Where We Go

By Bryony Rosehurst

Embark on an extraordinary journey of self-discovery and unexpected love in "Where We Go," a captivating novel that will awaken your sense of adventure and leave you yearning for the freedom to follow your heart.

Meet Lane, a restless soul trapped in the monotony of a dead-end job and a life that feels stagnant. Each day, as she boards the train to work, she fantasizes about what would happen if she took a leap of faith and stayed on until the end of the line. The allure of the unknown tugs at her, whispering promises of a life filled with excitement and endless possibilities.

And then, like a whisper in the wind, Lane's path intersects with Oscar, a quiet and bookish soul who seems equally adrift in the sea of life. Their connection is instant, as if they were meant to meet at that very moment. Together, they decide to throw caution to the wind, abandoning the constraints of their mundane lives and embracing the spontaneity that beckons them.

With no plans and no expectations, Lane and Oscar embark on an unplanned adventure, venturing to the seaside and immersing themselves in the enchantment of the unknown. As they explore the world around them and the depths of their own hearts, they discover a sense of freedom they have longed for. The joy of breaking free from the shackles of routine fills their souls, and for once, they feel truly alive.

But as the sun sets and reality creeps in, they realize they have missed the last train home. Suddenly, the weight of their impulsive choices bears down on them. Lane's spirit soars, relishing the exhilaration of living in the moment, while Oscar's anxiety threatens to overwhelm him. Will their newfound spontaneity be too much for Oscar to handle, or will he find the courage to embrace the unknown and experience the thrill of a lifetime?

"Where We Go" is a heartwarming tale of courage, self-discovery, and the transformative power of love. Join Lane and Oscar as they navigate uncharted territories, both internally and externally, learning to let go of fears and societal expectations. Through their journey, you'll be inspired to question the boundaries that confine you and dare to live a life guided by your own desires.

Get ready to escape the ordinary, follow your dreams, and discover the magic that unfolds when you take a chance on life. "Where We Go" will whisk you away on an unforgettable adventure, reminding you that sometimes the greatest destinations are found when you have no destination at all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: May 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094462554

Bryony Rosehurst

Bryony Rosehurst is a British romance author dedicated to telling diverse stories of love and happily ever afters — and perhaps a little bit of angst sprinkled in for good measure. You can usually find her painting (badly), photographing new cities (occasionally), or wishing for autumn (always).

Book preview

1

It’s too early to be pressed against this many bodies . Lane grimaces as a stranger’s elbow digs into her rib cage, and she clamps her mouth shut to keep from chewing on the middle-aged woman’s wild, frizzy hair — no mean feat when she is also trying to avoid getting a whiff of morning breath mingling from thirty different mouths. As a last resort, she buries her face into her scarf despite the fact that she is sweating, seeking comfort in the familiar smell of her own laundry detergent.

The train engine beneath her grumbles in sync with her empty stomach and all she can do is swallow down the nausea as it comes to a halt at the next station. More people pile onto the train, and the woman in front of her shuffles back so that Lane is squashed into the corner, the glass windows feel cool against her flushed cheeks. As the doors close, banishing the fresh air again, the train groans to life and she turns to watch the world pass in infinite shades of green and grey outside — within them, the outline of a man.

He stands across from her and, for a moment, their reflections cross in the window so that he is half him, half her, and half a dozen other faceless people huddled together behind them. Everything shifts as they enter a tunnel and all that remains beneath the flickering fluorescent lights of the carriage is him, shrouded by shadows. She wonders if he can tell that she is watching his reflection as he peers into the blackness outside through wide-rimmed spectacles, or if he is watching hers too. She could look at him properly — he only stands opposite her, close enough that she hears him loose a contained yawn into the back of his hand — and yet, she can’t bring herself to tear her eyes from this transparent, phantom version of him… not until a high-heeled shoe tramples on her toes and she sucks in a sharp, pained breath.

That’d be my foot! she snaps without thinking, glaring at the woman’s back.

The woman casts her a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder as she shuffles forward only enough that her oversized handbag is no longer threatening to suffocate Lane. Her pale foundation sinks into the wrinkles around her mouth, bleeding together with her pink lipstick. Sorry, love, is all she says. Lane doesn’t miss the hint of insincerity dripping into her tone.

She clenches her jaw to keep from saying more, redirecting her scowl in front of her — where, she realises too late, the man she’d seen reflected in the window stands. His face isn’t quite as chiselled when the daylight returns and he is no longer only illuminated by the train’s lights, and his clean-shaven, dimpled chin makes him seem younger than he probably is. His lips press into a sympathetic smile as their eyes meet, a sign that he had witnessed the interaction and understands her irritation. People, eh? she imagines him saying.

