He raises an eyebrow. “Rory Bennett. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so sheepish.”
“I’m not sheepish.”
“You look like a man who’s just realised he’s in very deep.”
I risk another glance toward the dance floor. Freya’s laughing at something Clara says, still glancing over at me occasionally.
“Yeah,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Something like that.”
I order a pint and swirl my finger around the rim, doing anything to stop myself from staring at her. It doesn’t work. Because of course it doesn’t. She’s now on stage. And of all songs…Flowersby Miley bloody Cyrus.
I close my eyes for half a second. You have got to be kidding me. When I look back, she’s holding the mic, one hand on her hip, that backless dress doing absolutely nothing to help me keep my dick under control. The disco lights sweep over her skin, over the curve of her shoulders, catching in her hair as she sings. And then she looks at me. Right at me. On certain lyrics. Sharp. Pointed. Like she’s launching each word across the room and aiming straight for my chest.
Yeah. That one was for you, mate.
The girls at the booth are on their feet now, screaming, dancing around the stage like she’s headlining Glastonbury. It does something warm to my blood seeing how loved she is, how supported. But also? If I ever hurt her again, I am one hundred percent getting jumped behind the bins by a pack of primary school mums in heels.
The song ends to cheers and whoops and I finally exhale, relieved I don’t have to pretend I’m deeply invested in the condensation on my pint glass anymore.
I glance up and immediately wish I hadn’t. Freya is marching toward me. Well. Slightly wobbling. But with purpose. I blink, convinced for a second that tequila has somehow teleported intomybloodstream. Nope. Two seconds later she’s right in front of me, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy but blazing.
“YOU,” she says, jabbing a finger into my chest.
“Hi, Frey”
“No. No ‘hi, Frey’. You don’t get to ‘hi, Frey’ me.”
“Okay…”
“You don’t just get to swan back into my life, look all… all rugby and broad and annoyingly hot, and then start acting like you have ANY kind of claim over me.”
“I don’t think I…”
“Scott Wheeler, Rory. SCOTT WHEELER. Do you know how long it’s been since a man flirted with me that wasn’t trying to sell me double glazing or ask about Theo’s reading level?”
I open my mouth.
“And you just stomp over like some sort of jealous caveman and glare at him until he runs away!”
“He’s not a good guy Frey, I…”
“That is NOT the point!” she hisses, swaying slightly. “You don’t get to decide who is or isn’t good for me when you disappeared for YEARS. And then you try to kiss me and get me all confused.”
My hand hovers near her elbow in case she topples, but I don’t touch her.
“I was fine, Rory. I was doing my life. Raising my son. Surviving. And then you come back with your stupid backwards caps and your stupid shoulders and your… your FACE.”
“My face?”
“YES, your FACE. And those looks you keep giving me like you’re about to either kiss me or start a fight. Which is it, huh?”
People nearby are pretending not to listen. Terribly.
“Freya…”
“No! You don’t get to ‘Freya’ me in that voice either. You had your chance and you walked away.”
I swallow. She wobbles again, eyes shining now, angry, hurt, drunk, everything tangled together.
