The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (open ebook .txt) 📕

she has to stop singing while Stu and I climb on stage to a cacophony of good-natured caterwauls and heckling to untangle the mess.

I keep seeing Libby weaving her way through the crowd, collecting glasses, tipping rubbish into black sacks, delivering boxes of hotdog buns to Leo, who’s doing a stint on the barbecue, comically squeezed into a striped apron which just about covers his huge chest. In the glow of the patio lamps and multicoloured lanterns she looks rosy-cheeked and slightly flustered, as if she’s struggling to keep up. We smile awkwardly at each other as we pass by, and each time I almost stop her.

Can I talk to you?

There’s something I need to say.

I need to tell you something.

But there’s no time. And on some level, I’m relieved, because I have no idea how to go about this.

I busy myself with anything Stu wants help with – lugging crates of beer, clearing up a broken glass, fetching more ice – until he stops me.

“Right, we’re all in order. You’re a star, mate. Now go chill out and enjoy yourself.”

“Are you sure? If you need me—”

“Go enjoy the party,” he orders.

I find things easier when I’m busy, I know that about myself now. When I’m stretched to the limit, being pulled in three directions at once, I might feel put upon and stressed out, but the truth is the busyness – all those commitments – gives me an excuse. An excuse not to get involved in a relationship, not to think about the things that aren’t working in my life. An excuse not to live fully.

But I don’t want to make excuses anymore.

My work setting up this event is done. I’m free. And, terrifyingly, just for a moment, so is Libby. Besides, how long does it really take to tell someone how you feel about them? There’s another thing you could probably do in sixty seconds, if you knew how.

I find her standing at the side of the packed terrace, watching the band from afar. Purple Sway are a local folk band; not my kind of thing, but they’ve made quite a name for themselves in this town of eclectic music lovers over the last couple of years. The crowd are jigging and foot-tapping in time to the music, drinks in hand. The night air smells of barbecue smoke, hotdogs and booze. The evening has all the right ingredients for a relaxed party, but I’m anything other than relaxed. I don’t know if this is the best time, or the best place, but I have to be honest with her. Because even if Irena was wrong, even if Libby doesn’t feel the same about me, I need to get it out there. I need to know if there’s a chance for us.

But just as I’m about to weave my way through the crowd, a warm hand touches me on the shoulder.

“Hello, stranger.”

I turn to see Rachel, her hair hanging in loose waves over her shoulders, an impossibly tiny denim skirt and high-heeled boots showing off her long legs.

“Hi,” I say, holding my breath, waiting for her to lay into me. We haven’t spoken since the night I went back to her flat and then walked out on her. I dropped her a brief text the following morning – a bumbling apology – but I never heard back.

She leans in close, her mouth next to my ear.

“I’m going home tomorrow,” she tells me above the blare of the music, “to Melbourne.”

I pull back and look at her in surprise.

“My friend’s offered me a job,” she explains dismissively, “she wants me to start straight away.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, leaning in to be heard above the noise, “about the last time—”

“Forget it,” she says, with a wave of her hand. “You had a ton of stuff going on. I shouldn’t have been such a diva. I guess I was just disappointed.”

She gives me one of her coquettish smiles.

“I think you and I could have had a lot of fun,” she says, “but I don’t think a bit of fun’s really what you’re looking for.”

I glance briefly over to where Libby was standing a moment ago, but she’s already gone. I quickly scan the crowd, but I can’t see her anywhere.

Rachel reaches out and squeezes my wrist. “Find whatever makes you happy, Jay,” she says into my ear, “you’re a good guy. You deserve it.”

She places a warm hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in and plants a kiss on my lips. And the first thing I see when she releases me is Libby passing behind her, squeezing her way through the crowd, meeting my eye for the briefest second and then quickly looking away.

I want to stop her, but in a flash she’s gone.

Rachel sees something in my eye and glances over her shoulder, just catching a glimpse of Libby’s back as she’s swallowed up in the crowd.

She smiles knowingly at me.

“Go,” she tells me, pushing me away from her, and not for the first time I realise how transparent I must be. Does everyone know how I feel? Does Libby?

I guess if she does, then what have I got to lose by saying it out loud?

Do you have feelings for me?

I think there’s something between us…

Is there a chance…?

“Can we maybe… um… just talk for a minute?”

Later in the evening, when I finally come across her again, Libby doesn’t look busy. She’s leaning against the wall in the side alley, illuminated by the light from the kitchen window, sipping a glass of water and taking a break from the noise and the chaos. But at my approach she suddenly seems to remember she’s rushed off her feet.

“I was just… I really have to get back,” she fumbles, making as if to head straight past me.

“Please. Can we just—”

“I can’t, sorry, I have to—”

“Are you avoiding me?” I ask, stepping in front of her, thinking it takes one to know one.

“No, I’m not avoiding you, I’m