She does not care to have a silent conversation, though, instead raising an eyebrow before drifting back to the window. She looks past his reflection now, bored by his tweed blazer — she didn’t even realise people still wore tweed blazers — and pissed off that the woman in front is already crushing her again. It only worsens when the untamed woodland blends into graffitied council flats and grey roads brimming with morning traffic. The city waits for her, and she is certain that, as always, it will be about as kind as the strangers on this train.

I need a cigarette.

Oscar’s leg bounces erratically as he reads the same paragraph of an essay for the fifth time on his laptop. The meaning is still lost on him: they are just letters on his screen, nothing attached to them but a glaring white background that makes his eyes ache.

Stupid. He curses himself as an older man sits beside him on the train and he shuffles closer to the window. Stupid for feeling this way: anxious, distracted, exhausted. Stupid for not being able to concentrate. Stupid for standing up in three of his lectures today and forgetting almost immediately what it was he wanted to say, even with the PowerPoint behind him. Stupid for looking out blankly at the sea of students who rely on him, who expect him to guide them through their degree, instead of making it up or checking his notes or thinking of something on the spot the way any other tutor would. Stupid for choosing a cheese and onion sandwich at lunch, because now his breath stinks and he is certain everybody on the train can smell it. Stupid for wearing this blazer, which has always been too small for him and now has a rip down the back that grows bigger each time he moves his shoulders. Stupid for smiling at the woman on the train this morning, who clearly wanted to be left alone. Stupid for going to bed late again last night. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

His phone buzzes on the table in front of him, and he glances down at it briefly. Stupid for ignoring her texts.

He turns it over so it lies face down and pushes his glasses further up his nose with fingers that seem to shake constantly these days. The train is crammed again with evening commuters, and they tower above him accusingly so that he begins to pack away his things in preparation to stand up and offer his seat. The sight of a familiar face causes him to freeze.

The woman from this morning who was almost crushed to death by another passenger twice her size and yet still found it in her to stand up for herself. She stands in the line of people that fill the aisles, earphones plugged into her ears as she scrolls through her phone before sliding it into her bag and sighing. Her hair is dishevelled, falling out of its ponytail, and a thick scarf is wrapped around her neck as though the pink blossoms are not falling and making room for the summer leaves out of the window behind her.

He looks away before she can notice him staring, clearing his throat and returning his attention to the essay again. His phone vibrates twice more and, this time, he does not even bother to check it.

2

Lane glowers down at her overpriced martini as she tucks away her now-empty purse into her bag. The bar is decorated in an excessive amount of pink — ribbons, confetti, banners reading It’s A Girl! — and brimming with the type of people she despises: snooty accountants who work in offices and drive fancy cars. Lane can’t help but tug at her blouse, feeling underdressed and flustered after changing in the train station’s grubby public bathroom on the way here. Sweat clings to her, beads of it trickling down her forehead beneath her knotted fringe, and she gulps down half her martini in one go out of sheer desperation.

I might have known you’d go straight for the bar, a voice behind her scolds mockingly. Lane turns to find Melissa standing with her hands on her hips, whitened teeth flashing as she smiles.

I’m drinking on your behalf, Lane replies, fiddling with a bar mat that makes her hands sticky. You’re welcome.

Melissa scoffs and pulls Lane into a half-hug, her swollen stomach a barrier that stops Lane from getting too close. I’m glad you could make it.

And I’m glad you decided to have a baby shower in a cocktail bar. Lane squeezes Melissa’s hand softly, appreciatively. How on earth do you still look so good when you’re just about ready to pop?

Please. Melissa rolls her eyes with a dismissive wave of her hand, though Lane’s words are true and she is sure her best friend knows it. She wears a flowing white dress that Lane knows she wouldn’t suit even when not eight months pregnant, her skin sun-kissed and her blonde hair falling across her shoulders in cascading waves: the epitome of maternal glow, though money perhaps has something to do with it. I feel like a whale.

Oh, yeah, Lane says sarcastically, you look like one, too.

Melissa gives her a soft slap on the arm and joins her against the bar with a hand on her stomach. Lane can’t help but shuffle, eyes roaming the people milling about in front of her as she worries at her lip.

Is he coming? she asks when she does not find his face among Melissa’s guests — Lane’s ex-boyfriend, and Melissa’s cousin.

Later. Melissa furrows her brows apologetically. I’ve told him to behave.

Who needs to behave? Jonathan appears beside Lane as though he has been standing there the whole time, a bottle of beer in his hands.

His presence causes her to jump and she puts