Rowan clocked us immediately.
“Ah,” he said, polishing a glass. “The chaos committee.”
Clara blew him a kiss.
Freya looked unreal.
I mean properly unreal. Burgundy backless dress. Giant bow trailing down her spine like she was gift-wrapped vengeance. Gold heels that said I am absolutely not here for closure.
I leaned toward Hannah and muttered, “If Rory sees her tonight he’s going to need CPR.”
Hannah fanned herself. “Forget Rory. Half the pub needs CPR.”
We piled into our booth,thebooth. Our booth. The one we’ve claimed for years. The one that sayswomen of Oakwood Primary: emotionally unstable but hydratedwith tequila.
Drinks landed. Coats flew. Lou announced she was “only having two” which is historically inaccurate.
And I felt… good. Not desperate-to-escape good. Not emotionally-numb good. Just… settled.
I caught Clara watching me.
“What?” I asked.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve had sex.”
I choked on my prosecco.
“I— what?”
Hannah gasped. “Oh my God you absolutely have.”
Lou leaned in. “It’s the shoulders. She’s holding them differently.”
“Shut up,” I hissed, but I could feel my cheeks burning.
Abigail sipped her drink slowly. “Regular sex or we-accidentally-broke-furniture sex?”
I tried to look offended.
Failed.
Clara slapped the table. “IT WAS GOOD SEX.”
Freya blinked at me. “Wait. You and Dan are back-back?”
I hesitated. Because that was the thing. We weren’t just “back.” We were… trying.
“Something shifted,” I admitted. “We stopped keeping score.”
Lou’s eyebrows lifted. “Score?”
“You know. I unloaded the dishwasher. You owe me a blow job.”
A chorus of groans.
Hannah gagged theatrically. “Transactional dick is a plague.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And I realised I didn’t feel wanted. I felt… obligated.”
