Theo sits beside me on the log bench recounting the entire canoe expedition in a level of detail nobody asked for, while Isla interrupts every thirty seconds to correct him.
“That’s not what happened.”
“It literally is.”
“No, because first Max dropped his paddle.”
“He did that after.”
“It was before.”
“It was after because I remember…”
“You remember wrong.”
Across the fire Rory sits on the opposite bench. Not beside me. Not near me. Across. Like there is a physical line he has drawn through the middle of the clearing and I am on the contaminated side. And he still doesn’t look at me. It’s almost funny.Almost.Because last night, lying in my tent like an idiot with a phone in my hand and Clara telling me to stop overthinking and see what happened, I had actually let myself believe that maybe I would. Maybe the next time we were alone, I wouldn’t flinch away from it. Maybe I would let it happen and then deal with the consequences like a brave, sexy, emotionally mature woman. Apparently, Rory reached the opposite conclusion and decided the best way forward was to pretend he has never seen my face before.
By the time the children are all herded into their tents for the final night, the cold is starting to feel less atmospheric and more aggressive.
“Hot chocolate in the house?” the group leader suggests, rubbing his hands together.
No one argues and we split into two groups to take our turns up at the house and watching over the children. I’m sure Rory wishes he was in the other group, but Chris, the group leader, split us himself leaving Rory no choice but to breathe the same air as me.
We watch over the children while the first group has their hot chocolates. Giggles and whispers settle as they gradually all fall asleep and the camp fire dims to a low ember.
The walk up the hill feels longer in the dark, the path winding through the trees with torchlight bouncing across the gravel andcatching in the branches overhead. The big white house glows warmly through the woods as we approach.
Inside, the common room is already warm, the fire roaring in the huge stone fireplace and throwing gold light up the walls. The space feels cavernous compared to the tents, with its high ceilings and dark beams and deep sofas arranged around the hearth. Someone finds a kettle. Someone else unearths biscuits. Adults collapse into chairs with the relieved exhale of people who have spent four days pretending not to be cold.
I take a seat on one of the sofas. Rory chooses the chair on the opposite side of the room. As far away from me as physically possible without actually standing outside in protest.
The conversation drifts easily enough after that. Stories from the week. Mud incidents. The canoe that spun in circles for ten minutes because the kids had both decided they were paddling right. Laughter fills the room, hot chocolate steams gently in mugs, and all the while Rory does not look at me. Not even by accident. Not even when Theo’s name comes up and I answer. Nothing. It is, by this point, almost artful and ever so slightly painful.
Eventually people begin peeling away. One teacher yawns. A parent checks their watch and mutters something about an early start. One by one they drift out of the room, taking the conversation with them until the common room grows quiet in stages.
The fire crackles softly. The mugs sit abandoned on the low table. I finish the last of my hot chocolate and glance up. And suddenly it’s just us, surprisingly so. I thought he would have made a run for it by now. The silence stretches so tightly it almost has edges. Then, of course, he stands first. Always the first to leave before things get difficult, before anything has to be said, before a moment can become a problem.
“Night,” he says, already turning toward the door.
Something in me snaps. “Rory.”
He stops. Slowly turns back. “What?”
The word is careful. Too careful.
“Are we going to talk about it?” I ask.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
I laugh softly. Not because it’s funny. Because if I don’t laugh I might actually launch my hot chocolate mug at his head and then I’ll have to explain that to a headteacher. “Right,” I say.
He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
The words land like a slap. For a moment I just stare at him.
“Wow.Youkissedme.”I retort.
“I know.”
