I sat up, heart hammering so loudly I was convinced she could hear it.
“Frey, I…”
“GET THEM!”
A water balloon exploded against my shoulder. Freya shrieked as another burst at her feet, spraying her dress. A pack of kids from the street came charging through the trees, armed like tiny, feral assassins.
“Fuck sake!” I yelled, scrambling to my feet as another balloon hit me square in the chest.
Freya was laughing so hard she could barely stand, hands up in surrender as she got drenched.
Within thirty seconds we were soaked, chased halfway back toward the path by ten-year-olds with terrible aim and endless enthusiasm.
By the time we escaped, dripping and breathless, the moment had shifted. Now was not the time for the big speech.
She nudged me with her shoulder as we walked back toward the café.
“You were about to say something,” she said, grinning.
“Was not.”
“You were.”
“Probably stupid.”
She bumped me again. “Good. I like stupid.”
I told myself I’d say it later. That there’d be another afternoon. Another moment when it felt exactly right. There’s always another chance. Isn’t there?
Chapter twelve
Rory
now
The kettle hums and clicks off and I stand, staring at the rising steam as if it might rearrange my thoughts into something more useful than Freya Collins. It is deeply unhelpful that she lives directly opposite my parents’ house. It is even more unhelpful that I keep having to see her playing happy families.
“Daddy!”
Isla barrels into the kitchen, skidding slightly on the tiles, hair already half loose from whatever whirlwind she’s been creating upstairs. “Can I have cereal? And juice? And can I go to Theo’s house soon?”
I blink, dragged back into the room.
“A playdate,” she clarifies, climbing onto the stool and leaning forward conspiratorially. “He said we should build a mega fort. Like, with blankets and the good cushions.”
How does the word playdate suddenly feel way more complicated than it should?
“Yeah,” I hear myself say, because saying no would be ridiculous and saying maybe would invite questions I don’t have the patience to answer. “I’ll ask his mum.”
The words sit between us for a moment. I’ll ask his mum. As though that is a neutral act. As though that wouldn’t involvestepping into her kitchen and pretending I’m not hyper-aware of every inch of space between us.
Isla beams and throws her arms around my waist, hugging me tight enough to knock the breath from my lungs, and I hug her back automatically, grounding myself in something uncomplicated and solid.
This is what matters. Breakfast. School. Being steady. Being the one who shows up. Not Freya and whatever version of her life I’ve decided to imagine in my head.
I see her at the school gate standing slightly apart from the main crowd, tote bag slipping down her shoulder, coffee balanced carefully in one hand, eyes scanning the line of children. The sight of her sends a jolt of electricity through me.
Isla tugs my hand impatiently. “Now?”
