The Road Trip, Beth O'Leary [read an ebook week .txt] 📗

‘Are you all right?’ I ask him, just as Deb says,

‘Addie? Are you OK?’ She pokes her head back in the car, then grimaces. ‘Your neck hurting too?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, because as soon as she asks I realise it does, loads.

‘Gosh,’ Rodney says, tentatively shifting out of the brace position. ‘What happened?’

Rodney posted on the ‘Cherry & Krish are Getting Hitched’ Facebook group yesterday evening asking for a lift to the wedding from the Chichester area. Nobody else replied, so Deb and I took pity. All I know about Rodney is that he has a Weetabix On The Go for breakfast, he’s always hunching and his T-shirt says, I keep pressing Esc but I’m still here, but I think I’ve pretty much got the gist.

‘Some arsehole in a Mercedes went into the back of us,’ Deb tells him, straightening up to look at the car behind again.

‘Deb . . .’ I say.

‘Yeah?’

‘I think that’s Dylan. In that car.’

She scrunches up her nose, ducking down to see me again. ‘Dylan Abbott?’

I swallow. ‘Yeah.’

I risk a glance over my shoulder. My neck protests. It’s then that I notice the man stepping out of the Mercedes passenger seat. Slim-built and ghostly pale in the dark street, his curly hair just catching the light of the shopfronts behind him. There goes my heart again, beating way too fast.

‘He’s with Marcus,’ I say.

‘Marcus?’ Deb says, eyes going wide.

‘Yeah. Oh, God.’ This is awful. What am I meant to do now? Something about insurance? ‘Is the car OK?’ I ask.

I climb out just as Dylan gets out of the Mercedes. He’s dressed in a white tee and chino shorts with battered boat shoes on his feet. There’s a carabiner on his belt loop, disappearing into his pocket. It was my idea, that, to stop him always losing his keys.

He steps forward into the path of the Mercedes’ headlights. He looks so handsome it aches in my chest. Seeing him is even harder than I expected it to be. I want to do everything at once: run to him, run away, curl up, cry. And beneath all that I have this totally ridiculous feeling that someone’s messed up, like something didn’t get filed when it should have up there in the universe, because I was supposed to see Dylan this weekend, for the first time in almost two years, but it should have been at the wedding.

‘Addie?’ he says.

‘Dylan,’ I manage.

‘Did a Mini really just total my dad’s Mercedes?’ says Marcus.

My hand goes self-consciously to my fringe. No make-up, scruffy dungarees, no mousse in my hair. I’ve spent bloody months planning the outfit I was supposed to be wearing when I saw Dylan again, and this was not it. But he doesn’t scan me up and down, doesn’t even seem to clock my new hair colour – he meets my gaze and holds it. I feel like the whole world just stumbled and had to catch its breath.

‘Fuck me,’ says Marcus. ‘A Mini! The indignity of it!’

‘What the hell?’ Deb says. ‘What were you doing? You just drove into the back of us!’

Dylan looks around in bewilderment. I pull myself together.

‘Is anyone hurt?’ I ask, rubbing my aching neck. ‘Rodney?’

‘Who?’ says Marcus.

‘I’m OK!’ calls Rodney, who’s still in the back seat of the car.

Deb helps him climb out. I should have done that. My brain feels kind of scrambled.

‘Shit,’ says Dylan, finally registering the crumpled bumper of the Mercedes. ‘Sorry, Marcus.’

‘Oh, mate, honestly, don’t worry about it,’ Marcus says. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve totalled one of my dad’s cars? He won’t even notice.’

I step forward and check out the back of Deb’s battered Mini. It’s actually not looking too bad – that bang was so loud I would’ve assumed something serious had fallen off. Like a wheel.

Before I’ve registered what she’s doing, Deb’s in the driving seat, starting the engine again.

‘She’s all good!’ she says. ‘What a car. Best money I ever spent.’ She drives forward a little, up on to the curb, and hits the hazard lights.

Dylan’s back in the Mercedes, rifling through the glove box. He and Marcus talk about roadside accident assist, Marcus forwards him an email off his phone, and I think to myself . . . that’s it, Dylan’s hair’s shorter. That’s what it is. I know I should be thinking about this whole car crash thing but all I’m doing is playing a game of spot-the-difference, looking at Dylan and going, What’s missing? What’s new?

His eyes flick to mine again. I go hot. There’s something about Dylan’s eyes – they kind of catch you up, like cobweb. I force myself to look away.

‘So . . . you’re on your way to Cherry’s wedding, I’m guessing?’ I say to Marcus. My voice shakes. I can’t look at him. I’m suddenly thankful for the dented rear bumper to examine on the Mini.

‘Well, we were,’ Marcus drawls, eyeing the Mercedes. Maybe he can’t bring himself to look at me either. ‘But there’s no way we’re driving this baby four hundred miles now. It needs to get to a garage. Yours should, too.’

Deb makes a dismissive noise, already out of the car again and rubbing a scratch with the sleeve of her ratty old hoody. ‘Ah, she’s fine,’ she says, opening and closing the boot experimentally. ‘Dented, that’s all.’

‘Marcus, it’s going ballistic,’ Dylan calls.

I can see the Mercedes’ screen flashing warning lights even from here. The hazards are too bright. I turn my face away. Isn’t it typical that when Marcus’s car breaks, Dylan’s the one sorting it?

‘The tow will be here in thirty minutes to take it to the garage,’ Dylan says.

‘Thirty minutes?’ Deb says, disbelieving.

‘All part of the service,’ Marcus tells her, pointing to the car. ‘Mercedes, darling.’

‘It’s Deb. Not darling. We’ve met several times before.’

‘Sure. I remember,’ Marcus says lightly. Not very convincing.

I can feel Dylan’s eyes pulling at me as we all try to get the insurance stuff sorted. I’m fumbling around with my phone, Deb’s digging in the glove