginary speck of dust off her jeans. “Next time we leave through the door like normal adults.”
“Where’s the adventure in that?”
She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“I just climbed out of a pub window with you,” I say. “Of course I am.”
Freya shakes her head, laughing under her breath. Then she slips her hand into mine like it belongs there. “Come on,” she says. “Before someone realises the party room is empty.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
I squeeze her fingers as we start walking away from the pub together, the sound of music and laughter fading behind us into the warm Oakwood night.