The Road Trip(43)

‘Do you like them?’ I ask Deb.

‘Oh, how can you not?’ she says, leaning on the terrace balustrade. ‘But I’d keep them at a bit of a distance, personally. I don’t see how you can get in the middle of that’ – she points to the tangle of limbs below – ‘and not end up in a mess.’

I tilt my head to her shoulder, not quite letting it touch. I’m so grateful she’s here, my sister. Sometimes this week I’ve felt like I’m getting kind of lost. Or maybe losing the confidence to be Summer Addie. But with Deb, I’m always myself. The proper Addie, the real one.

‘I love you,’ I tell her. ‘Thanks for coming back when they arrived.’

‘Of course,’ she says, surprised. ‘You only ever have to ask, and I’m here. Always. Isn’t that how this sister thing works?’



Dylan’s a bit different with his friends. He laughs more and says less. His poetry isn’t something he gushes about, it’s the punchline to someone else’s joke. He’s still charming and lost-boyish. But he’s . . . quieter. Sometimes even I lose track of where he is in the crowd.

At night, though, he’s mine. We’ve given Deb the bed in the flat and once the partying is over for the evening, I collapse beside him in that enormous four-poster. We have sex a lot, but we talk a lot too. All night, on our last night. Nose to nose, hands linked.

‘The sound of teeth against a spoon when someone’s eating soup, insects that scuttle, people who don’t listen,’ he whispers. It’s five in the morning, and his voice is hoarse. We’re talking about pet peeves – I’ve no idea how we got here. ‘And yours?’

‘Yes to people who don’t listen,’ I say, and press a light kiss to his lips. ‘That’s a good one. And rats. I hate those too. And it drives me nuts when your uncle Terry says women! Like he can instantly win a debate with that. You know, when one of us has said something he doesn’t agree with?’

‘Oh, Uncle Terry is a pet peeve all on his own,’ Dylan says, grimacing, and I laugh. ‘I’m sorry. He’s awful.’

‘He’s . . .’ Hmm, what am I allowed to say here? He is Dylan’s uncle, after all. I change tack. ‘Is your dad like him? Terry’s his brother, right?’

There’s a long, still silence.

‘No, Dad’s different,’ Dylan says eventually, and his tone has changed. ‘He’s . . . tougher than Terry.’

I frown. ‘What does tougher mean?’

‘He’s just not much fun,’ Dylan says. ‘What’s your dad like?’

That was quick. Given that we just spent forty-five minutes talking about Pokémon and Ninja Turtles, I really thought Dylan’s dad would take more than ten seconds to discuss. I try to make out Dylan’s expression in the darkness.

‘You guys don’t get along?’ I ask quietly.

‘Let’s just say he’s one of those people who doesn’t listen,’ Dylan says.

He leans in and kisses me then, slowly. I feel the kiss moving through me like I’ve swallowed something hot. He’s trying to distract me. It works.

‘So? What about you, what’s your dad like?’ Dylan asks again, resettling his head against the pillow.

‘He’s just Dad, really, I’ve never thought about what he’s like,’ I say, but I can feel myself starting to smile just at the thought of him. My heart aches for home, and I tighten my fingers around Dylan’s. ‘I’m as close to him as I am to my mum. He’s really good at advice, and he’s funny, but you know, Dad-funny.’

Dylan chuckles at that. I can feel him relaxing again.

‘Do you miss them?’ he asks. ‘Your parents?’

‘Yeah, I do.’ That feels like a bit of an embarrassing thing to say when you’re twenty-one, and I blush in the dark. ‘At uni I always went home loads midterm, so this is the longest I’ve ever not seen them, actually. But I’ve got Deb. And it’s been amazing, this summer.’

‘Amazing, hey?’ Dylan whispers.

I swallow. My heart rate picks up. ‘I don’t want it to end,’ I say.

My voice is so quiet Dylan shifts even closer to hear me. I can feel his breath on my lips like a feather.

‘Who said anything about ending?’ he whispers. He’s shadowy in the dark, but I can see his eyes flicking back and forth as he looks at me.

I sort of knew. I didn’t think he’d say he was leaving the villa and that was it, summer romance done. But even so, my heart is thundering now. I want this conversation so much it scares me. I shift away a little, turning my face into the pillow. Dylan runs his hand up my back, making me shiver.

‘Can I tell you something?’ he says quietly.

I wriggle, pushing the sheet down away from my face, suddenly breathless. I think he’s going to say it and once he has, that’s it, like he’s putting a timestamp on our lives. Creating a before and after. I feel it coming like I’m speeding towards something, and for one panicked moment I think I ought to slam on the brakes.

‘I love you,’ he says. ‘I love you, Addie.’

It sends a shock zinging through me. Like someone pressed refresh. My heart beats in my ears. I think of that poem, about how scary it is handing over your heart, like a soldier lowering his weapon.