Rory hesitates, glancing between the group, the kids, the adults, and then, briefly, at me, like he’s checking whether this is okay or whether I’m going to combust on the spot.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says.
Clara snorts. “Intrude? Please. The more the merrier. You can come dressed as a Greek god.”
Rory’s mouth quirks. “I actually do have a costume. Give me two minutes.”
Two minutes is not enough time for my heart rate to return to a normal human setting.
He disappears inside and reappears exactly two minutes later as Cowboy Rory, which feels like a personal attack on my nervous system. Faded jeans, fitted plaid, sleeves pushed up his forearms, boots, and a tan cowboy hat that should not look that good on a man who also happens to have dimples.
Clara leans close enough that her witch hat bonks mine. “Save a horse…”
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“…ride a cowboy.”
“Clara,” I hiss, but she’s cackling already, drifting away before I can elbow her.
We set off down the street, the kids a noisy, glittery parade, buckets swinging, excitement spilling out of them. Rory stays near the front with Isla and Theo, and I position myself very carefully between Emma and the kids so I don’t have to be overly aware of Rory existing. It almost works.
Oakwood is loud with laughter and doorbells and parents clustering at gates, debating chocolate bar rankings. I keep joining conversations, laughing at the right moments, complimenting homemade costumes with perhaps too muchenthusiasm, all while tracking Rory without meaning to, the shape of him under streetlights, the sound of his laugh, the stupid cowboy hat.
Seriously, who dresses as a cowboy for Halloween?
By the time the buckets are satisfyingly heavy and the kids are tipping into tired wobbliness, the group starts peeling off, one goodbye at a time, until the streets narrow and the cul-de-sac looms ahead, quieter and dimmer than the busier roads behind us.
And then it’s just us. Rory and Isla. Me and Theo.
The kids walk a few steps ahead, comparing loot like tiny accountants. Rory falls into step beside me. Silence stretches, not awkward exactly, but loaded enough that I can feel it in the air between us. We both speak at the same time.
“So…”
“Hey…”
We stop, then laugh, a little surprised, a little relieved, and I hate how familiar that feels, how easy it used to be to laugh with him.
“You go,” he says.
I tuck my hands into my pockets so he can’t see them fidgeting. “I was just going to say… it’s nice, having you back.”
His expression softens. “Yeah. It’s good to be back.”
A beat passes.
“I heard about what happened,” I say carefully. “With Isla’s mum. Mark told me. I’m really sorry, Rory.”
Of course, I don’t know the full extent of what happened but I know that she’s now with someone else.
He nods once, gaze dropping to the pavement for a second. “Yeah. It’s been a lot. But we’re figuring it out.”
“You’re a good dad,” I say quietly, because it’s true, because it feels important to say. “She’s lucky.”
That earns me a smaller smile, not the showy one, not the easy public one, but something real.
“Thanks, Frey.”
God it kills me when he says my name like that.
