I break eye contact first, grab my coffee and head for the door before I do something stupid, like walk over and remind her exactly how well I remember the woods behind this town.
The cold air outside hits harder than expected. Good. I need that.
I walk back to my parents’ house. It still feels temporary. Spare room. Suitcases half unpacked. Mum’s frozen lasagnes stacked in the freezer. I have three more house viewings today. Yesterdays were… fine. A cottage too dark to raise a child in. A new build that felt like it had been printed rather than built. A larger place near town with a decent garden but something missing, something I couldn’t quite name. Maybe I’m being picky. Maybe I’m avoiding committing to anything. Maybe it’s easier staying in the house I grew up in. Opposite hers.
I tighten the strap of my bag and keep walking, telling myself firmly that proximity is irrelevant. This town is small. We are bound to bump into one another. That doesn’t mean anything. It definitely doesn’t mean I walked into that café hoping she might be there. And it absolutely doesn’t mean I’m already thinking about the next time I’ll see her blush.
Chapter Eight
Freya
Year 3 Mums
Clara:OMG have you guys seen Rory Bennett, the hot rugby guy that everyone is talking about? He’s so pretty!
Emma:STOP. I haven’t seen him for years. Also, Clara, aren’t you happily married?
Lou:Isn’t he that rugby guy that left Oakwood years ago? The one who went city big time and was with that supermodel, what’s her name?
Clara:Sienna! Yes. And guess what… Mark just told me… he’s SINGLE!!
Freya:Is it PE day tomorrow? I am so lost with the new timetable
Clara:Nice way to avoid the Rory chats, Sunshine.
I put my phone down and pretend I’m too busy to respond, which is ridiculous because I’m not busy at all, not really, not in the way I usually am. I just don’t know what to do with Clara’s hints when she doesn’t know the extent of the history, and I’m not ready to pick at that thread yet, because Rory has always been the sort of distraction that doesn’t stay in its lane. I can cope with gossip and I can cope with awkward run-ins, but I don’t trust myself with the version of Oakwood that includes him properly.
The crunch of tyres on gravel outside pulls me back. It’s handover day.Finally!Four days apart and James is bringing Theo back.
I grab my keys, mutter a half-hearted “great” under my breath, and open the door to find James leaning against the car in that familiar way he always does, as if he’s trying to make this look easy even when it isn’t.
“Morning,” I say, forcing the smile I’ve practised into something that looks civil.
“Morning.” He nods toward the back seat. “Ready for your mum?”
Theo barrels out of the car, backpack bouncing, cheeks pink from excitement, and I scoop him up before he can dart off entirely, pressing my face into his hair like I can absorb the last four days through scent alone.
Relief hits first, then joy, then that ache that always comes with realising how much you can miss someone when they are your entire world.
James lingers, fiddling with Theo’s coat straps, and we slip into the routine we’ve built over time, one that relies on politeness and restraint and pretending there isn’t a whole complicated past between us.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“He’s missed you,” James replies, voice softer than his posture. “Be good for mum, yeah?”
“I will,” Theo beams, and my chest tightens again because he says it so easily, like being split between homes is just a normal part of life and not something I still haven’t learned how to carry without flinching.
We’ve gotten better at being civil, better at keeping it smooth for Theo, and sometimes I almost forget that the man standing in front of me used to be everything and nothing at the same time.
I carry Theo inside, talking over him as he launches into a mile-a-minute recap of his week, his imaginary creatures in the classroom, the football goals he scored, what he ate for breakfast, and how James let him stay up “a little bit” later than usual.
I’m halfway through putting his lunchbox on the counter when I glance toward the window. Rory is across the street, leaving his parents’ house with Isla beside him, her small hand in his as though she’s tethered to him with something invisible and unbreakable. The sight of it does something irritating and immediate to me, because single fathers should not be that magnetic.
He doesn’t see me behind the glass, but he notices movement outside as James gets back into the car. His head tilts slightly, just a flicker of attention crossing his features as his gaze follows James.
My stomach twists. There is something about being watched, even indirectly, that makes everything feel suddenly more exposed.
Theo’s hand is in mine, warm and familiar, and I squeeze it gently, grounding myself in the solid reality of him. Four days is too long, and every hug I give him, I try to hold for as long as possible. Until he’s wriggling free of me and moving onto the next exciting thing.
