We get home and Isla bolts upstairs to change. I lean against the kitchen counter and exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over myjaw. This is fine. It is just a playdate. It is not a psychological experiment designed to test my restraint.
Mum peers over her glasses from the table.
“You look tense,” she says mildly.
“I’m not tense.”
She makes a noise that says she does not believe me.
“Where are you off to?”
“Dropping Isla at Freya’s. Playdate with Theo.”
Mum’s expression shifts in a way I don’t like. Too knowing. Too amused.
“Oh lovely,” she says. “Freya’s always been a good girl.”
Yes. Thank you. Not helpful.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I add quickly. “Just dropping her off.”
Dad folds his newspaper without looking up. “Don’t forget your manners.”
“Christ,” I mutter under my breath.
Isla reappears in leggings and a jumper with suspiciously excessive sparkle, arms full of toys.
“Ready!”
The walk across the cul-de-sac feels longer than usual. The Collins’ house looks exactly the same from the outside. Same red bricks. Same slightly crooked hanging basket. Same window where Freya used to wave at me when we were thirteen and pretending not to like each other.
We knock. I tell myself to keep it normal. The door opens. And there she is. She looks… different. Not dressed up. Not trying. Just soft and effortless in jeans and a pale jumper, hair loose around her shoulders like she hasn’t bothered to tame it. There’s something warmer about her here, in her space, framed by her hallway light. I immediately make a conscious effort not to stare.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
Theo barrels into view behind her, nearly knocking her sideways in his enthusiasm. “ISLA!”
The kids disappear past us in a blur before I can even process the threshold.
“So, you coming in?” Freya asks innocently.
I pause.Don’t do it Rory. Don’t fucking do it.
“Sure.”
Fuck.
I step inside because I have to. Because it would be strange not to. That’s what I tell myself anyway. And then I immediately regret it.Shit.What have I done?
The house smells faintly like cinnamon, vanilla and washing powder. Nothing has changed. And yet, everything has. The hallway still holds the same narrow table with the chipped edge where we used to dump our school bags. The door frame still has pencil marks climbing up the wood, little scribbled dates beside them. Freya’s height. Eight. Nine. Ten. And then mine, starting a year later because I insisted on being included. The fireplace in the front room still houses the old iron grate we used to roast marshmallows over in winter while her dad told terrible stories about ghosts in the woods. The rug is new. Softer. There are more cushions now. Brighter ones. And everywhere I look there are signs of Theo. Small trainers tucked by the radiator. A school jumper draped over the banister. Lego pieces abandoned like landmines. It’s more feminine than it used to be. More hers.
We move further inside and my eyes catch the photos lining the staircase wall. Freya and Theo at the beach. Theo missing his front teeth. Freya laughing with women I recognise from school gates. Theo in a football kit. Theo covered in cake. Theo. Freya. Friends. But not a single photo of the man I’ve been mentally preparing to meet. Not one. That’s… odd.
Freya’s voice pulls me back. “Do you want a drink?”
I hesitate for half a second too long. “No, I should probably…”
