“So,” he says, standing, “I’ll see you at pickup.”
Like that’s normal. Like we haven’t just spent an hour playing verbal tennis over reindeer hoopla.
“See you,” I reply, aiming for composed and landing somewhere just shy of flustered.
He pauses at the door, glances back once.
“Try not to stress too much, Frey,” he says. “You’ve got this.”
And then he’s gone, leaving behind a perfectly reasonable Christmas fair plan and an entirely unreasonable amount of tension.
CHAPTER eleven
RORY
twenty YEARS OLD
Oakwood always smelled like cut grass and someone’s barbecue when the sun was out.
I’d barely dropped my bag inside Mum and Dad’s before I was back out the door.
“Don’t be late for dinner!” Mum called after me.
“Won’t!” I lied, already halfway across the cul-de-sac.
First place I ever went when I came home from the city, from training, from anywhere, was Freya. Always Freya. I didn’t even knock properly, just did that quick double-tap we’d had since we were about eight. Her mum shouted, “He’s here!” like I was a recurring delivery. Freya came down the stairs a minute later, sunlight caught in her hair, that smile already waiting for me like it had known I’d show up.
“Miss me?” she asked.
“Obviously,” I said. “I’m unbearable without you.”
She snorted. “You’re unbearable with me.”
We fell into step like we hadn’t spent weeks apart. No catch-up needed. No effort. Just the same rhythm we’d always had.
We stopped at Rose’s Café, same as always. Jam doughnut for me, chocolate for her. Rose winked at us like we were part of a storyline she’d been quietly rooting for since we were young. Then we headed for the woods.
Our clearing wasn’t far, just off the main path, hidden enough that you had to know it was there. The grass was warm and dry, sunlight flickering through the leaves in lazy patches.
Freya kicked off her sandals and dropped onto the grass with a sigh, stretching out on her back. Pale yellow sundress, soft fabric shifting when she moved. Her hair fanned out around her shoulders.
I remember thinking, very clearly, that I was in trouble. Proper trouble. I’d spent most of my teenage years convinced she was out of my league. Too sharp. Too kind. Too everything. I’d been the lanky rugby idiot with muddy knees and big dreams. She’d always felt steadier than me, like she knew where she was headed. But things were changing. Rugby was going well. Scouts were calling. There was talk of contracts. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I was standing next to her by accident. I started wondering what it would look like if I actually… chose her. If I asked. I’d practised it on the drive down. Like a loser.
“You’re my best friend. I don’t want to ruin that. But I don’t want to pretend I don’t think about you either.”
In my head it sounded calm. Confident. Mature. In reality my hands were sweating and my knees were shaking.
She rolled onto her side, propped up on one elbow, chocolate sitting at the corner of her mouth.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” I asked immediately, panic flaring.
“Dunno. Just weird.”
“I’m not weird.”
She raised an eyebrow.
