The Road Trip Beth O'Leary (ereader ebook .txt) 📖

‘Well, it’s a good job we started early!’ Rodney chirps, checking his phone with his elbows tucked as tightly to his sides as possible.

Marcus is making no such sacrifices to my comfort: he is spread-eagled with his knee carelessly thrown against mine and an elbow half in my lap. I sigh.

‘We’ll be tight getting to the family barbecue as it is, now,’ Rodney goes on. ‘Over eight hours of driving and it’s already five thirty!’

‘Ah, you’re coming to the pre-wedding barbecue?’ I ask.

He nods. The question is a blatant attempt to work out what Rodney is doing here, but I’m hoping it passes for friendliness. For one awful, lead-weight moment when they first got out of the car, I thought he was coming to the wedding as Addie’s plus one – Cherry had said a few months ago that she might be bringing somebody. But there’s no obvious sense of connection between them; Addie seems to be largely ignoring him.

She’s largely ignoring everybody, actually. After those first few heart-jolting, gut-wrenching moments of eye contact, she’s been studiously avoiding my gaze every time I try to snag her attention. Meanwhile Marcus is tapping a loud, inane rhythm on the car window; Deb flashes him an irritated look as she tries to concentrate on joining the Chichester bypass.

‘Can we get some music playing or something?’ Marcus asks.

I know what’s coming before Addie’s hit play; as soon as I hear the opening notes I have to swallow back a smile. I don’t know the song, but American country music is undeniably distinctive – you only need a few chords to know you’ll be hearing tales of late-night kisses on porches, trips to the honky-tonk, long drives with pretty girls in passenger seats. Addie and Deb have loved country music since they were teenagers; I used to tease Addie about it, which was particularly hypocritical of me, as a man whose ‘Long Run’ playlist is almost exclusively populated by the works of Taylor Swift. Now I can’t hear the twang of a banjo without thinking of Addie dancing to Florida Georgia Line in one of my old shirts, Addie singing along to Rodney Atkins’ ‘Watching You’ with the car windows down, Addie undressing slowly to the tune of ‘Body Like a Back Road’.

‘Maybe not this one,’ Addie says, hand hovering over the phone.

‘I like it! Leave it,’ Deb says, turning it up.

‘What the hell is this?’ Marcus says.

I watch Addie’s shoulders square up at his tone.

‘It’s Ryan Griffin,’ Addie says. ‘It’s – it’s called “Woulda Left Me Too”.’

I wince. Marcus snorts with laughter.

‘Oh, is it now?’ he says.

‘It’s on the Country Gold playlist,’ Addie says; a pale pink blush blossoms on the skin of her neck, uneven, its patches like petals. ‘And that’s what we’re going to be listening to for the next eight hours. So you better get used to it.’

Marcus opens the car door.

‘What the—’

‘Marcus, what the fuck—’

There’s a scrabble in the back seat. Marcus elbows me off. The door is only open a few inches but the wind rips through the car, and Rodney is leaning over me now, trying to reach the handle and pull it closed, until there’s four or five hands clawing at the car door, and we’re scratching one another, Rodney’s greasy brown hair in my face, my leg somehow tangled over Marcus’s—

‘I’ll hitchhike!’ Marcus is yelling, and I can hear the adrenaline in his voice, the buzz he gets from doing something stupid. ‘Let me out! I can’t do eight hours of this! Turn it off!’ He’s laughing even as I slap at his hand so hard it stings the skin of my palm.

‘You’re insane!’ says Rodney. ‘We’re going at sixty miles an hour!’

The car swerves. I catch sight of Deb’s eyes in the rear-view mirror: they’re narrowed in grim concentration as she tries to hold her lane position. On our right cars flash by in a stream of over-bright headlights, leaving yellow-white streaks across my vision.

Addie pauses the song. Marcus closes the door. Now the music is off and the wind isn’t roaring through the door you can hear every noise in the car: Rodney’s laboured breathing, the sound of Deb relaxing back into the driving seat. With the rush of physical adrenaline from the scuffle comes a startling desire to punch Marcus on the nose.

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ I hiss.

I feel Addie turn to look at me then – surprised, maybe – but she’s back to the road before I can meet her eyes.

Marcus swallows, side-glancing me, and I can tell he already wishes he’d been better behaved, but I’m too irritated to acknowledge it. After a moment he forces a laugh.

‘We want road-trip music!’ he says. ‘Put on some Springsteen, will you?’

For a long moment Addie says nothing.

‘Deb,’ she says eventually, ‘take the next services, please.’

‘Do you need a wee?’ Deb asks.

‘No,’ Addie says. ‘We need to drop Marcus off. So he can hitchhike. As requested.’

She hits play on the country song again.

Addie

It turns out there are no services for ages. When we eventually reach a petrol station, I really do need a wee. And some air. This is suddenly feeling like the smallest car in the whole bloody world.

‘Are we actually dropping Marcus off here?’ asks a worried voice from behind me.

I’m power-walking across the petrol station forecourt to the building. The aim is to move fast enough that Dylan can’t catch me up for a chat. So far I have managed to avoid direct eye contact with him since we all got in the Mini. I reckon this is a sustainable plan for the next four-hundred-odd miles.

Rodney can move very fast for such an ungainly man. I glance over my shoulder at him.

‘Probably not, no,’ I say. ‘Marcus is prone to dramatics. Best to nip them in the bud or he’ll act out all day.’

‘How do you know him?’

Rodney dashes forward to hold the door open for me as we reach