The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch Beth O'Leary (ready to read books .TXT) 📖

it seems like . . . the bubble bursting. I should have known things with Dylan were too good to be true.

The next morning I stick to the routine and head down to the village to fetch us all croissants. When I get back Terry and Marcus are lying on either side of Dylan on the terrace. They’re quiet, sunglasses on. The stone is already hot under my bare feet.

‘Ooh, for me?’ Marcus says, raising his sunglasses as I approach.

Dylan gets up quickly, meeting me halfway.

‘Hey,’ he breathes. For a moment as our fingers touch it feels like it’s just the two of us in the heat.

‘Come on, Dylan. Have you forgotten how to share?’ Marcus calls.

I let go of the bag. ‘There’s plenty of croissants in there,’ I say, already backing away. ‘I bought enough.’

I stay away for the rest of the day. Marcus puts me on edge. He’s built like a Topshop model, skinny and pale and cool with this half-styled shock of curly hair. So yeah, he’s attractive, in an I-sing-in-a-band kind of way. But he’s kind of cold behind the eyes, somehow.

Dylan knocks on my door at midnight. I smile up at the ceiling. I’m in bed, but I’d hoped he’d come. I like that he gave me space today, but I like it even more that he’s come to see me once everyone’s gone to bed.

I answer the door in my pyjamas – cropped T-shirt, cotton shorts. It’s not Dylan. It’s Marcus.

‘Evening,’ he says. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot.’ He half smiles at me, head tilted. ‘Want to come have a drink on the terrace? Make peace? For Dylan’s sake?’

He’s all chilled and casual, but he holds my gaze just a little bit too steadily. It makes everything feel off. Like there’s another conversation going on under this one, but I can’t quite translate it.

‘Where is Dylan?’ I ask.

‘Oh, don’t blame him for not being here,’ Marcus says. ‘I insisted on seeing you alone. I wanted to apologise.’

Well, he hasn’t, has he? He’s not actually said sorry.

‘Come on,’ he says, leaning on the door frame. His T-shirt rides up, showing a white triangle of toned, bare midriff. ‘Let’s get wasted and see if you like me by the morning. It usually works, I find.’

Dylan is sat waiting for us on the terrace, feet dangling in the pool. He beams when he sees me, pushing his hair out of his eyes and patting the stone beside him. I’m almost by Dylan’s side when Marcus dive-bombs into the water. I stumble back, surprised and – bloody hell – half drenched.

Dylan laughs. ‘Christ, Marcus, you’re such a child.’ His tone is fond.

Marcus surfaces, his curls flattened to his head. ‘Let’s get pissed, shall we?’ he says, lunging for the bottle of red beside Dylan.

As Marcus swims off with the wine, Dylan looks at me. He’s worried. Good – he should be.

‘You OK?’ he whispers, passing me his glass.

‘Mm,’ I say. I take a long gulp of wine. ‘Thought it would be you knocking on the door, that’s all.’

Dylan bites his lip. ‘Oh, no, was that wrong? Should I have come around first? I didn’t know whether to – Marcus was sure you’d want him to apologise himself, and that did seem . . .’

‘Can you get up on the roof?’ Marcus asks. He’s lying on his back now, open bottle bobbing in his hand. He’s carefully keeping it upright, I notice.

Dylan and I turn to look at the villa.

‘There’s a loft,’ I say after a moment. ‘You can get to it from the bedroom next to Dylan’s. But I don’t think there’s a way on to the actual roof.’

Marcus swims to the edge and heaves himself up out of the pool. The water sluices from him, plastering his T-shirt to his skin. He doesn’t bother drying off, just heads straight for the house, leaving a small river behind him.

‘Let me guess,’ I say. ‘We’re going on to the roof?’

‘What Marcus wants . . .’ Dylan spreads his hands. ‘He tends to get.’

There’s a trapdoor from the loft to the roof. I don’t know how I never spotted it. I guess it never occurred to me to climb on to the slanted roof of a three-storey villa.

By the time we’ve explored the whole upstairs, located the trapdoor, found a ladder and got the trapdoor wedged open, we’re all drunk. I’m dizzy as I climb up the rungs, but aware enough to know this is massively dangerous. Marcus is already up there. I can hear him scrabbling around on the tiles. I look down at Dylan. He looks different from this angle, sort of younger.

‘Dylan? You coming up?’ Marcus calls from the roof.

I take another step, my head and shoulders emerging above the trapdoor. It’s hard to read Marcus’s expression in the darkness as he looks over and sees me instead of his best friend.

‘Are you going to help me out?’ I say eventually.

He stretches out a hand. The roof is only gently sloped here, and Marcus has his feet lodged in the guttering so he can’t slide off, but still, it’s mad, this. We could really die.

I take his hand and let him help me up. His skin’s cool. He smells of the pool, and an aftershave a bit like Dylan’s, but sharper. I shuffle on my bum, carefully twisting so I can lie back and look at the night sky.

‘Wow.’ There are so many stars, more than I’ve ever seen before. They’re everywhere, stretching out all around us, sliding into the edges of my vision. The sky is so big, I think. I’ve drunk too much wine too fast – I’d never normally have a thought like that.

‘Sublime, isn’t it?’ Marcus says. ‘In the Edmund Burke sense.’

I’ve no idea what that means. If it were Dylan, I’d ask, but there’s no way I’m asking Marcus.

Dylan coughs from beneath us. ‘Shit, Terry’s up!’ he hisses. ‘Let me go fob him off, hang on.’

Marcus laughs lightly. It’s so dark,