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

once made up, and then only weeks later went our separate ways. I can’t believe we’ve wandered this far. I glance discreetly at Libby’s profile. She looks confused, like me, to suddenly find herself here.

“So many memories…” she mutters.

I don’t respond. I don’t know how to. Sometimes you stop, look at your life, and wonder who the hell you are and how the hell you got here. It’s mind-blowing beyond words.

“It took me a really long time to get over you,” she says, quietly.

The intimacy of her statement shocks me. I feel a stab in my chest. Do you want to know how long it took to get over you? I want to ask her. But I still don’t think I know the answer to that question.

I can smell smoke. There’s another barbecue going on somewhere nearby. Music emanates from one of the narrowboats, and the tinkle of conversation carries on the air.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come here,” says Libby, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Here?” I ask, thinking she means this exact spot.

“Back to Timpton. When I left, I never thought I’d come back. And now I don’t really know what I’m doing here.” She shakes her head, sadly. “I don’t know what I’m doing anywhere, really. I mean, God, look at you, you’ve done so much. You have a teenage son, your own business, your own place…”

“Me? I’m just muddling through, working all hours, trying to meet the bills. You’re getting married,” I remind her, “I’m guessing you’re gonna buy a nice house in the suburbs, have two point four kids… I mean, six years together, that’s something.”

She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced.

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

She looks up at the sky.

“Things are just never quite as you imagine they’re going to be, are they?”

I study her face, suddenly so sad, so different from just a few moments ago.

“But you are… I mean, you’re happy, aren’t you?” I ask, confused, willing the answer to be yes.

But just then my phone buzzes.

I watch her, waiting for an answer.

“Don’t you have to check that?” she asks.

Irritated by the interruption, I pull my phone from my back pocket. It’s Michael. I can’t believe his timing.

Am ok. Run out of meds. Mix up at Dr. Need to sleep. Text U tomorrow.

I stuff my phone back in my jeans and look to Libby again, but somehow, in that split second she’s manage to plaster a smile back on her face.

“I had way too much to drink this evening,” she laughs. “I’m not used to it. Do you mind if we head back?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, and I smile despite the fact I suddenly feel unsettled.

We start to retrace our steps, and I’m just about to steer the conversation back to where we were, when my phone rings. I never turn my phone off or refuse to answer it. Not after that night Josh got sick and I missed the calls. But sometimes I just wish I could be uncontactable.

“God, I’m so sorry,” I tut, looking at the screen, “it’s my sister, I have to take it.”

I answer the call, weary now of all the disturbances.

“What?” I ask abruptly.

“It’s Dad,” she says, “he’s in a bad way. Can you get over here?”

“Where’s Brenda?”

“She’s not back yet. Her niece’s wedding, remember?”

“Can’t you handle it, whatever it is?”

“Would I be fucking calling you if I could?”

I sigh and run my hand over my head.

“Twenty minutes,” I agree, thinking Josh is just going to have to wait.

I hang up.

“Wow, you’re really in demand,” quips Libby.

I rub my eyes.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

One evening. One friggin’ evening to myself, is that too much to ask? Not even an evening – an hour! I mean, it’s not like I really wanted to come, but still, the idea that I could go out for an hour and be left in peace… Heaven forbid!

As Libby and I walk back to the pub at an accelerated pace, I try to remind myself that this is just life. Everyone has responsibilities. Everyone has pressures. Idiotic kids, unstable friends, sick parents, demanding sisters… I don’t want to feel annoyed with them. And I don’t want to feel resentful. So I clench my fists at my sides and try to take a deep breath.

And I tell myself not to feel angry. Because anger has never served me well.

Chapter 12

Anger

I remember shouting at her: “You weren’t there, you have no idea what it was like!”

“I know I wasn’t there! I can’t know what it was like. But maybe if you talked to someone—”

“I’m talking to you!”

“This isn’t talking, Jamie, this is shouting!”

I paced restlessly in circles. I kicked at one of the metal lamp posts that dotted the canal path near the marina, gently at first and then harder, giving it a boot that sent a sharp pain shooting through my toes and up my calf.

Libby stood by, wringing her hands, watching me anxiously. I hated the fact that she looked so anguished. I didn’t want to raise my voice. I didn’t want to be like this. But for weeks now this feeling inside – this churning fear, and anger, and hyperactivity – had taken over me. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop. And there was only one thing that ever seemed to take the edge off.

“You’re drinking too much,” said Libby, “it’s not right. You need to stop.”

“I’m not drinking too much.”

“Yes, you are. And it’s not helping. I’m going to speak to your parents, Jamie—”

“You aren’t going to say a word to my parents!” I snapped, glaring at her. I heard my own voice, loud and angry, echoing against the water’s surface and the surrounding woodland. Was that really me, shouting at Libby like that?

Her eyes were wide and startled for a moment, before regaining their steeliness.

“It’s not like they don’t know, Jamie!”

“Well, then you don’t need to talk to them!”

She sighed and rubbed her forehead, strands of long hair falling around her face.

“I’m worried about you,” she said more gently, holding her