The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch by Beth O'Leary (i have read the book .txt) 📗

‘Dylan and I used to date.’

‘Oh. Oh. Oh my God, how incredibly awkward!’ Rodney says, pressing both hands to his mouth.

I laugh, surprising myself. ‘Yeah, something like that.’

I grab a handful of chocolate bars from the end of the aisle. Me and Deb packed enough road-trip snacks for two, but Dylan eats like a horse. We’ll run out of food by Fareham if he sniffs out the treats.

‘Sorry you’ve got stuck in the middle of things a bit,’ I tell Rodney. ‘It’ll be fine, though. Dylan and I can be civil for a few hours, don’t worry.’

‘Oh, so it all ended, you know, amicably?’ Rodney asks, holding out a basket for me. I drop in the chocolate bars, plus five packets of biscuits and a bunch of grab bags full of sweets.

‘Uh, amicably?’

The night that Dylan left me, I’d screamed at him. Not in the way people usually mean it – like, yelling – but actually screaming: mouth open wide, the sound clawing at my throat. I’d pounded his chest with my fists, sobbed until my whole body was wracked with it. I didn’t eat for three days afterwards.

‘Ish,’ I say. ‘Amicable-ish.’

When we walk back to the car, Dylan’s leaning against the side, arms folded, staring off to the left. The sun is rising behind him. He looks like he belongs on a poster for something. An indie band or an expensive cologne. He’s still scruffy and dreamy-eyed, but he’s more grown-up now – his edges seem cleaner cut.

I keep my eyes on him a little too long, and he catches my gaze for just an instant before I look back down at my feet.

‘Addie,’ he says, as we approach.

He steps forward to help me with the bags. I twist aside, moving past him to the boot of the car.

‘Addie, please,’ he says, more quietly now. ‘We should talk. We’re going to be stuck in a car together for the best part of a day. Don’t you want to – you know – just . . . make it less . . . awkward?’

I slam the boot closed. I’ve just about fitted the extra snacks in, but there’s not much visibility out the back window now. Dylan and Marcus have packed like Mariah Carey, by the looks of things, and then there’s all Deb’s breastfeeding paraphernalia: two pumps, the cooling bag, bottles . . .

‘I’m going to go for a wander, stretch out the legs,’ says Rodney. ‘See you both in five minutes?’

I shouldn’t have said amicable-ish. He wouldn’t have left me alone with Dylan if I’d told him he ruined my life.

‘Addie . . . can you not even look at me?’

I’m honestly not sure I can. Trying to look at Dylan hurts. It feels like we’re two magnets with the same force skidding away from one another. Instead I look out towards the green where a few people are exercising their dogs. A little poodle going around in circles, a sausage dog in a ridiculous pink harness. The sun is inching up behind them, drawing long shadows on the grass. I spot Marcus, crouched low to say hello to an Alsatian. I hope it’s an unfriendly one. I don’t want Marcus to get bitten or anything, but maybe he could get growled at a bit.

‘Where’s Deb?’ I ask.

‘She got a call from your mum about Riley.’

I glance at him. ‘She told you about Riley?’

His gaze is soft. ‘Just now. I thought you’d . . . I thought you would have told me, you know. Things like Deb having a baby.’

‘We said no contact.’

‘You said. Not we.’

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

I fiddle with my bracelets. My nails are newly painted for the wedding, but they’re so short they look a bit ridiculous. Little stubs of red.

‘I’m really happy for Deb, anyway,’ Dylan says, when I don’t respond.

‘And a little surprised?’

He smiles, and I start smiling too, before I catch myself.

‘Aren’t you going to ask who the father is?’ I say.

‘I assume she didn’t require one,’ Dylan says. ‘Like Gaea, you know, when she gave birth to Uranus?’

The smile grows despite my best efforts. ‘You know I don’t,’ I say dryly.

‘Right,’ he says hastily. He brushes his hair back, like it’s still long enough to fall in his eyes – an old tic. ‘Greek mythology, very pompous, arsey reference, forgive me. I just meant Deb’s never needed a man, has she? Not that anyone needs a man, but . . . ah, Christ.’

‘Let’s get this show on the road!’ comes a voice from behind us. Marcus barges past and opens the door to the back seats. ‘You might want to start up the engine. Rodney’s coming at quite a pace.’

I turn just as Deb appears, sliding her phone into her hoody pocket. She climbs in after Marcus as I move to the driving seat. I panic: does that mean Dylan is going to sit up front with me?

‘What’s Rodney doing?’ Deb says.

I look over my shoulder, back towards the green. Rodney is running towards us in a great flail of long arms and legs, hair flying. Behind him is the Alsatian, dragging its owner by the lead.

‘Oh, brilliant,’ I mutter, clambering into the car and fumbling to turn the key in the ignition.

Marcus whoops as Rodney scrambles into the back, breathing hard.

‘Sorry!’ he calls. ‘Sorry! Sorry!’

Deb makes a squished sort of oof sound. ‘Watch those hands, please,’ she says. ‘That one strayed very close to my vagina.’

‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ says a mortified, breathless Rodney.

Dylan climbs into the front seat. He’s trying to catch my gaze again.

‘No harm done,’ Deb says. ‘I pushed a baby out of that thing, it’s sturdy.’

‘Oh, no,’ Rodney says. ‘Oh, I didn’t – I’m so sorry.’

‘I forgot how much I like you, Deb,’ Marcus declares.

‘Really?’ Deb says, sounding interested. ‘Because I don’t like you at all.’

I pull out of the service station. I can’t resist – for a second my gaze flickers towards Dylan