Clara:He admitted he loved you.
Freya:Loved. And he admitted it badly
Clara:He’s emotionally constipated.
Freya:DO NOT.
Clara:Freya.
There’s no joke in the next message.
Clara:You’ve wanted him your entire life.
Freya:Wait how do you…
Before I click send, another message comes in.
Clara:I can see it in the way you look at him. If you don’t kiss him because you don’t trust him, that’s one thing. If you don’t kiss him because you’re scared it might actually work, that’s another.
I sink onto the sofa. I am not reckless. I cannot afford reckless. But I also cannot ignore that when Rory looked at me today, it wasn’t nostalgia, it was recognition. And when I almost kissed him, it wasn’t weakness, it was want.
Freya:I don’t know if I want to kiss him because I love him…
My thumb hovers.
Freya:…or because I never stopped wanting to.
Clara:Those might be the same thing.
I stare at the message. I just don’t know yet whether it will shift toward something beautiful or something that will wreck us both. And that’s the part that terrifies me most.
CHAPTER twenty-four
RORY
Fuck. I fucked it.
I walk slowly back from the last school drop-off before Christmas, cold air biting at my cheeks, and replay every second of that almost-kiss and the conversation like some kind of emotional car crash I can’t look away from. I couldn’t control myself and then couldn’t articulate my feelings, and now she thinks this is some ego trip. Some rebound fantasy.She is absolutely not a rebound or a back-up. She never has been. She never will be.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard. I have always known I loved her. Always. I just buried it under excuses and distance and ambition and fear.
God, I was so stupid.
For years I rehearsed asking her out. On buses. In hotel rooms. Lying awake at night before big matches. Whole speeches, jokes, casual lines that would somehow make it low-pressure and cool. And every single time, I chickened out. Told myself she was too good for me. That she deserved someone better than a lad chasing contracts and headlines.
I shake my head, a bitter laugh slipping out. Being fullback for the Ravens? That’s everything I ever worked for. I wouldn’t tradethe career, not for a second. But the spotlight, the city life, the parties, the people who only liked the version of me that came with press and perks… I didn’thaveto disappear into that world the way I did. I didn’t have to let Oakwood become somewhere I “used to be from.” I didn’t have to let Freya become someone I “used to know.”
I wince just thinking about it. I don’t even recognise that version of myself now; posing for photos, playing house with someone who looked perfect on paper and felt like a stranger in real life. It wasn’t love. It was momentum. Image. Ego. It wasn’t the boy who sat on a kitchen floor at fourteen helping Freya build a model volcano for science class. She’s right. I can’t do this to her. I can’t come back with all this history and heat and unfinished feelings and expect her to just… be there. Waiting. I don’t get to stake a claim because I finally grew up enough to realise what I lost. She deserves better. She deserves a man who doesn’t hesitate. Who doesn’t vanish when life gets big and shiny. Who doesn’t make her feel like she wasn’t good enough. She deserves someone braver than me. And the worst part? That mistake might have just cost me not only the girl of my dreams but my best friend too.
I arrive back in the cul-de-sac and glance over at her house. She’s already home and right there in the window. She looks up for half a second, and the look on her face hits me like a punch, not just hurt. Disappointment. Then she drops her gaze again.
I swallow hard and turn away before I do something stupid like go and make it worse.
The second I step through my parents’ front door, something in my shoulders loosens. It’s ridiculous how instant it is. The smell of bacon cooking, the familiar creak in the hallway floorboard, the low hum of the telly in the living room. This house has always been my reset button. No headlines. No expectations. Just… home.
Moving back to Oakwood hasn’t just brought me closer to Freya. It’s brought me back to them. Mum and Dad have always been the blueprint. They met at secondary school, sat next to each other in maths, Mum likes to say, because Dad was rubbish at fractions and needed “academic supervision.” They’ve only ever loved each other. It wasn’t perfect. They split for a while when I was little. Too young, too skint, too tired. But they found their way back. They chose each other again and were stronger for it. I always thought that’d be me one day. I just… thought it’d be with Freya. They’re both retired now. Mum; Margaret, though no one calls her that unless she’s in trouble, worked at the bookshop in town for years. She still pops in now and then “to keep her hand in,” but mostly she’s happiest in the garden or baking with Isla.
Dad; Arthur, drove trains back and forth to the city for decades. Early mornings, late nights. Now he just enjoys cruises, his armchair, and being climbed on by his granddaughter.
