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

asks about Michael, but I’m careful what I say, protective of his privacy. We also touch briefly on Tom and Max, but there’s not much to say there. I’m not going to tell her about my plan. I don’t want her knowing she was just the first step in my strategy to move on from the past, the first person on my list of people to go and see.

In the moments of silence, memories of our shared past flood my mind. Some of them are innocent and some are intimate. Either way, it doesn’t feel right to bring them up between us like some kind of shared secret, not when she’s engaged to someone else. Besides, she might not remember. Relationship-wise, she moved on years ago to something far more serious, far more grown-up than anything we ever had. It’s just me that got stuck.

But it’s okay. Because the more we talk about where we are now, the more I’m assured that this is not the same Libby I used to know. This isn’t the girl I held in my arms, the one who was so full of life and dreams and a thirst of knowledge. This is a grown woman, with stresses and responsibilities just like me. We’re totally different people to who we were back then, and it’s good to realise this. It’s helping me let go. Whatever fantasy I’ve been entertaining all these years, I’m reminded that it’s just that: a fantasy.

Finally, we meet Josh towards the end of the wall. He hasn’t covered much ground, but at least it’s something.

“Oh my God, my back’s killing me,” he groans, stretching out.

“You’re the young one! You shouldn’t be complaining,” teases Libby.

“Yeah, stop whinging,” I tell him, flicking my paintbrush out and slapping a bit of white paint on his arm.

“Hey!” he cries. He hastily swipes back at me with his own paintbrush, but I dodge him. Somehow he ends up painting his own elbow.

“Ah, man!” he cries, and I laugh.

“Boys, boys,” chides Libby.

Josh goes for me again, a bit more aggressively this time, and daubs paint on my wrist.

“Whoa, it’s a draw,” I tell him, holding my hands up in surrender.

“Thank you so much for your help,” Libby interrupts, “I really do appreciate you both giving up your Sunday morning.”

“No problem,” I tell her, “we weren’t doing anything. In fact, our Sunday mornings have just become free, so any more help you need…”

I stare purposefully at Josh, who rolls his eyes slightly. He recently decided to quit kickboxing, something we’ve been doing together every Sunday morning for the past two years, and I’m not happy about it. It’s a big, bad world out there and I’ve had him doing everything from karate to judo to taekwondo since he was eight years old. But he gets bored, impatient, restless. I worry that he’s inherited his mother’s inability to stick with anything.

“Well, I need to start painting the sky next, which is really easy,” Libby says with a cheeky smile, “so if you ever fancy trying your hand with a bit of blue…”

The playful tone to her voice suggests she’s joking, but I can tell there’s also a little bit of desperation in there. She’s not seriously expecting us to give up more of our time, but clearly she feels a little overwhelmed by this project. The problem is that I was only joking, too. I wasn’t really expecting to come back. I was just trying to get Josh to reconsider his Sunday-morning options, using a little reverse psychology. In fact, the idea of coming back suddenly fills me with turmoil. Because the truth is that I’ve enjoyed working alongside Libby today. Far too much. And whatever I might tell myself about how getting to know the older, changed version of her is helping me move on, it’s not. It’s really, really not.

“Umm… yeah,” I shrug, feeling cornered, “I’m sure we can help again. Oh, but, unless…” I look to Josh hopefully, “was there something else we needed to do next Sunday?”

Surely, he’s got to think kickboxing is better than this, I think. Surely. But, of course, he’s not going to let me win. He’d rather drag himself out of bed at nine o’clock every weekend than let me back him into a corner.

“No,” he says, pointedly, “we’re totally free next Sunday.”

“Are you sure there’s not something—”

“Nope. Totally free.”

The charged glare we exchange would be imperceptible to anyone else.

I look to Libby and manage to muster a smile. “Count us in.”

“Oh, that would be great!” she grins. “I promise it’s nothing harder than today. I’ll do all the detailing afterwards, I just need you to slap on a few different hues of blue.”

I take in her brown eyes sparkling with relief, her warm smile, the streak of white paint in her hair… Oh God, what have I got myself into?

At eleven o’clock that evening, I’m sprawled on the sofa, illuminated only by the light of the television. I was looking forward to catching up with the latest episode of The Walking Dead, but I don’t think I’ve heard a word of it. Hollow-eyed zombies parade in front of my vision as I stare blankly at the screen.

I can’t decide whether this morning was a step in the right direction or a disaster. I mean, this is what I wanted, wasn’t it? To build bridges with Libby, to know she’s okay, to feel forgiven. I never dreamed that we’d be able to laugh together again, that we’d build something of a friendship. But I also wanted to let go of her, of the pull I had towards the past. Instead, my memories have been reawakened. They race through my mind more vibrantly, more clearly and with more feeling than ever before.

Really, when I think about it, though, this was bound to happen. Seeing her again was always going to stir up feelings. Perhaps I’m just confused as to what those feelings are. Perhaps I think they’re something they’re not. Yeah, I