I hesitate, which is apparently enough of an answer. “We’re friends,” I say finally.
He makes a face like I’ve just confessed to believing in flat earth theory. “You want to be friends?”
“No.”
“Then why are you?”
Because it’s safer. Because if I don’t try properly, I can’t fail properly. Because she told me I don’t get to come back and claim her like nothing happened, and she was right. “Because she deserves someone certain,” I say instead, staring out across the field. “Someone who doesn’t disappear and hurt her.”
Rowan snorts softly. “And you’re not certain?”
I don’t answer.
He nudges my shoulder. “Mate. You’ve loved that girl since you were fifteen, maybe even younger. Playing it cool now doesn’t make you noble. It makes you a coward.”
I exhale slowly. “If she chooses someone else, I don’t get to lose her completely. Friends means I still get to be around.”
“And if this handyman asks her out?”
I feel blood start rushing to my face and my heart rate speed up. “He’s not going to.”
“And if he does?”
I picture her laughing like she did this morning and clench my jaw.
“It’s none of my business,” I say.
Rowan raises his eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief. “Sure it isn’t.”
I shake my head. “I’m not doing that possessive caveman thing again. She called me out. She was right.”
“Being braver doesn’t mean dragging a man away from her,” he says quietly. “It means telling heryouwant her.”
“I did.”
“Not properly.”
He isn’t wrong, which is the worst part.
“So what do I do?” I ask Rowan.
“You need to tell her how you feel and what you want. That’s if you even know what you want.”
I do. At least I think I do. Nothing feels right unless it’s with her. But I don’t get to be selfish. She has said it herself; I don’t get to come back here and claim her. Being friends was her idea and I have to respect that.
On the drive back, I replay the image of her hand on that bloke’s arm far more times than is healthy. I tell myself I’m overreacting. I tell myself she was just being friendly. I tell myself that if I’m serious about this whole ‘friends’ arrangement, I don’t get to care. And yet I do. I care more than I should. Which is exactly the problem I’ve been avoiding since I was twenty.
CHAPTER THIRTY-one
FREYA
The blind has been broken since October, which means every afternoon I end up wrestling with it while Year Two stare at me like I’m personally responsible for the sun. So when Ben appears in the doorway at break time with a toolbox and an apologetic smile, it feels strangely momentous.
“Hi,” he says, knocking lightly on the frame even though the door is open. “I’ve come to tackle the rebellious blind.”
I laugh, stepping aside. “Be my guest. It’s been plotting against me for months.”
He sets the toolbox down with an easy familiarity, not flashy, not dramatic. Just competent. He doesn’t fill the room with noise the way some men do. He just gets on with it, taking in the window, the wonky pull cord, the slant of the blind where it’s come away from the bracket.
