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

Etienne wasn’t so handsome. I wish me and Dylan hadn’t fought this morning. I wish I hadn’t blushed.

I glance at the clock – only a couple of minutes until the kids start filing in. I’ve been stood here with my coffee, staring at my own blank whiteboard, doing nothing for almost ten minutes.

I pull my phone out and open my WhatsApp chat with Dylan.

I love you. Sorry for getting upset about a stupid TV stand xx

He’s already typing.

Love you too. And it wasn’t stupid. Or rather, it was stupid, because I spent too much money on it. I’ll return it at the weekend.

I smile. Then he starts typing again.

But will you go for a drink with me and Marcus tomorrow night? I really want you guys to try and get along. Please? xx

I spend an hour trying to decide what to wear for the drinks with Marcus, getting more and more annoyed at myself with every outfit I chuck on the bed. It’s a hot evening, still in the twenties after six o’clock. I toy with the loose cotton dresses I wore last summer in France, but they all look too short. I’m so used to wearing dresses that cover my knees for school now; a minidress looks kind of scandalous.

In the end I wear jeans, Converse and a threadbare white T-shirt that always slips off my shoulder. I’m going for carefree and cool with the shoulder-slip, but as soon as I leave the house I realise it’s just an extra thing to think about. It keeps slipping too far and showing the top of my scratty strapless bra.

We head to a pub a few roads away from our flat. It has dark blue walls and pint glasses dangling from all the old beams on the ceiling, each with a little lightbulb inside. For a moment I see it as Marcus will see it: how try-hard it looks, compared to the cool London pubs he likes.

He’s already there, at a table by the window. The street light streaming through the glass casts his face in triangles of light and shade. He’s beautiful. I forget that, probably because he’s usually being such an arse.

We hug hello. He holds me at a distance, hips away from mine, the way you hug a colleague or a distant cousin. He and Dylan talk for a while and I keep missing moments to get involved, opening and closing my mouth like a fish.

‘So, Addie,’ Marcus says, picking at a beer mat on the table. ‘How’s school?’

‘It’s good, actually. I’ve kind of figured out how to do this teaching thing, a bit,’ I say, twisting my pint between my palms. ‘Behaviour has been the toughest thing for me. Getting them to respect me.’

‘Must be hard when you’re not that much older than them yourself,’ Marcus says.

‘Yeah, and half of the Year Elevens are a foot taller than me already, too,’ I say, pulling a face.

Dylan beams. It breaks my heart a little, how happy he is to see us getting on.

‘And the hot head teacher?’ Marcus asks. ‘How’s he?’

I feel my cheeks flush and it makes me blush even harder, because I know it looks like guilt.

‘Etienne?’ I say. ‘He’s fine. I imagine. Who told you he was hot?’

‘Dylan’s mentioned it,’ Marcus says, shooting Dylan an amused glance. ‘Once or twice.’

When Dylan’s embarrassed, you can see it in his eyes – they go sort of tight at the corners.

Dylan has never once mentioned Etienne to me. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned him to Dylan, either.

‘Right,’ I say, trying to sound like this is no big deal.

‘He recruited you, did he, the hot head?’

‘Yeah, him and Moira, the assistant head.’

Marcus gives Dylan a significant look.

‘What?’ I ask, looking between them.

‘Marcus . . .’ Dylan trails off.

‘I have a theory,’ Marcus says. ‘If a man ever recruits a woman, on some level, he wants to sleep with her.’

‘That’s . . . that’s horrible,’ I say. ‘And definitely not true?’

‘So he doesn’t want to sleep with you, then?’ Marcus asks.

I blush again. Never have I hated my pale skin more.

‘No, he doesn’t want to sleep with me,’ I say firmly. But I can feel Dylan’s gaze on my cheeks. I can feel his uncertainty. ‘It’s not like that. Obviously.’

I want Dylan to say something. Isn’t this where he should step in? Shouldn’t he tell Marcus to shut up, back off, get lost? Marcus gives a little smirk and my blood boils.

‘So anyway, I have some news,’ Marcus says into the silence. ‘I’ve got a new idea. An app.’

Marcus generally has a new idea on the go. All of them fizzle out or evaporate to make room for the next one.

‘I figure, I can work on this anywhere, why not here?’ he says, spreading his hands.

It takes me a moment to process. I’m still humming with embarrassment and anger. Still hot with it.

‘You mean here, like, Chichester?’

‘Yeah. I’m going to rent a place just outside town. Two-bed house with a jacuzzi,’ Marcus says, leaning back. ‘I’ll throw a housewarming, obviously.’

‘That’s great,’ Dylan says, but he’s blinking too much – he’s taken aback too. ‘I thought you said nothing happened in Chichester, eh?’

‘Well, I bring the party,’ Marcus says with a grin. ‘Chichester won’t know what’s hit it.’ He slides out from his side of the table. ‘Time for another drink. Same warm ale again, Addie?’

He doesn’t meet my eyes. He hardly ever does, to be honest. Like I’m beneath him, not even worth looking at. I want to remind him, sometimes. How he looked at me at the start. He fancied me in France, I’m sure of it. He wasn’t too good for me then, was he?

‘Yeah, the same again, please,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

Once Marcus has ambled away, I watch Dylan sip at the last of his lager and feel a rush of rage at his mildness. He always gives Marcus the credit. He’s the same with me, too, and that’s something I love, so it