Together We Go Further

They leave York on an early July morning, the motorway still empty of lorries and the roadside cafés just laying out their plastic menus on the tables.

Natalie Walker is behind the wheel of her ageing Kia, gripping the steering as if the car might change its mind and drive back. In the passenger seat Olivia Clarke settles with a thermos of tea and a bag of sandwiches at her feet. In the glove compartment the pressuretablet bottle clinks beside the cars registration papers and a fresh MOT certificate.

Are you sure youre up for driving? Olivia asks, tugging at her seatbelt. If anything goes wrong, I can take over.

Im fine for now, Natalie replies, giving the accelerator a little lift. And you with that burnout, she adds with a grin, were you the one who said you shouldnt overdo it?

Olivia rolls her eyes but takes no offense.

Its not a broken bone, its my nervous system, she says. And the therapist said a change of scenery would help. So Im officially in therapy.

The word therapist still feels a little foreign to Natalie. She only recently got used to saying divorce out loud without stumbling. After twenty years of marriage a judges gavel slammed down on the table, and now she rides the M1 with a university friend, trying not to think that nobody is waiting for her at home any more.

Where are we actually heading? Olivia asks. Do you have a plan or are you just leaving it to fate?

Roughly, Natalie shrugs. Lincoln, then Nottingham, well stay with my cousin. After that well see how we feel. Look, she nods toward the folded road atlas between the seats, Im not fanatical, I just want

She doesnt finish the sentence. Olivia knows what just really means: getting out of the flat where every object whispers about her exhusband, proving that life didnt end at the registrars door.

I need a change of air, Olivia finishes gently. And Im tired of flinching at every work email.

Olivia quit her job at an advertising agency three months ago. Before that she spent nights in the office, arguing with clients and drafting strategies for brands she didnt care about. One day she realized she was shortbreathing on the commute to work and crying for no reason in the evenings. The doctor diagnosed burnout, handed her a sick note and suggested she rethink her lifestyle.

Are you sure this isnt a getaway? Natalie once asked her over the phone.

What if it is? Olivia replied. Maybe I do need a getaway.

And thats how the road trip idea was born. Olivia craved open roads, freedom, spontaneity. Natalie preferred schedules, clear stops and clean restroom facilities. They agreed to try mixing the two.

Outside, green fields flash by, tiny villages dot the landscape, and signs advertising Homecooked meals and Barbecue line the roadside. The radio flickers between classic pop, news bulletins and a bit of country. Natalie finds herself enjoying the simple act of driving. The road pulls the courtroom arguments, divorce papers and video calls with adult children out of her head.

Play something upbeat, Olivia says. Im about to drown in the news again.

Natalie switches the station. An old pop tune from their university graduation night starts playing. Olivia laughs and starts humming along, and Natalie feels a thaw inside her.

At lunchtime they pull into a roadside café called The Cozy Nook. Inside the smell of fried chips and broth fills the air. A woman in an apron wipes glasses behind the counter. Outside, two lorries and a few cars are parked.

Lets have fish and chips and meatballs, Olivia declares. And tea, please.

Ill just have a salad and soup, Natalie says, still gripping the wheel.

They sit by the window. Olivia spreads out printed maps, a notebook for impressions, and a pen.

How about this, she suggests, one day we follow your plan, stay with relatives, the next day we go where we feel like, maybe turn off at a lake, maybe visit a quirky museum. Well decide as we go.

Natalie grimaces. I dont like random. We could end up in a deadend with no lodging.

Then well see if that deadend serves the best pie of our lives, Olivia smiles.

Natalie wants to argue but the food arrives, so she puts the debate aside. She thinks of the argument not as a fight but as two different ways of living colliding. Olivia has always chased what interested herjobs, cities, partners. Natalie built a house, saved for renovations, clung to stability.

After eating they head back onto the motorway. The sun climbs higher, the car grows warm. Natalie cracks the window and feels a warm breeze on her cheek. The road is mostly smooth, with occasional overtakes and distant police patrols.

Look, Olivia points ahead, theres a sign for the River Vale leisure centre. Want to stop for a swim?

We still have two hours to Lincoln, Natalie says. I promised my cousin wed be there by evening.

You can call her and say were delayed. Were on holiday, not on duty.

Natalie tightens her grip on the wheel. The casual attitude to other peoples plans irritates her.

People are waiting for us. Its rude to keep them waiting.

Is it proper to live by a schedule that no longer fits you? Olivia asks softly.

The words sting. Natalie stays silent. The sign for the leisure centre passes them.

Half an hour later roadworks force traffic onto a single lane. The asphalt is ripped, the wheels bounce over the joints.

Slow down, Olivia says. There are potholes ahead.

