“That’s definitely just a rock, bug.”
“It’s a frog rock.”
“Of course it is.”
She grins. “Did you have fun too Daddy?”
I pause in the doorway. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “I did.”
I really did. But now I have a big problem. The problem isn’t that I don’t know how I feel. The problem is deciding whether I’m brave enough to do anything about it. Because if I say it out loud… If I actually tell her… There’s no pretending it’s just friendship anymore. There’s no pretending that last night was a momentary snap in the tension. And that thought is equal parts terrifying and impossible to ignore.
Chapter forty-seven
freya
By Friday evening I have changed my outfit three times, rejected two pairs of jeans, one dress, and an entire version of myself that briefly thought maybe she could pull off leather trousers, and am now standing in front of the mirror wearing black jeans, a soft fitted top, boots with just enough heel to feel like I’ve made an effort, and the sort of makeup that says I’m not trying too hard while having, in fact, tried exactly hard enough. This is ridiculous. It is a night at the pub. Not a gala. Not a first date. Not even technically a date at all, because a group of us are going, which means I am simply a normal woman in a normal pub outfit going to drink normal pub tequila and absolutely not a woman who has spent the better part of twenty minutes wondering whether Rory will notice if I’ve curled my hair. He will not notice. And if he does notice, it will not mean anything. And if it does mean something, I will deal with that later, ideally after alcohol.
Theo is with James tonight, which means I have done the usual logistical handover that co-parenting seems to require, involving a small backpack, three reminders about inhalers, and Theo attempting to negotiate an additional snack allowance before he even leaves the driveway. James is leaning against hiscar when I come outside, keys in hand. Theo runs past us both, already halfway through explaining something about conkers he apparently collected in Wales, and I hand over the bag. James takes it automatically. Then he looks at me. Properly looks. His eyes flick over my outfit, taking in the jeans, the boots, my hair. There’s a brief pause.
“Well,” he says eventually.
I raise an eyebrow. “Well what?”
“You look… nice.”
It’s not a compliment exactly. More like an observation he didn’t mean to say out loud. Which, weirdly, makes it better.
“Thanks,” I say lightly.
Theo has already climbed into the back seat and is now asking if he can have popcorn when they get home. James glances at him, then back at me.
“Going somewhere?”
“Just the pub,” I say.
He nods slowly.
There’s something in his expression then. Something I can’t quite name. Not jealousy exactly. Not regret either. But a flicker of something that suggests he’s suddenly seeing me slightly differently. And if I’m honest, that tiny moment lands in a way that feels… good. Because for a long time after everything happened, after the cheating and the fallout and the quiet rearranging of our lives, I felt like the woman who had been left behind in someone else’s story. Tonight, for half a second, it feels like maybe that isn’t entirely true.
James shuts the car door and walks around to the driver’s side.
“See you Sunday,” he says.
“See you.”
Theo waves enthusiastically through the window as the car pulls away and I stand there for a second longer than necessary,the cool evening air brushing against my cheeks, before turning back toward the house to grab my coat. Because whether Rory notices my hair or not… I still look good. And that, I decide as I head out toward the pub, is a perfectly acceptable place to start the evening.
The night air is cold enough to sting my cheeks as I walk down the street, and Oakwood in the evening has that cosy, lit-from-within look it always gets when everyone has retreated indoors and the village glows softly around the edges. The pub is already busy when I push through the door, a rush of warmth and chatter and the smell of wine and chips hitting me all at once. Some of the girls are already there, of course. Clara spots me first and raises a hand from the booth at the back.
“There she is.”
Hannah turns, her eyes flicking over me once and then narrowing in a way that is instantly suspicious. “Why do you look fit?”
I laugh, sliding into the booth and shrugging off my coat. “I always look fit, thanks.”
“Not like that,” Clara says.
“Like what?”
