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

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t be mad. It’s just usually when you say yes to something before you’ve chatted to Marcus about it, you end up changing your mind.’

I slow. ‘Do I?’

‘It’s fine – I just won’t start planning moving out quite yet,’ Addie says, looking up at me with an effort at a smile. ‘Sorry. Have I upset you?’

‘No, no,’ I say, though I’m not sure. ‘And you know Marcus is only . . . he just has my best interests at heart.’

‘Of course he does,’ Addie says. Her tone is strange.

‘Addie?’ I slow again, shifting my arm from around her so I can see her face. ‘Addie, are you annoyed with Marcus about something?’

‘No, no! It’s fine.’

‘You said that already, and it’s even less convincing this time.’

‘It’s fine, Dylan. How about that café? Dad says they do really good carrot cake.’

‘Addie.’

She presses her hands to her face and lets out a little noise, half-growl, half-groan. ‘Please don’t, Dylan, I don’t want to talk about this.’

‘What’s this? What are we even talking about? Marcus? Has he done something to upset you?’

‘Has he . . .’ She comes to a standstill and pulls away from my arm. ‘Have you honestly not noticed?’

‘Noticed what?’ I’m going cold now; it feels like the moment in the horror film when you know something is about to jump out, and you’re just waiting for that sickening jolt in your stomach.

‘He has some kind of . . . problem with me,’ she says. ‘He ignores me, half the time. He hardly ever even looks at me, actually. And lately he always makes these little comments when we’re all together. Things about how I’m bad for you, and stuff like that.’

I swallow, remembering the night when Marcus had told me Addie was messy, raw, pacing back and forth with that foaming beer in his hand.

‘And he was so desperate to get you to go and live with him in that weird cabin in the woods at the bottom of his parents’ garden . . .’

‘That was incredibly kind of him,’ I say, frowning. ‘Offering me somewhere to live.’

‘I know, I know, but it was also – oh, never mind,’ she says, walking again. ‘I wish I’d never brought it up.’

‘Don’t do that, hey,’ I say, jogging to catch up and snagging her arm. ‘Hey, slow down, Addie! If you’re upset, we should talk about it.’

‘But how does it sound? It sounds awful. It sounds like I’m trying to get in between you and your best friend, and – and that’s probably exactly what he wants you to think I’m trying to do, and now I’m playing right into his hands, and . . .’

‘Ads, you’re not making any sense. He’s not playing anything. This is Marcus. I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s like a brother to me. He’s . . . he’s Marcus,’ I finish weakly. We’re at the café now, standing outside, looking in.

‘Are you telling me you honestly thought he approved of me? I’m not buying it, Dyl. I bet he’s always on at you to break up with me.’ Her face is flushed again, this time with emotion.

‘I . . .’ I look away from her. ‘He’s had some concerns about us in the past, yes, but I thought – sometimes the two of you seem to get on really well. I thought you might be getting used to one another.’

She snorts. ‘Yeah, I think that from time to time too. Then he’s a dick again.’

‘I know he can be a lot, but . . .’

‘He’s your Marcus. I know. I get it now, believe me,’ she says. ‘He’s part of the package.’

I almost snap at her. If I didn’t like Deb, would I ever make that awkward for her, the way she’s making this difficult for me?

Her expression changes, just a flicker, and I have the strange sensation that she knew what I was so close to saying.

‘I’m going to head home,’ she says, ‘I need to shower.’

‘What about carrot cake?’ I say, looking towards the café.

‘Another time,’ she says. She’s already running.

I stand there and watch her go, that grey cap bobbing as she weaves between passers-by, and I feel as if something’s stretching, a bungee rope, some kind of cord that holds us together. Does she want to live with me? Or not?

I slouch down on the sofa, the furry white cushions tickling at the back of my neck. They’re somewhat less white than they used to be after five months of Marcus and me living in the log cabin.

‘And then she literally ran off. How are we meant to move forward when she always does that?’ I say, picking at the label on my beer bottle. ‘Lately every time I try to get closer she pulls away.’

There’s a loud bang from the kitchen; Marcus is cooking, which usually involves an extraordinarily complicated recipe, a trip out to a large number of supermarkets for ingredients such as lemon basil and tamarind paste, hours of intense focus in the kitchen and an eventual Deliveroo.

‘She said I have a problem with her?’ he says.

‘Hmm? Yeah. Something like that.’

I wait, but there’s no response, just more banging and clattering.

‘You’ve not said anything to her, have you? Like . . . the things you said to me, you know, that night before I moved in here?’

‘I avoid her wherever possible,’ Marcus says grimly.

‘Not all the time,’ I point out. ‘The other night you guys watched a film together while I was working on the Masters application.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Marcus says, and I hear him crack open a new bottle of wine. ‘There’s been the odd lapse. It’s not easy being consistent.’

I roll my eyes. ‘If you don’t like her, why would you watch a film on the sofa with her?’ I ask patiently.

‘Good question, my friend. And if you do like her, why do you spend so much time sitting on that very sofa complaining about her?’

‘I don’t,’ I say, frowning.

‘You