I see them, Natalie replies, eyes scanning the road. Her mind still loops around Olivias words about a schedule that doesnt suit her. What schedule now suits her? Living alone in a threebedroom flat? Moving to a smaller place? Returning to an old accounting job or switching fields?

Ahead a gravel truck kicks up stones that thump on the hood. Natalie decides to overtake while the work zone is still short.

Not now, Olivia warns, noticing Natalie flick the indicator. Theres no road marking.

Hes going forty, we wont make it to the night spot on time.

Natalie darts into the oncoming lane. In the distance headlights appear, but the distance seems enough. She floors the accelerator, the Kia lurches forward, and the right wheel hits a deep rut.

The impact is sharp, the car veers. Natalie manages to straighten the wheel, but a loud snap echoes and the Kia jerks hard to the right. She clutches the steering, brakes, heart pounding in her throat. The gravel truck is already behind, an oncoming car flashes its lights and brakes.

They pull over to the hard shoulder. A few seconds of heavy breathing pass.

Are we okay? Natalie croaks.

Seems like it, Olivia says, unbuckling. Lets check the car.

They step out. The sun beats their faces. To the right a field stretches, to the left a trench where slow traffic crawls. The right front tyre is shredded almost to the rim.

Its punctured, Olivia notes. Do you have a spare?

Yes, Natalie opens the boot, shoves bags aside, pulls out a jack, a lug wrench and the spare tyre. Her hands shake.

Ill do it, Olivia offers. Ive done this before.

I can manage, Natalie insists stubbornly.

Natalie positions the jack, tries to lift the car. The uneven ground makes the jack wobble. She swears under her breath, sweat beading on her back.

Olivia watches in silence, then steps closer.

Natalie, seriously, let me, she says. Youre on edge.

Im on edge because you distracted me with all your chatter, Natalie snaps. Lets turn off, call someone, stop thinking about propriety.

I didnt force you to overtake, Olivia replies calmly. That was your decision.

Its always my decision. My divorce, my flattyre, my life that Ive wrecked myself.

The words burst out louder than intended. A few passing lorries slow and glance their way. Olivia tightens her lips.

You dont have to carry everything alone, she says. Not the tyre, not your life.

Its easy for you, whos always lived how you wanted, Natalie retorts. You could quit your job because you knew youd find another. You could leave a man because you trusted youd find someone else. And I

She pauses, the memory of her exhusband packing a suitcase flashing: his tired face, her promises to change, nothing ever changing.

What about you? Olivia asks gently. You wanted to veer off every sign.

I wanted to stop following other peoples scripts, Olivia says. But I didnt come here alone. If todays script for you is a quiet night at your cousins, Ill fit into that.

Natalie feels a knot in her throat loosen a little.

Tomorrow we can go your way. If something interesting pops up, we follow it, Olivia adds.

Deal, Natalie agrees. Tomorrows my day of chance.

They finish the tyre, the passing drivers honk in support, a man even stops to ask if they need help. Olivia thanks him and says theyve got it.

When the car is ready, Natalie sits, not turning the key.

Youre right, she whispers. That was my decision. I almost ruined us both.

But we didnt, Olivia replies. Were alive, the car runs. Thats enough.

I Im scared to drive now, Natalie admits.

Olivia looks at her, eyes soft.

Ill sit in the drivers seat, she offers. You can rest.

Natalie hesitates. The car was her hardwon independence she bought it, financed it, kept up with inspections. Handing over the wheel feels like admitting loss of control.

Okay, she finally says. Only to the tyre shop.

They swap seats. Olivia steers out onto the road. Natalie watches the scenery from a new angle, the tension slowly easing into fatigue.

After twenty minutes they spot a sign: Tyre Service Café Motel. Olivia turns off. A modest garage sits beside a lowrise building with a painted sign reading The Birch Café.

A fiftyyearold mechanic examines the shredded tyre, shakes his head.

It cant be repaired, he says. The sidewalls cut. Youll need a new one.

Natalie nods, the mental calculator already ticking. A new tyre means money shes already short of after the divorce.

How much? she asks.

He quotes a price. Natalie sighs, then says, Alright, just do it.

While he works, they go into the café. The air is cool, the airconditioner humming. A family with kids occupies a corner table, a cooking show plays on a small TV.

They order bowls of cold cucumber soup and tea. Olivia stirs her tea silently. The silence between them feels taut.

I was unfair earlier, Natalie breaks it. I said harsh things about you.

You were scared, Olivia replies. I would have shouted too.

But I really think, Natalie continues, eyes on her bowl, you always lived for yourself. I cant. And now, when you suggest changing everything on the fly, it squeezes me.

Olivia puts down her spoon.

