The Road Trip by Beth O'Leary (grave mercy .txt) 📕

I cringe back into Dylan, burying my face in his chest. His arms close around me. Maddy. I get called that one a lot, and Ali, and Annie.

‘Go away, Terry,’ Dylan says. ‘Go outside until the lady’s decent, for God’s sake.’

‘Whatever you say, Dylan!’ Terry says, chortling, and I hear the door click shut again.

‘Oh, God,’ I say into Dylan’s chest.

‘Fuckity bollocking arsehole Uncle Terry,’ he says, moving to fetch my camisole and his shirt off the kitchen floor. He’s breathing so heavily his chest is heaving. I’m not much better.

‘I can still hear you, my boy!’ Terry calls.

‘What are you doing knocking on her door at two in the morning!’ Dylan yells so loudly I jump.

‘What are you doing knocking on her door at two in the morning, that’s what I’d like to know,’ Terry calls back.

‘I think it’s pretty obvious what I was doing,’ Dylan says, running an exasperated hand through his hair. ‘And her name is Addie. Not Maddy.’

I snort with laughter. This is obviously horrifying and not at all funny but also . . . It is a bit funny. That yoo-hoo as Terry stuck his head around the door.

‘I heard a commotion,’ Terry says. ‘When I came down for a snack. Thought I’d better check the lady was all right!’

‘I’m fine, thanks, Mr Abbott,’ I call, then cover my face with my hands. ‘Oh God,’ I whisper.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Dylan says beseechingly. His hair is sticking up all over the place and his lips are swollen. The bravado is gone. He’s even sexier this way. A little lost-looking.

I stand on tiptoes to press a slow kiss against his neck. I feel his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows back a groan.

‘Another time,’ I whisper. ‘You know where to find me, now.’

Dylan

She’s mesmerised me. I’m Odysseus at Circe’s island, I’m Shakespeare’s Romeo, I’m – I’m nursing an almost-permanent erection.

It’s been four hours since Addie pressed that single, burning kiss to my throat in the clutter of her little kitchen, and I’ve barely slept an hour since. My brain is rammed with rushed, heated poems, borderline erotica; they look even worse when I write them down. In a moment of insanity at around six in the morning I decide to fold them and post them under her bedroom door, but thankfully I stop myself just as I head out of my room, realising that this will almost certainly make me look creepy, or – perhaps worse – desperate. Instead I return to my bed and imagine reading them to her here, naked, then I have to take a cold shower.

It’s ten in the morning before I see her again. She arrives on the terrace where Terry and I are taking our coffees – she’s fresh-faced, wearing a patterned little dress that flirts around her upper thighs with each step. In her hand is a paper bag dappled with buttery stains: fresh croissants from the nearby village. Her fingers graze mine as I take the pastries. Never has patisserie been so sexually charged.

‘Thank you,’ I murmur.

‘You look a little peaky,’ she says, and that mole on her upper lip shifts as she tries not to smile. ‘Didn’t sleep so well?’

‘I owe you an apology, my nephew tells me!’ Terry calls. ‘I’m sorry for barging in, it was very ungentlemanly of me.’

When she turns from me to Terry I want her gaze back immediately. I want her all to myself.

‘I’ve forgotten it all,’ Terry says, waving his arm. ‘Don’t remember a thing. All right?’

Addie pauses for a beat. ‘Thank you,’ she says, with a small smile. ‘I appreciate that.’ Then she turns and walks away.

‘Where are you going?’ I blurt.

She looks over her shoulder at me. ‘Jobs to do,’ she says, smiling. ‘You’ll see me around.’

She returns while we take lunch on the terrace; she’s wearing a red swimming costume and proceeds to clean the leaves out of the swimming pool. I think I am going to cry. The task involves an excruciating amount of bending over.

I get drunk mid-afternoon, thinking it might help, or at least make Uncle Terence seem more interesting. All it does is loosen my tongue.

‘I think she might be the one,’ I tell Terry, flopping back on the sofa. It’s too hot to sit outside now – we’ve retreated to the cool of the enormous living room with its silk tapestries and endless cushions.

Terry chuckles. ‘See if you still feel that way once you’ve . . .’ He gives a crude gesture that makes me want to throw the bottle of wine at his head.

‘It’s not like that,’ I insist, topping up my glass. ‘She’s so . . . wonderful. I’ve never fancied someone this hard.’

I meant to say this much, but what I’ve said is more accurate. I’m pained with wanting her.

‘Ah, the impulsivity of youth,’ Terry says benevolently. ‘Wait until you’ve seen her gain twenty pounds and develop a fascination with the shopping channels.’

‘Uncle Terry. Literally everything you say is totally unacceptable.’

‘Your generation, so sensitive,’ he says, sitting back and balancing his wine glass on his beer belly.

I knock back my drink. No day has ever passed as slowly as this day.

Terry invites Addie to have supper with us when we pass her in the hall, but she declines, her eyes on me. I’m not sure what it means: is she turning down more than just that invite, after a day to think? The idea that she might not want me to come to her flat tonight makes me positively light-headed with despair.

Over dinner Uncle Terry doesn’t stop talking about Uncle Rupe and how poorly he invested his money in the 1990s. This could not be less interesting to me – I despise talking about money, it makes me uncomfortable – and all the ranting means Terry eats so slowly I want to reach across and stab the rest of his steak with my own fork to steal it off his plate.