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

The Canal House is made up of two parts: an old, brick structure at the front, containing oak tables and an open fireplace, and an airy, high-ceilinged extension at the back, housing the bar, an assortment of leather sofas and a pool table. It’s the acoustics in this part of the building that make it a great venue for live music, as well as the fact that the glass doors fold open all along the back, allowing the crowds to flow outdoors onto the large terrace that overlooks the canal. Michael plays here a lot with his band, Halo, and that’s how I know so many of the regulars, which is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, I feel at home here; Stu and Irena are always welcoming, and there’s usually someone to pass the time of day with if I feel in the mood. But while Timpton’s a fairly large old market town, it can be hard to walk through the centre without one of the Canal House locals stopping me for a chat, which can be a pain in the backside. I like talking to people in small doses, on my terms and when I choose.

“So, if it’s not Rachel,” Stu pipes up again, sounding intrigued, “then it’s…?”

“None of your business?”

“Oohh, what a slap in the face!” jokes Stu. “Well, whoever you’re meeting, it looks like she’s got well under your skin, for one reason or another.”

“What makes you think it’s even a woman?” I ask slightly irritably, taking a sip of my coffee and somehow managing to spill it in the process. “Shit,” I mutter, wiping the back of my hand across my chin and checking my T-shirt.

Stu laughs. “’Cause no bloke makes a guy look that jumpy. Not unless it’s your bank manager you’re meeting.”

I glance through the glass doors at the empty terrace. It’s a warm day, but there are grey clouds looming ominously overhead. Then I look back at Stu, smug smile on his face, eyebrow raised questioningly. I think I’ll take my drink outside and risk the rain.

But just as I’m standing up, in she walks, looking flustered and rosy-cheeked. My heart starts to race. I’m the first to admit that I can be pretty socially awkward at the best of times, but sit me down face-to-face with an ex-girlfriend whose heart I unintentionally broke and who I haven’t seen in over fifteen years and suddenly this seems like a nightmare scenario. This would actually be a good time for my feet to move towards her, but instead they decide to stay rooted to the wooden floor, letting her stand there alone, scanning the room, wide-eyed and lost.

She spies me but doesn’t move. Or smile. It’s like she’s in two minds about whether to turn around and bolt. But while every part of my body remains frozen, she visibly takes a deep breath, stands a little taller and heads towards me.

“Hi,” she says, already slipping her bag from her shoulder and starting to remove her jacket, meeting my eye for only the briefest moment. She’s wearing a blue V-neck T-shirt, and I notice her chest and throat are flushed. She fumbles to place her jacket over the back of a chair, while I spend way too long searching for something to say. But then we both speak at the same time.

“Did you find it—”

“It’s hot in—”

“Oh, we can go outside—”

“Yeah, I found it fine—”

I give an awkward laugh, while her lips struggle into a forced smile.

“Outside sounds like a good idea,” she says, gathering her jacket and bag back up.

“Can I get you a coffee?” I ask.

“I’ll just have a cold drink.”

I glance over at the menu above the bar, searching for a list of cold drinks. “I think they have—”

“It’s fine, I’ll get something and meet you outside.”

“Well, let me pay,” I say, quickly pulling my wallet from my back pocket.

“No, it’s fine, I’ll get it,” she says abruptly, walking away.

I stand there, wondering whether to go after her, but then I remember that Libby was always fiercely independent about money. She would never take cash from me, even when she had none – which was all the time. She’d been brought up to distain materialism, and I learned early on in our relationship that she didn’t accept gifts easily or comfortably.

As Libby orders her drink from Stu, he gives me a quick wink over the top of her head. I quickly grab my coffee and open the back door, gratefully stepping into the fresh air. I’ve just sat down at a table when Libby emerges with a glass and a bottle of Appletiser. I rush to stand up again, pull a chair out for her, offer to take something out of her hands; her jacket, her bag, her glass, her bottle…

“It’s fine,” she insists, struggling to set everything down.

When we’re settled opposite each other, the silence, which must be all of ten seconds long, seems to stretch forever.

“I was surprised to get your text,” I say, apprehensively.

“Um, yes, well,” she fumbles, quickly tucking her hair behind her ear and grabbing for her bottle of drink, “I decided I was maybe a bit rude when you came to see me, and I apologise because that wasn’t really necessary—”

“No, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have—”

“—so I thought maybe I should just come and say sorry or something,” she ploughs on, “because, you know, I didn’t need to be so blunt, but you just caught me totally off guard, I mean, you were absolutely the last person I expected to see that day, and God, it’s been such a long time, and at first I hardly recognised you, but when I realised it was you, I was just so taken aback—”

She talks fast, waggling her bottle in such a way that I’m amazed she doesn’t spill any.

“—so I’m sorry I was so off that day. It hadn’t been a good day actually, and then, what with you and the