He replies almost instantly.
Harry:Already there.
Of course he is.
The Old Oak sits on the edge of Oakwood village like it’s grown out of the ground itself.
It’s a proper Tudor building; dark wooden beams crossing whitewashed walls, low ceilings, uneven floors that creak under your feet. The kind of place that looks like it’s survived at least three plagues and a few questionable karaoke nights.
It used to be run by an elderly couple who closed at nine sharp and only ever hosted the regulars.
Rowan took it over two years ago.
Local farmer. Broad shoulders. Always looks faintly windswept, even indoors.
He knocked down the dusty back room, put in fairy lights and long wooden tables, started quiz nights, live music, curry Wednesdays. Turned it from a sleepy relic into something that hums.
Now it’s full most nights.
Tonight, it’s warm and loud and smells faintly of beer and wood polish. Rowan is behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, forearms solid as fence posts.
“Dan,” he nods as I step up.
“Alright.”
“Usual?”
“Yeah.”
He pulls the pint with practised ease. Harry is at a corner table, nursing his second lager.
“You look tragic,” he says by way of greeting.
“Cheers.”
He grins. “Marriage?”
I sit down heavily. “Something like that.”
Harry leans back in his chair. “Emma bite your head off again?” He snorts.
“She doesn’t bite. She… evaluates.” I laugh.
He studies me for a second. “What’s up?”
I hesitate.
This is the bit men are bad at.
We’re good at complaining about work. Good at football analysis. Less good at: I think my wife is slipping away from me and I don’t know how to stop it.
“I think Em’s unhappy,” I say finally.
Harry doesn’t laugh.
He nods slowly. “About what?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”
