Internally I am spiralling at high speed.She’s single. She’s single. She’s single Fuck.Which means the only thing stopping me before was an assumption and knowing that our ship sailed long ago. Which means I have been behaving like a martyr for no reason. Which means I have even less of an excuse now.
Footsteps thunder overhead and then the kids burst into the kitchen, mid-argument about dragons and castle placement, breaking whatever fragile thing was building between us.
Thank god.
“Daddy!” Isla shouts. “Theo’s Lego is amazing!”
Theo beams at Freya. She laughs, easy and warm, and I look at her properly this time. Not like she belongs to someone else. Not like she’s completely off-limits. And even though I know thischanges everything, even though I can feel the ground shifting beneath my carefully constructed restraint, I also know that knowing she’s single doesn’t magically make this simple. History still exists. Risk still exists. The fact that I hurt her still exists. But as I watch her push Theo’s hair back from his face and smile at something Isla says, I realise something far more dangerous than jealousy. I am not pulling back anymore because I have to. I am pulling back because I’m scared of what happens if I don’t.
chapter twenty
freya
I don’t notice it straight away. At first, I think I’m imagining it, or projecting something that isn’t there, because the human brain is very good at rewriting events to fit whatever narrative feels safest. But by the end of the week, there’s no denying it. Rory is different. Not colder. Not unfriendly. Just… careful.
The morning after the playdate, I expected something to have shifted between us. We’d survived being in my kitchen without combusting. He’d been inside the house properly again. He’d found out about James. We’d even laughed and reminisced a bit. It had felt, strangely, like a breakthrough. And yet at pickup, he stands a fraction further back than usual, hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his jacket as though he’s physically preventing himself from reaching out. When I joke about Isla refusing to leave because Theo’s snacks are apparently superior, he smiles, but it doesn’t linger. It passes over his face and disappears before it can settle into anything warmer.
“I’ve got to head off,” he says, glancing toward the gate as though he’s just remembered something urgent. “Training block.”
It isn’t what he says. It’s how he says it. Like he’s drawing a boundary line I didn’t ask for.
“Right,” I reply, keeping my voice light.
He nods once, brief and polite. “See you.”
And then he’s walking away, long strides, shoulders squared, not looking back. I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, Theo tugging at my hand, and try to ignore the small, irrational sting blooming under my ribs.
It shouldn’t bother me. If anything, this is better. Cleaner. Less volatile. Except it doesn’t feel better. It feels like we had broken through the awkward phase, and he’s deliberately stepped back to it.
Over the next few days, the pattern holds. He doesn’t linger at the school gates. He doesn’t lean in close when we’re talking. He doesn’t let his hand brush mine accidentally or otherwise. If anything, he seems almost hyper-aware of maintaining space between us, like proximity is suddenly something to be managed rather than drifted into. It’s subtle enough that no one else would notice. But I do. I know this is probably for the best but having Rory back in some kind of friendship was nice and was a welcomed change to the awkwardness that came before it. I hadn’t hoped for anything romantic but I was enjoying laughing and feeling at ease with him again.
On Thursday afternoon, Hannah finds me in the staff room staring at my laptop screen without typing a single word.
“You look like someone’s just cancelled Christmas,” she says, dropping into the chair opposite me and stealing a biscuit from my desk.
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
I close the lid of my laptop and exhale slowly. “He’s being weird.”
Hannah’s expression shifts instantly from amused to alert.
“Who is? And define weird.”
“Rory. Polite,” I say.
She recoils theatrically. “Oh God. Not polite.”
“Exactly.”
She leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright with interest. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Then what happened?”
I hesitate, because the truth sounds ridiculous when I try to frame it out loud. “He found out I’m single,” I say finally.
