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

“Seriously, if you never take a risk you’ll never know, will you?”

I say it as if it’s a no-brainer, the simplest thing in the world, but I know full well I’m being a complete hypocrite. When it comes to matters of the heart, I stopped taking risks a long time ago. But if my son realises I’m a lying fraud, he doesn’t show it.

Josh nods thoughtfully, stands up and stretches. “I’m going to bed.”

I watch him go, knowing it’s late and he must sleep but regretting that our moment of closeness has ended.

He stops in the doorway and turns around. “You don’t, like, still have a thing for Libby or anything, do you?” he asks, tentatively.

“God, no!” I hear myself say a bit too quickly. “Why would you say that?”

“I just wondered. Like, ’cause of the way you were talking and laughing and stuff. I’ve just never really seen you like that with a woman before.”

“Well, to be fair, you don’t see me around that many women,” I say.

He scratches at his messed-up hair. “I guess.”

He heads out of the room.

“The big L,” he chuckles quietly. “Oh my God, no wonder you’re single.”

When he’s gone, I put my arms back over my face.

No, I don’t have a “thing” for her, I think, annoyed by his insinuation. What I have is a bit of confusion. A bit of a mix-up in the wiring between my thoughts and my feelings. A bit of a tendency to retreat into the safety of the past. A bit of a hangover from earlier times.

What I absolutely, categorically, definitely do not have for Libby is a “thing”.

Chapter 14

Denial

I remember a guy I didn’t know sitting down next to me at the bar, slapping his hand on my shoulder and yelling something in my ear.

“What?!” I shouted over the chanting.

“I said your mate’s a blast!”

I looked back to Michael, who was standing on a table in the centre of the room, a shot glass in each hand, commandeering the attention of a large group of people. Some of them were friends, some loyal fans, some were just people who saw the posters for Breaking Days and turned up to give the band a go. Michael had already entertained them with his music, but that wasn’t enough for them. Or, it seemed, for him.

“Down it, down it!” they chanted.

Michael knocked the shots back to a resounding cheer. Part of me wanted to go over and tell him to stop, that he’d had enough and it was time to go, but I quashed the urge. I couldn’t do that, not when he was having so much fun.

Some girl with one side of her head shaved grabbed the empty glasses from him and thrust his guitar into his hands.

“Play, play!” the chanting started up again.

“I can’t hear you!” Michael yelled, putting his hand to his ear.

They chanted louder.

“You lot are insane!” he cried, throwing his head back and laughing. “Drinks all round!” he yelled to the bar staff. “On me!”

A loud cheer went up.

I glanced over at Tyler and Theo – Michael’s bandmates – who were leaning further down the bar, swigging bottles of beer, observing his antics somewhat coldly. Through the dark hair that fell in sweaty strands over his face, Tyler met my eye. We all knew that Michael was struggling for money, and that anything he had managed to scrape together he owed to them. Studio time was expensive, as was publicity. There was some serious interest in the band, and it looked like they might be on the verge of a big break, but Michael was ruining their chances. He was unreliable, one minute bursting with the kind of energy, creativity and enthusiasm that would see him writing new material for two or three days straight, and the next flat and despondent, refusing to engage. Tyler and Theo looked like they were just about ready to walk, but everyone knew that without Michael they were nothing.

Michael wobbled on the table, stumbling towards the edge. Strangers’ hands reached out and grabbed him, pushing him back onto his stage, demanding another song. He started to play. As the evening had gone on, his voice had acquired a raw, rasping edge to it that just made it all the better. He was forgetting words, missing the beat, but no one seemed to care.

A petite girl with short auburn hair and a lip piercing jumped up on the table beside him, lifted her arms high in the air and started to gyrate her hips in time with the music, displaying a dragon tattoo on her waist where her black vest top rose up. The crowd whooped and, spurred on by their attention, she tucked herself in tightly behind Michael, snaking one hand underneath his sweaty T-shirt. He grinned over his shoulder at her while he continued to play off-tune, and the crowd whistled and hollered.

“Jesus!” exclaimed the guy who had sat down next to me. “Your mate’s having the time of his life, isn’t he? Good on him!”

I watched Michael. His guitar was now gone – perhaps stolen by one of the crowd – while he entwined himself in an increasingly provocative embrace with the auburn-haired girl, his damp T-shirt being pushed higher over the white skin of his ribs while he clutched at her backside and the crowd hollered.

Yeah, he was having the time of his life. And like the guy said, good for him, right? I knew he wasn’t always like this; that the self-doubt that had plagued his earlier years was still there, that he’d sometimes get so down that he didn’t even want to get out of bed. So, when he was happy like this, exuding confidence, why would anyone want to stand in his way? This behaviour, it was good, wasn’t it? Not the drinking maybe. But seeing him so excited, so full of life… Surely that was a sign he was doing better. It was a little extreme perhaps. A