At some point, halfway through Adam Sandler trying to be charming, I glance out of the window without really meaning to. Across the road, Rory is in his parents’ front garden with Isla. He throws her into the air and she shrieks, and his mum is standing in the doorway laughing, and the whole thing looks fun and loud and painfully alive.
I smile, knowing how happy Rory must be. And then I remember that we agreed to be friends. The word still feels absurd in my mouth. We both shook hands like idiots trying to pretend that chemistry can be filed neatly into a labelled drawer and revisited at a later, more appropriate date. Or never. It was mature, sensible, devastating. Because the truth is, I did not pull away because I didn’t want him.God I want him.I pulled away because I want him too much, and because wanting him has never once ended well for me. I have done the quiet longing before. I have done the waiting. I have done the watching himbuild a life elsewhere while I stood in Oakwood pretending I was fine. I have watched the Instagram engagement announcement and the filtered forever captions and the hollow ache that followed. I am not doing that again. He said he felt like he finally had me back. As if I am something you can misplace and then retrieve. As if I have not been here the entire time.
The film plays on in the background but I’m no longer watching it. My mind keeps replaying the way his voice cracked when he apologised, the way his thumb brushed the side of my waist when he didn’t even realise he was doing it, the way his eyes softened for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to be reasonable. He looked torn, like a man trying to protect both of us from himself.
Across the road, Isla is now dragging him toward the door, probably demanding food or batteries or something urgent in the way only children can. He bends down to her level, listening properly, nodding, completely present in a way that makes my chest tighten for reasons I don’t particularly enjoy analysing.
I wish I was with Theo right now. Not because I regret not being with James. That ship sailed and sank and I have no desire to dive after it. I am glad I do not have to spend today making polite conversation across a dining table with a man who broke my heart before our son was even born. But I do miss my boy. I miss the chaos. The crumbs. The wrapping paper blizzards. The way he insists on reading every card out loud. This is the cost of building a life without someone who wasn’t good for me. And I would choose it again. Even if it hurts today.
I curl further into the sofa and scoop another spoonful of ice cream, fully aware that this is neither nutritious nor dignified.
The truth sits there, quietly honest. I want a family. Not the glossy, curated version. Not the Instagram one. I want noise and mismatched baubles and someone to argue with over how tocook the turkey. I want someone who stays. Someone who does not disappear when life gets inconvenient.
And somewhere in the most inconvenient corner of my heart, that picture still has Rory in it. Which is precisely why we cannot be anything other than friends right now. Because if I let myself believe that he has finally chosen me, that he is finally brave enough, and then he pulls back again, I do not think I would recover from that twice.
Outside, I see him glance toward my house. It is brief, but I notice. And for a second, the silence inside this house feels louder.
I turn back to the television and tell myself that next year will be different. Next year Theo will wake up here. Next year I will not lie in bed staring at the ceiling pretending I am fine. Next year, maybe I will not feel like I am permanently half of something. And if being friends with Rory Bennett is the safest way to get through this year without breaking completely, then friends is what we will be. Even if it feels like the most complicated word in the English language right now.
Chapter twenty-nine
Freya
Theo being home again changes the temperature of the house. It’s ridiculous how immediate it is. How the air feels warmer just because his shoes are kicked off in the hallway and there’s a trail of Lego leading from the living room to the stairs like some kind of chaotic breadcrumb path. The silence that sat heavy on Christmas morning has been replaced with chatter and the constant thud of small feet and questions shouted from different floors.
“Mum! Where’s my green hoodie?”
“Where you left it, probably!”
“That is not helpful!”
I smile into the cupboard as I stack plates, because this is it. This is the bit that makes the hard parts survivable. The coming back. The noise returning. The way he curls into me on the sofa like he hasn’t been gone at all. We’ve settled again. Or at least I have. Christmas Day feels further away now,thank goodness. The almost kiss at the pub feels like something that happened in a different version of December. Even the handshake, the ridiculous, painfully adult agreement to be friends, feels strangely steady in my chest instead of jagged.
I drop Theo at school and nip into the café for a coffee fix before running more errands. It’s only fair to get a treat before running errands, right?
Rose’s Café still smells the same as it always has. Coffee and sugar and something buttery that clings to your coat long after you leave. Mark is behind the counter, arguing with the espresso machine.
“Morning,” he calls. “You look suspiciously well-rested.”
“Don’t,” I say. “It’s a trap. If I admit that, something will go wrong.”
I’m about to order my usual when I hear a voice.
“Freya, love.”
I turn before I can stop myself smiling. Maggie Bennett is standing near the window, wrapped in her soft grey coat, scarf looped neatly at her neck, the kind of woman who has never once left the house without lip balm and mints in her bag. Her eyes light up when she sees me, and something in me loosens the way it always has around her.
“Maggie,” I say in a cheerful voice.
She pulls me into a hug without asking, warm and solid and smelling faintly of lavender and cinnamon. For a second I am seventeen again, standing in her kitchen while she pretends not to notice I’ve been crying.
“How are you, sweetheart?” she asks, holding me on my shoulders at arm’s length to inspect my face like she’s checking for damage.
“I’m good,” I say. “Theo’s back. So yeah. Properly good.”
Her expression softens immediately. “I bet you are.”
There’s a pause. The kind that holds more than it says.
