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

that she always wanted a sister… but I’m sure all these things have changed.

I open my mouth to ask about her fiancé, just because it seems like an obvious next question, but then I think better of it. It’s too personal and none of my business.

Libby fiddles with the label on her empty Appletiser bottle. “Actually, my dad’s seen you a few times over the years,” she says, “you know, when he’s stopped around here.” She waves her hand towards the canal, as if his boat might be moored just on the other side of the wall that separates us from the waterway. “So I knew you were still in Timpton.”

“Yeah, I see him around town now and then,” I admit.

Seeing Libby’s dad always left me unsettled for a few days afterwards. It was like a piece of her returning out of the blue. I’d never approached him. I hadn’t even been sure he’d recognise me, although clearly I’d been wrong about that. Even when I was with Libby, I’d only met him a handful of times, and although he’d been friendly enough, he’d also seemed edgy and distracted, like he was already itching to be off somewhere else. Libby always said he was a free spirit, not designed to be in one place for too long. My mum used to say he was more like a freeloader, turning to Harmonie every time he was broke and down on his luck. “Funny kind of feminist,” she used to mutter.

“I even saw your dad in here once,” I add, nodding towards the bar. I don’t mention that it was eight o’clock on a Sunday evening and that he could barely stand, or that I’d left as soon as I saw him.

“I think he still likes to drink down at the Kingfisher mainly,” says Libby.

“Right,” I nod, placing my empty mug down on the table. “I never go there.”

By this I mean I go out of my way not to even walk past the place. I don’t like to remember the last time I was there, the night I burst through the doors breathless and panicked, pleading for someone to call nine nine nine.

Libby meets my eye for a second before we both look away, and I know she understands.

“So, um, are you a full-time artist now?” I ask quickly.

I lost track of the things Libby wanted to be. A geologist. A historian. A doctor. A radiologist. An artist. An architect. She was so smart and studious she could have been anything she wanted.

“Oh, no. The painting’s just a sideline. I was actually working for this big advertising company in London, on the creative side of things.”

“Wow, really?”

“Yeah, lots of very prestigious clients, well-known brands… It was, you know, a lot of… um…”

“Pressure?”

“I suppose you could say that. So I’m just taking a little break right now. Sort of re-evaluating. Figuring out my next career move. I mean, I’ve has some offers, but…”

“Sounds like you can take your pick.”

“And you’re an electrician,” she says, swiftly switching the focus to me. “I was surprised when I googled your name and it came up under the trades directory. That’s what made me unsure if it was actually you. Because it just had your initial. You know, J. Lewis, and I thought Lewis is a fairly common name and I never saw you going into that kind of work.”

“Uh, no, well, things didn’t go quite the way I thought—”

“No, of course not,” she says almost apologetically.

“I scraped through my A levels in the end, and my dad offered to support me through university and take care of Josh, but… well, that wasn’t really an option in the end. Plus, I think my mum wanted me to go down the academic route way more than I ever did. I suppose I just didn’t know what else I was going to do. Or maybe I just wanted to keep her happy.”

“Oh well, we can both be disappointments to our mothers then!”

We both laugh politely.

“Are they well anyway, your parents?” she asks.

“Um, yeah,” I lie, not wanting to drag the tone of the conversation down.

“And Josh? You said he’s doing well?”

“Yeah, great. I mean, he’s a challenge occasionally, but you know, he’s fifteen, so…”

“Fifteen,” she mutters, shaking her head disbelievingly. “I can’t believe it’s been that long.”

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

“Do you have any photos?”

“Oh, yeah. Do you want to see?” I ask hesitantly, unsure if showing her photos of the child that ended our relationship isn’t somehow a bit weird.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” she smiles.

I quickly scan through my photos and then hand her the phone.

“Oh my God,” she says, her smile fading as she contemplates the picture. She looks at it for a long time. “He looks so much like you at that age,” she says quietly.

“Really? You think?”

“It’s like going back in time and looking at the fifteen-year-old you.”

When the screen suddenly times out and goes blank, she looks up like she’s coming out of a dream. She hands me back the phone.

“That’s so weird,” she mutters, looking unsettled, and I wonder whether that wasn’t such a good idea. Slowly she stands up and takes the few steps over to the wall, peering down at the canal. She gazes to her left, in the direction of the marina where her boat was moored for all those years.

“Have you ever been back?” I ask her.

She shakes her head and folds her arms around herself. The clouds still threaten rain and now the warmth has gone. Summer’s never quite settled in this year, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to.

“I came to see you, you know,” I say, although I’m not sure why I’m telling her this now. “A couple of months after we broke up. I knew I shouldn’t have done, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And to say… well, pretty much what I’ve said today, really. That I was sorry for how things had ended. But you