And then I see her. Freya. She’s crouched down tying a shoelace, smoothing a coat afterwards with the same careful attention she used to give to everything when we were kids. It’s such a small, ordinary moment, and yet it pulls my focus immediately.
She stands and looks up. Our eyes almost meet but I look away first. Not because I’m nervous. I don’t get nervous. But because the way my body reacts is inconvenient, and I’drather not examine that too closely while standing in a school playground.
Get it together Bennett!
She’s different, of course. She’s grown into herself in a way that seems grounded and solid. There’s a quiet strength to her now, something steady beneath the softness, and I’m aware, unhelpfully aware, of the curve of her waist beneath her coat, of the way her hair falls forward when she laughs at something another mum says. It’s just familiarity, I tell myself. History has a way of dressing itself up as something more. She’s probably with someone anyway. The man I saw with that same kid earlier didn’t look like a casual acquaintance. Of course she would have moved on. Why wouldn’t she? She’s the kind of woman men build lives around. The kind of woman that you absolutely never let slip through your fingers. Unless you’re me.
I shift my weight and slide my hands into my pockets, settling into an expression that reads as easy and confident, like none of this has caught me off guard. If she looks over again, I’ll grin. As if the past is something neatly boxed up and put away. Except my mind keeps drifting back to her. To the way she stood up just now. To the faint colour in her cheeks. To the fact that even from a distance I can tell when she’s pretending not to notice me.
This is ridiculous.
I’ve been married. I’ve lived in cities bigger than this entire town. I’ve stood in front of crowds who shouted my name like their lives depended on it. I am not undone by a woman tying a shoelace. It’s just attraction. That’s all it is. Old chemistry resurfacing because we’re back in the same place, breathing the same air. It doesn’t mean anything.It doesn’t.
I left once. That part’s simple. Whatever this is now? It’s just proximity. Just circumstance. Just my body reacting before my brain has had a chance to catch up.
I can handle that.
CHAPTER FOUR
FREYA
The morning sun cuts through the blinds at an angle that feels almost accusing, lighting up every crumb on the kitchen table as though the house itself is quietly judging me. Theo is already halfway through his cereal, spoon abandoned in favour of dramatic hand gestures as he recounts yesterday’s football match in forensic detail, complete with sound effects and a recreation of the winning goal that nearly sends milk over the edge of the bowl.
I sip my coffee and nod in the right places, trying to look like someone who is awake and prepared for the day rather than someone functioning on muscle memory and caffeine.
The school run never truly gets easier. It lulls you into thinking you have a system and then throws in a missing permission slip or a sock that suddenly feels “wrong.” I often wonder how some of the other mums manage to look so put together before nine in the morning. Eleanor appears at the gates most days with twins in tow and an outfit that looks curated rather than assembled in the dark. Even Hannah’s sister Emma, who has a child in Theo’s class, manages to look composed, even if she carries that faint air of being permanently five minutes behind.
And then there’s me, hoping dry shampoo counts as effort and wearing the same leggings and sweatshirt combo that I wore yesterday.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that no one is keeping score, but standing among them sometimes makes me feel as though I missed a rehearsal everyone else attended.
Outside, Oakwood hums into life. Clara walks past our house with her children, sunlight catching in her hair. Mark rests a hand at the small of her back as he laughs at something the youngest says, and I feel that familiar mixture of warmth and longing that has nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with partnership. They’re relationships is not perfection but it’s shared weight. It’s having someone to tap out with. It's having a listening ear and a warm chest to rest your head on at night.
“Morning, sunshine,” Clara calls when we meet at the gates. I smile because it’s easier than explaining that sunshine feels slightly aspirational some days.
Theo runs off with Ollie. I watch him go until he disappears through the doors, my shoulders drop in that quiet, familiar way that always follows dropping him off on handover days.
Today is a work day for me, which means I’ll see him in passing, but it’s different when he knows he’s not coming home with me. It’s James’ turn to pick him up later, and that thought always hits hard.
I work four days a week as a teaching assistant at Oakwood Primary. It is not what I imagined when I was younger, sketching dresses in the margins of notebooks and believing wholeheartedly that I would one day be designing collections for fashion week. Oakwood is not exactly a fashion capital. The closest thing we have to couture is the charity shop window, which I have to admit occasionally delivers an excellent cardigan.
Before Theo, I planned to leave. To move somewhere bigger. After Theo, Oakwood became less of a limitation and more of a lifeline. Money was tight for a while. I worked at the post office in town, which was fine in the way watching paint dryis technically fine. Hannah was the one who gently suggested I apply for the teaching assistant role when a position opened up. She saw something in me I wasn’t particularly good at seeing in myself at the time.
I love this job more than I expected to. The year fours that I work with are chaotic and earnest and exhausting in equal measure. I get to witness the exact moment something clicks for them, the tiny triumph in their faces when a word finally makes sense. The hours fit around Theo. There are no complicated childcare arrangements or frantic reshuffling of schedules. It makes sense for my life now. And perhaps that is enough.
The staff room smells faintly of coffee and whatever floral cleaning spray the school insists on using. Hannah is already there, legs crossed, sipping what looks like an aggressively aesthetic caramel latte from Rose’s Café.
“You’re late,” she says without looking up.
“I’m three minutes early,” I reply, dropping my bag onto the chair opposite her.
“My mum always said if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late,” she says, finally glancing at me. “Also, you look like you fought a small war.”
“I did. One sock felt wrong.”
She winces in sympathy. “Thoughts and prayers.”
I eye her drink. “Is that your daily caramel monstrosity?”
