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

I’m warming up now, and with the warmth comes a fizz of excitement at being out adventuring. It’s often like this with Marcus – he brings out the bravery in me. With Marcus by my side, I’m somebody, the sort of man who throws caution to the wind, who defies his father, who chooses poetry when he ought to know better.

There’s no jetty at the other end of the lake, just a bank to scrabble up – we’re both soaked through by the time we make it to dry land, and as Marcus ties the boat messily to a wooden pole near the water, I come to the conclusion that his dad must have turned off the lake-heating over the winter. The water is eating its way through my jeans, gnawing cold at my fingers.

‘This way,’ is all Marcus says as he leads me towards the trees. I fumble for my own phone, checking it’s still dry, and hit the icon to turn my torch on – Marcus’s light isn’t enough any more. The trees close around us, their roots snagging under my feet. There’s a path here – it looks like a vehicle came this way, leaving two thick ditches, holding the dregs of the day’s rainwater like old tea. My shoes are wrecked. I’m in trainers – I should be wearing wellies. You never know what you’ll need when Marcus summons you of an evening.

Just as I open my mouth to ask him – again – where he’s taking me, the trees open out, and Marcus’s phone lights up a building.

It’s a cabin. The whole thing seems to be built of wood, though it’s hard to see in the bland yellow light of our phones. There’s a porch, raised above the muddy forest floor, and the front is mostly glass – there are windows right up to the pointed tip of its roof. Marcus steps forward to press something, and suddenly the edges of the roof, the porch railings and the door are lit up in small, twinkling fairy lights.

‘This is . . . Has this always been here?’ I ask, moving forward, flashing my torch up at the beautiful wooden beams above the porch.

‘Nope. Dad’s been working on it this last year. Come on – wait ’til you see inside.’

He races up the steps, and I follow him in, tugging my soaked, filthy trainers off at the door. It’s deliciously warm inside. The walls are wooden and the floor is carpeted in thick, shaggy rugs. It’s deceptively big – there’s room in the living area for two sofas, and I can see a kitchen, and a toilet tucked away under the staircase.

‘This is incredible,’ I say, poking my head up the stairs. There’s another bathroom and two bedrooms up there, wood lined, with plush grey carpet and double beds.

‘It’s ours,’ Marcus says. ‘Mine and yours.’

I pause on my way back down the stairs. He looks up at me, waiting at the bottom, grinning.

‘What?’

‘Dad had it made for us. It’s like a . . . granny annexe, but for grads. A graddy annexe.’

He’s off, heading for the kitchen, pulling us each a cold beer from the fridge. I follow him slowly, feeling the soft rugs beneath my socked feet, and try to process.

Mine and yours.

‘Your dad built us a house?’

‘Why not?’ Marcus says, shrugging and passing me a beer. ‘We’ve got this land.’

‘I didn’t even know you owned this bit past the lake,’ I say, circling, looking at the pictures on the walls.

Marcus laughs. ‘Of course we do. We own right up to the road. Dad’s had a tarmac track put in between here and there, so we can drive straight in – parking’s out the back. I just took you the scenic way across the lake for maximum impact,’ he says with a wink. ‘Girls will love it.’

‘I can’t . . . live here,’ I manage. ‘If that’s actually what you mean?’

Marcus swigs his beer, throwing himself back on the sofa. ‘You absolutely can live here. Look.’ He wipes his mouth. ‘We both know London and your dad’s company isn’t the right move for you, and fuck knows you don’t want to go live at home in Wiltshire. Where else are you going to write your life’s opus?’

‘I’m moving to Chichester,’ I say. ‘I told you. I’m going to get a job there. Live with Addie’s parents until I find a place I like.’

Marcus snorts. ‘Shut up, you pillock,’ he says. ‘You’re not actually doing that. You can’t move in with the parents of some girl you screwed this summer. In Chichester.’

I recoil. The cold beer sweats in my palm.

‘She’s not just some girl. It’s Addie.’

Marcus turns his face away for a moment. He’s almost finished his beer already; he bounces up, heading to the fridge for the next one.

‘How long have you known Addie?’

‘You know how long.’

‘Just answer me.’

‘I met her in early July.’

‘And?’

‘It’s January. So I’ve known her . . . six months.’

‘And how many days have you spent with Addie?’ Marcus’s bottle of beer hisses as he flicks its lid off.

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘Except it does, clearly. Otherwise we’d still be marrying girls we met one time at a country dance like people did in the olden days. We’ve evolved past that, Dylan. Nowadays we date. We shop around. If we really like someone, we spend more time with them, then we move in with them a few years down the line. Then . . . maybe, if we’ve lost the will to live or whatever it is that compels people to settle down, we marry them. We don’t rearrange our lives because of a good shag.’

I put my beer down, then pick it up again and reach for a coaster. My heart is thudding against my ribs.

‘She’s not just a good shag. I love her.’ My voice sounds strangled. I push my hair out of my eyes; it sticks damply to my forehead.

Marcus growls under his breath and throws his hands in