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

“Yeah, I know.”

We stood there for a minute in silence, Tom kicking gently at the door frame with the toe of his trainer, and me staring at my socks.

“Is your dad… I mean, is everything okay?” I asked tentatively, wondering if there was anything else on his mind.

Tom shrugged. “Not really,” he mumbled.

I didn’t know what to say, or how much I could ask. I didn’t really understand what was wrong with Tom’s dad, none of us did. Depression was a word you heard sometimes, but it didn’t mean a lot to any of us. It seemed best to either make a joke about it, like Tom often did, or not talk about it at all. I chose the latter option, not wanting to show my ignorance or say the wrong thing.

“Go home, you div,” I said.

“We cool?” Tom asked, sticking out his fist.

“Yeah, we’re cool,” I told him, bumping my first against his.

He turned and sauntered down the garden path.

“Later, dickhead,” he called quietly.

“Later, shitface,” I called back.

And just like that we were friends again.

Chapter 11

Celebrations

Hello Tom

Apologies for contacting you out of the blue. The hospital gave me your email address

DELETE

Hi Tom

It’s been a long time. I heard you were at a hospital in Surry now so I spoke to

DELETE

Dear Tom

I hope you are well. It’s been a long time.

I was wondering if I might be able to visit you? I have some things I’d like to talk to you about. I have been doing some thinking about the past and

DELETE

Hey Shitface

DELETE

Tom,

Been a long time. Hope you are well. Any chance we can talk?

Jay

SEND

Apparently, Stu slid off the sofa and positioned himself on one knee in the middle of a particularly violent episode of Game of Thrones. I suppose it’s half-heartedly romantic, and it seems to sum up his relationship with Irena; deep-seated affection tinged with a hint of hostility. They constantly bicker behind the bar and she snaps at him, calling him an oaf and an idiot or other things in Polish that he may or may not understand, so that anyone who isn’t a regular at the Canal House might feel slightly uncomfortable and question their professionalism. But most of us know it’s just their way. They’ve been a solid couple for years, and news of their engagement is a cause for celebration, hence tonight’s barbecue. I just don’t feel like celebrating, that’s all.

I’ve not been sleeping well again. My meeting with Libby last weekend – far from bringing me the peace of mind I’d been craving – has led to a new kind of turmoil. On the one hand, I feel genuine relief in knowing she’s never held a grudge against me, and I’m grateful to have had the chance to say sorry, whether she thought I needed to or not. Some of the guilt has been lifted from my shoulders by seeing that she’s happy, successful, unharmed by the mess I made. I don’t know why I ever imagined otherwise. But a new kind of unrest has taken hold of my mind. Lying awake at night, unable to shut my thoughts off, I find the past playing out even more vividly than before. I’m in the long grass, nine years old, the warm sun on my face…

Do you want to kiss me?

And later, on her narrowboat, when we had to get to know each other all over again, when we were changed, teenagers, fumbling to find the words.

… I really like you…

And then when we were a couple. Hours spent just talking, laughing, lying on her narrow bunk innocently holding each other, or taking our first, tentative, clumsy steps in kissing, touching… I remember the newness of it all, the excitement, the longing… but most of all I remember that feeling of connection. We fit. It felt easy. It felt right.

But after the night of the fairground nothing felt right anymore. And nothing really ever felt easy again.

It’s pointless, wondering what if. What if I’d handled my emotions better? What if I’d fought harder to stay together? Could we have ever made it work, despite the baby, despite everything? Probably not. She was right. We were just kids.

But still. What if?

I don’t know why I keep wasting my time on these thoughts. I’m an idiot.

She sent me a text the day after our meeting, which I fretted over for forty-eight hours before replying.

Hi. Good to see you yesterday. Just to let you know I agreed to do Stu’s mural. I’m planning on working on it weekends, pending weather. Take care. Libby.

I should have been happy for her. She’d looked genuinely enthusiastic to have a new project. Perhaps after her stressful career with the big advertising company she just wanted to get back to her roots, indulge her love of painting for a while, feel the sun (what there is of it) against her face. But the truth is my heart sank when her text came through. I was responsible for her coming here, but now I just want her gone. It had never been part of the plan to see her again. I’d just wanted to say my piece and move on. That was the idea of closure; box things up, seal shut with industrial-strength tape and send to archive, never to be thought of again.

But now she was sticking around, and she was texting me, and what did that even mean anyway? Good to see you. Was that an invitation to friendship? Was I meant to go and see her at the Canal House, call in one weekend, admire her mural and make chit-chat about her progress? Because, having given it some thought, I’m just not sure we could ever be friends. There’s far too much water under the bridge.

Or was her text saying exactly the opposite? Take care. Was that a final goodbye, her signing off, an over-and-out? Was she warning me where she would be and