Isla is talking non-stop beside me, something about a bracelet kit and whether Theo would wear one if she made him one in boy colours, and I’m nodding in the right places while my mind drifts to the house across the cul-de-sac and the fact that I haven’t seen Freya since our ‘Frory’ Christmas where things as friends felt incredibly awkward.
“Dad,” Isla says, tugging my coat sleeve. “You’re doing the thinking face again.”
“I don’t have a thinking face.”
“You do. It’s like you’re arguing with someone in your brain.”
How does this kid know everything?
The school gates are the usual mess of coats and noise and parents who are thrilled to be back in structure but not thrilled to have to be at school and organised by this ungodly hour. I scan automatically, because apparently that’s what I do now, and I spot her almost immediately. She’s standing just inside the gates, sleeves pulled over her hands against the cold, laughing at something someone’s said, and it hits me the same way it alwaysdoes, that sound of her laughing like it’s been there my entire life and my body hasn’t quite adjusted to the idea that I don’t get to react to it like this anymore.
I start towards her, telling myself to be normal, to be the version of myself who agreed to boundaries and meant it. And then I see him. Tall, dark hair, late thirties maybe. Sleeves rolled up despite the January air, holding a clipboard and looking faintly unsure of himself in that way men do when they’re new somewhere and trying to look competent without asking too many questions. Freya is walking beside him, gesturing towards the main building as she talks. She’s explaining something, animated, hands moving in little circles the way they do when she’s in work mode, and he’s leaning down slightly to hear her over the noise of the playground. She says something and he laughs. He says something back. She tips her head and laughs properly, the real one, and rests her hand briefly against his forearm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s nothing. It is absolutely nothing. People laugh. People touch arms. So why does it feel like someone has quietly rearranged my ribcage?
Isla has already disappeared towards her classroom door by the time I realise I’ve slowed down. I stand there way longer than necessary, watching them head towards the entrance together.
Mrs Patel greets me and I realise I’ve been staring. By the time I look back, Freya and clipboard guy are already inside. Inside together.
Fine. It’s fine. I’m fine. Absolutely fine.
I catch up to Isla and kiss her head, tell her I’ll see her at three, and leave before I do something embarrassing like ask someone who he is.
Rowan’s farm is exactly the same as it was when we were fourteen, which is either comforting or deeply concerning. The air smells of damp earth and diesel and something vaguelyanimal that clings to your clothes long after you leave, and it does the job of dragging me out of my own head for at least the first five minutes.
Rowan is hammering a fence post when I pull up, sleeves rolled, chewing on something.
“You look like someone’s just died,” he says.
“Morning to you too.”
He studies my face for a second too long and then grins in that infuriating way that suggests he already knows the answer. “Freya.”
It isn’t a question.
“Why does everyone assume everything is about Freya?” I mutter.
“Because everything is about Freya,” he replies lightly, handing me a mug of tea he’d already prepared.
I lean against the fence beside him and try to sound casual. “There’s some bloke at the school.”
He waits.
“New handyman or builder or something.”
He waits some more.
“She was showing him around.”
Rowan turns slowly, stares at me, and then laughs so loudly a sheep startles three fields over.
“You look like your dog died because Freya is sharing the same air as another man?”
“It isn’t… I don’t…” I snap. “Fuck.”
“It’s tragic Rory. I’m so sorry man.” He stifles a laugh.
I scrub a hand over my face. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