You know, from the outside it may look like living for yourself, but inside its often chaos, she says. I did many things not from freedom but from fear. I was scared of being stuck like my parents, scared of being abandoned, so I left before anyone could leave me. At work I overworked because I feared being seen as replaceable.

Natalie looks up.

I didnt know you felt that way

It took me ages to admit it, Olivia smiles ruefully. I only realized it when I started gasping for breath on the tube every morning. The therapist asked what I wanted, and I couldnt answer. I just sat and cried. Freedom isnt sprinting to a lake at a whim; its finally being honest with yourself about what you want, not living to meet other peoples expectations.

Natalie ponders. Her exhusbands voice echoes: Youre making it too complicated, Lets not talk about this now, You know its hard for me. She had spent years molding herself.

What if I dont know what I want? she asks quietly.

Start small, Olivia suggests. Like deciding how you want to spend today. Not what you should do, not whats proper, just what feels easier right now.

Natalie glances out the window. The mechanic is fitting the new tyre. The sun is slipping toward evening, but they still have a long drive to Lincoln.

I promised my cousin a night there, Natalie says. I really want to stay with her. Im tired.

Then we go to her, Olivia nods. Thatll be your choice.

And you? Natalie asks. You wanted to turn at every sign.

I wanted not to live by someone elses script, Olivia says. But Im not alone on this road. If todays script for you is a clean bed and a chat with your sister, Ill follow it.

Natalie feels the lump in her throat ease a little.

What about tomorrow? she adds cautiously. We can do your random day. If something interesting shows up, we follow it.

Deal, Olivia replies. Tomorrows my day of chance.

They finish their tea, pay, and head back to the car. The mechanic shows them how to avoid the roadworks and points out a few minor cracks in the other tyres. Natalie listens, asks questions. Olivia stands nearby, hands folded.

Will you drive? Olivia asks when theyre alone.

Natalie looks at the steering wheel, at her hands.

I will, she says. But if I start panicking, we swap again. Agreed?

Agreed, Olivia confirms.

The first kilometres after the garage are slow, almost overly cautious. Every sound feels suspect, every bump a threat. Olivia offers occasional glances but remains quiet.

Gradually the fear loosens. The road becomes a familiar ribbon, the other cars just cars. Natalie even turns the radio on.

You know, she says as they pass a small village, Ive never asked for help. I always thought asking made me look weak.

Me, Olivia replies, Ive always feared asking and being turned down, so I did everything myself to avoid that.

Funny, Natalie laughs, we both ended up carrying more than we could.

At least now we can talk about it, Olivia says.

The sun dips, painting the sky a soft pink. Inside Natalie feels a quiet acceptance rise. Its not a solution to everythingtheres still a long way to Lincolnbut its a step toward moving forward without pretending everything is fine.

They pull into Lincoln as dusk settles. The town glows with streetlights and a few late walkers. Natalies sister lives in a modest terraced house on the outskirts. They find the right block, climb the stairs to the fourth floor.

Her sister greets them with cheers, the smell of roasted chicken, and a flood of questions. Natalie introduces Olivia, offers her coat, and puts their bags down. Dinner circles around children, jobs, supermarket prices. Olivia shares a funny anecdote from the ad agency; everyone laughs.

When the others retire to their rooms, Natalie and Olivia linger in the kitchen. Outside a dog barks faintly in the night.

How are you? Olivia asks, pouring tea.

Tired, Natalie admits. But somehow calmer.

I was scared today, too, Olivia says. Not just about the tyre. I feared wed argue so badly we couldnt speak again.

Natalie remembers her shouted line about the life I ruined myself, and feels a pang of shame.

I dont want to fight you, she says. Sometimes it feels like youre pushing me toward places Im not ready for.

Then tell me, Olivia replies. I might not notice when Im overstepping. I tend to pull everyone forward. You can hold back. The important thing is we keep talking, not bottle it up.

Natalie nods.

Tomorrow, if its your day of chance, lets set some limits. No more than a hundred miles off the main route, and a proper bed, not a tent.

Fair, Olivia smiles. And Ill ask you to say yes to at least one turn that isnt on the plan, even if its scary.

One turn, Natalie agrees, thinking it over.

They finish their tea and head to their rooms. Natalie lies on the sofa in her nieces guest room, staring at the ceiling. Fragments of the road, Olivias voice, the cracked tyre swirl in her mind.

She realizes the journey isnt about the towns or miles. Its about learning to be together without losing herself or the other.

The next morning they set off a little later than usual. Natalies sister feeds them fresh scones, hands them a jar of jam and a note: Take care out there. NatalieAs they merged onto the highway, Natalie felt a quiet confidence bloom, ready for whatever road lay ahead.