I don’t miss him. But I hate that it happened. I hate that for a while I believed I was the rough draft and someone else became the finished piece.
I walk home alone after drop-off, past houses I’ve known my whole life, past the one across the road from mine. Rory’s old house.
I always slow here. I have since I was a kid.
Dad left me our house when he passed. It had been just the two of us for so long that it was never going to belong to anyone else. And although I’m glad it’s mine and I get to hold onto all ofthe precious memories that live in these walls, I’d much rather that he was still here with me.
Mum left when I was ten. She fell in love with a Spanish waiter. All I got was a postcard from Mallorca with no return address. Dad never said a bad word about her but I made my mind up on my own. He just packed lunches with notes tucked inside and learned how to plait my hair using YouTube tutorials. Once, when I cried over a school project that needed a family tree, he drew the two of us with ridiculous hair and said, “Small tree. Strong roots.”
He was steady. Loyal. Unshakeable. I think that’s why James caught me so completely off guard. I didn’t grow up believing love could be fragile. I believed that all men were like my dad and that I would one day be lucky enough to have children with a man that would treat our kids like my dad treated me.
Dad died on a Tuesday morning from a heart attack. It was quick, cruel, unfair. One minute he was reminding me to check the oil in my car, the next I was standing in a hospital corridor at twenty-two being told there was nothing they could do.
Twenty-two. No mum. No dad. Just me, a set of house keys and a grief that felt too big for my years.
I hang my keys on the crooked hook he installed and never fixed.
“This one’s still doing its best,” I murmur to the empty hallway.
I make myself a coffee and open my phone. The headline is already there.
RORY BENNETT. RETURNING HOME. FRESH START.
There’s a photo of him stepping out of a car, head ducked slightly, dark hair untamed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. My stomach tightens before I can stop it. I haven’t seen him properly in years. Not since before everything got complicated.Before life pulled us in opposite directions. It’s weird how someone can be a huge part of some chapters of your life and then not exist in the next.
Of all the places in the world to start again, he chose here. Oakwood. Across the road from me. Back in the house he grew up in.
I stare at the photo for a little longer, my coffee cooling in my hand, and I feel something shift quietly under my ribs.
Some stories don’t end when you think they do.
Sometimes they just wait.
CHAPTER three
RORY
Driving back into Oakwood feels less like returning and more like stepping into something that never quite let me go.
The hills roll out the same way they always did and the houses appear one by one as the road narrows toward town, red brick and neat hedges and the sort of familiarity that sinks under your skin whether you want it to or not. I used to think I would outgrow this place. That I would build something bigger somewhere else and Oakwood would become a fond memory I brought out occasionally. But it didn’t work like that. And if I’m honest, I’m kind of glad it didn’t.
I glance at Isla in the rear-view mirror because I always do, even when I don’t mean to. She’s sitting upright in her seat, eyes scanning the street like she’s already assessing where everything fits. She gets that from Sienna; the watchfulness, the quiet calculation, but the stubborn lift of her chin is mine. In fact, any stubbornness in her comes from me.
The town starts noticing me before I’ve even parked my car. A couple outside the bakery do that thing where they try not to stare and fail. A teenager nudges his friend and says my name a little too loudly. I give a half smile, a small nod, something that reads easy and unphased.
I’ve never quite known what to do with being recognised. On the pitch, I know exactly who I am. I know where to stand, when to move, how hard to hit.. Off it, it’s less clear and it’s somethingI have never gotten used to. I don’t dislike the attention, not exactly. I just don’t feel entirely comfortable in it, especially here, where they remember the kid I used to be.
Isla squeezes my hand at the school gates. “They’re looking at you.”
“Let them,” I say lightly. “Gives them something to talk about.”
She grins, satisfied with that answer, and I’m grateful she doesn’t ask anything more.
Walking through Oakwood Primary again does something strange to me. My body remembers the rhythm of the place before my mind catches up. The smell of polish and old books, the scrape of chairs against floors, the echo of footsteps along corridors that once felt enormous. There’s a framed photo of me somewhere in here, grinning in a Ravens kit, captioned with something overly proud.
Rugby made everything straightforward. Train hard. Play hard. Win if you can. It’s easier to be confident when the rules are clear. Feelings don’t come with rules, referees or scoreboards. They just sit there, unresolved.
We step back out into the playground, and the noise hits in a rush. Children shouting, parents chatting, teachers calling instructions across the tarmac. I loosen my shoulders, let the confidence settle into place automatically, because that’s what people expect from me and I’ve got it well-rehearsed.
