He could but wouldn’t shift into fifth gear on the motorway. They sat in a tiny rental, driving on the wrong side of the road, at least to her mind, the radio tuned to BBC1 or 2 or 3 or 4, she was never sure.

She knew he was driving, not her.  Fourth or fifth gear wasn’t her business. The counselor had only recently reminded her of the difference between her business and his. Only recently she said she would try not to comment on everything all the time, and he said he would try to say Fuck You at least once.

She noticed how he gripped the wheel with both hands, white knuckled.  She watched the tachometer reaching for the red, heard the rpms whining, the pitch growing, the tightening sound of the engine winding up, strained and reeling.

She clutched the book that sat on her lap, turned to him, and asked how it was he could continue in fourth gear, and under all these circumstances. How was it he could be so content just staying there? This was, of course, nothing new for either of them and so, having failed to hold herself together, she did not wait for an answer, which was irrelevant anyway, and asked why he wouldn’t shift.

She wished he would say Fuck You. That he would stop her sometimes.  She had such trouble stopping herself.  But that seemed just as hopeful, just as hard, as him reaching for the final shift.  And so he said nothing.

She uncrossed her ankles, let her temple rest on the window, felt the curve of the seatbelt across her collarbone, looked out at a dull sky and flat horizon.

• • •

It was foggy and moist miles later when they walked down the steep, muddy path into the cove. She wore ill-fitting Wellies borrowed from the beach house, which provided very little traction.

She apologized. How he chose to drive was not her business and she should not have said anything at all, she told him. He must not have felt supported, he must have felt alone. Or wished he were.

“It isn’t really about fifth gear.”

Mark picked up a flat grey skipping stone and turned it over in his fingers.

“I know,” he said, before skipping it across the salty water, “It’s because you’re terrified.”

She felt colder and warmer at the same time, as she stood next to him on the bank, looking to where the stones sink.