“I still have one.”
“Then go get him one.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I would rather fling myself into traffic than run over to him immediately like a desperate teenager.”
Clara falls back against the booth laughing and Hannah actually has to take a sip of wine to cover her grin.
“You are unbelievable,” I mutter.
“Freya,” Hannah says, softer now, “he’s looking at you like he already knows that you’re like a desperate teenager.”
Which is, frankly, true and enough to make me need a second drink.
The men drift over a few minutes later, chairs being dragged over, pints arriving, everyone folding back into the familiar ease of Oakwood social life where nothing stays separate for long and all roads seem to lead to one pub eventually. Rory takes the seat diagonally opposite me at first, which I tell myself is fine. Then twenty minutes later someone swaps for a clearer view of the football and suddenly Rory is next to me in the booth, his thigh warm against mine through denim. I do not react. Outwardly. Inwardly I am basically one long air-scream.
“You alright?” he asks quietly while everyone else is busy arguing about whether Mark actually cheated at darts last month.
“Yes,” I say, too quickly. “Fine. Why?”
He glances at my glass. “You drank that wine in basically a single gulp.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “That obvious?”
“A bit.”
“Well,” I say, trying for lightness and only partly succeeding, “it’s been a long week.”
His eyes flick to mine, something softer passing through them for a second. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It has.”
The conversation around us rises and falls. People order chips. Hannah is telling a story about a recent date she went on and I should be listening, I know I should, but Rory is beside me and every now and then his arm brushes mine or his knee nudges mine under the table and I feel fourteen and forty at the same time. At some point Dan leans across Rory to ask me something about school pickup next week and I answer it while very consciously not noticing the way Rory’s body shifts slightly closer when he does it, like the space between us belongs to him now. Which is a thought I should absolutely not be having in a crowded pub with three of my closest friends watching me like I am a nature documentary.
Clara catches my eye over Rory’s shoulder and mouths, “tell him.”
I shake my head almost imperceptibly and open my eyes widely at her with pursed lips. She rolls hers dramatically and looks away.
The men gradually disperse toward the bar for another round. Clara leans across the table. “This is ridiculous.”
“What is?”
“You two.”
“We are sitting in a pub.”
“You are one accidental hand brush away from combustion.”
I try to look offended. It is difficult because she is not wrong. “He looks at you like he’s trying not to smile every two seconds,” she continues. “And you have that face.”
“What face?”
“That face you do when you’re pretending you’re not extremely pleased with yourself.”
“I do not have a face for that.”
“You absolutely do.”
