We stand, gathering our things, and there’s something about the movement, the simple act of standing up and choosing the next step, that makes me feel slightly more in control and slightly lighter. Clara queues for takeaway coffee while I hover beside her, pretending to read the chalkboard menu even though I order the same thing every time.
Clara nudges me with her elbow. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you detach and float away whenever Rory’s name comes up. Like your body leaves the building.”
“I do not,” I say, offended on principle.
Clara gives me a look. “You absolutely do.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Mark calls Clara’s name, and she takes the cups with a little kiss, then hands one to me. The warmth seeps into my palm, grounding me instantly. We step outside and the cold hits my face. The high street smells like damp pavement and bakery air and car exhaust. Clara tucks her scarf tighter and hooks her arm through mine like we’re teenagers again and not two women who have to schedule friendship like it’s an appointment.
“I’m proud of you,” she says quietly as we start walking.
“For what?” I ask, suspicious.
“For asking me to come out,” she says. “For not pretending you don’t need this.”
“I am absolutely pretending,” I tell her. “I’m just doing it in public now.”
Clara laughs, then her expression shifts, attention snagging on something over my shoulder. Her eyes flick upward, and I feel it before I hear it, that subtle change in the air when you’re suddenly aware you’re being looked at.
“Freya?” someone calls.
My stomach tightens, irrationally, because for half a second my brain thinks it’s him. But it isn’t. I turn around and see Ben walking down from the hardware shop, paper bag under his arm. He smiles and waves. Easy and uncomplicated. Ben is uncomplicated. That’s the word that keeps coming back to me. He’s steady. He fixes things. He says please and thank you. He lets Theo ask questions without looking like he’s checking the time. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m performing for him.
“Hi,” he says as he reaches us. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Wild, I know,” I reply lightly. “Teachers drink coffee too.”
Ben grins. “I suppose you do.”
Clara’s eyes flick between us, sharp and amused, like she’s watching something on telly. I can practically feel her thoughts.
Ben nods at my cup. “You having a break?”
“A rare one,” I say. “Theo’s at school, it’s my day off and I have no marking to do so I’m pretending I’m a person.”
“That’s fair,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that suggests he actually understands.
We chat about the blind he fixed, about the new classroom shelves that he installed yesterday, about Theo announcing that he wants to be an engineer now because drills are “powerful but respectful.” Ben laughs at that, properly laughs, and I find myself smiling back without thinking, because it’s easy. It’s just… easy.
Clara interrupts abruptly. “I need the loo,” she announces, which is a blatant lie. She points towards the cafe with her cup. “I’m just gonna… pop in.” Then she disappears inside, leaving me alone on the pavement with a man who is objectively good.
Ben shifts his weight slightly, paper bag crinkling under his arm. “I was actually about to grab a coffee,” he says. “Would you… want to join me? And err… finish the one you’ve already got.” He laughs awkwardly, like he’s aware that sounded ridiculous as soon as it left his mouth. The question is gentle. Nosmirk. No ego. And for a second I consider it properly. This is what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Move forward. Accept when a kind man asks you out. Stop waiting for someone who shook your hand and called it friendship. Because Rory has pulled back. He has pulled back so convincingly that I sometimes wonder if I imagined the whole thing. Since the pub, since the almost kiss that could have tipped everything one way or another, he has been careful. Polite in a way that feels almost clinical. He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t look too long. He doesn’t let his hand brush mine by accident anymore. He doesn’t look at me like he’s devouring me and undressing me with his eyes. He has been exactly what he promised. A friend. And the worst part is that I can’t tell if he’s glad about it. Because if he cared, if any of it meant what it felt like in that dim room with fairy lights and breath shared between us, wouldn’t he fight a little? Wouldn’t he slip up? Wouldn’t he look at me like he might actually be losing something? Instead he has been calm. And I hate that I’ve noticed.
Shit. Ben is still waiting for an answer. I realise I’ve gone quiet, my brain doing that thing where it plays out ten different futures in the space of one awkward pause.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I just… I’m not sure I’m in the right headspace for that right now.”
He nods immediately, no edge to him. “That’s okay. I… erm… no worries. Just thought I’d ask.”
Fuck, I am such an idiot.
“I’m glad you did,” I add, because I am, and because he deserves honesty. “You’re great, Ben. Really. I just… it’s complicated.”
The understatement of the century.
