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

“I’ll have a think,” I tell her.

“Oh, sure, I mean, maybe it would be too much, but just let me know.”

I look at her for the first time and she offers me a little smile. She always tried her best to comfort me. Even when I was too angry and stressed and sad to hear her, she kept trying until I finally pushed her away.

I feel a sudden urge to talk to her now, to share my struggles in a way I never could back then, but just as I open my mouth, a man appears behind her, placing his hand casually on her shoulder. She quickly jumps to her feet.

So here’s her distraction.

“Will this is Jamie, Jamie this is Will,” she says hastily, waving her hand between us.

“Ahhh,” says Will, eyeing me as if I’m the missing piece of a puzzle. I’m the ex-boyfriend who tracked his fiancée down after sixteen years for the sake of a garbled apology she apparently didn’t need. I know what I’d think in his place: that either I’m still in love with her or I’m slightly unhinged. Well, he’d be wrong about that, because I’m pretty sure I’m both. He smiles and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says, politely, although the vice-like handshake makes it clear he doesn’t mean it.

“You too,” I say, increasing my grip in return.

He’s about my height, maybe slightly taller, slim, fit-looking, clean-shaven, with glasses, neatly cut sandy hair and an aura of self-assurance. He’s apparently come straight from work as he’s wearing a well-cut suit, although he’s loosened his collar and removed his tie.

“Libs, I should probably get going,” he says.

Libs?

She offers me an apologetic smile before following him towards the door, where they stand close, chatting. He places his hand on the bare skin of her arm and whispers something into her ear. I look away, anywhere but at the two of them.

“All alone?” I hear a voice ask.

Rachel slides onto the stool Libby’s just vacated.

“You look kind of unhappy,” she says, making a sad, pouty face.

“Nah, I’m great,” I lie, draining the rest of my lemonade.

“Let me get you another drink,” she says, beckoning Stu over.

“Actually, I’m just leaving.”

“Oh, come on,” she whines.

“What will you two be having?” Stu asks, flashing me a look of encouragement.

“I’ll have a beer,” says Rachel, “and…” She raises an eyebrow at me, questioningly.

“I’ll have a beer, too,” I say.

Stu frowns.

“But you don’t drink,” Rachel laughs.

I glance quickly at Libby and Will who are still lingering intimately by the door.

“Well, I think it’s about time I started again,” I say.

It’s actually a relief to chat with Rachel. She knows what’s been going on with me – nothing’s a secret in this place for long – but she’s either too diplomatic or too disinterested to want a conversation about it. Instead, we talk about a bloke she recently dated who turned out to have a fetish for toes, her inability to get used to the British weather, and her lesbian boss who keeps making suggestive remarks towards her. She’s funny, lively, beautiful and, most importantly, superficial and self-centred. That suits me fine; I’ve had enough of the serious stuff in life.

As time slips by and we have another drink, she touches my arm and suggests going back to hers. I smile at her, but I don’t say yes.

“I’m gonna give up on you one of these days,” she teases, pressing her leg against mine.

I take a swig of beer. This is only my second bottle, but after so many years of sobriety I can already feel my muscles warming and loosening, my inhibitions relaxing. “Are you saying this is my last chance?”

“I’m saying you’re making a big mistake,” she says, cocking her head to the side and smiling at me, all eyelashes and glossy lips.

Just at that moment my phone goes. It’s Laura.

“Sorry, one minute, I have to take this,” I tell Rachel, thinking it could be about my dad or Josh. Unable to hear clearly, I slip out the back door and onto the terrace. I’m surprised to find that darkness has fallen. Two of the outside tables are taken by couples having a drink.

It turns out Laura’s just checking in on me. I tell her I’m fine but right in the middle of something. I’ll call her back tomorrow.

When I hang up, I look over at the wall. Even with the outside lights on it’s hard to make out the painting, and I make my way closer. I study the sky that Josh and I helped paint, the blue-green water of the canal, some brightly coloured riverboats painted in Libby’s signature cartoonish style, the winding canal path, the bridge… And when I look closer, I realise one of the boats is Isabelle Blue. I recognise the design, the swirl of the red letters on the side. I spent hours on that boat with Libby, and yet I’d almost forgotten what she looked like. Seeing that boat now though brings it all back – poring over textbooks together, our first – or rather second – kiss, lying on her narrow bed, or in the bow under a blanket…

I rub my forehead.

What’s the matter with me? I’m such an idiot.

“What do you think?”

I jump slightly to find Libby standing next to me.

I hook my hands in my back pockets and avoid eye contact.

“Looks like you’re almost finished,” I tell her.

“Hopefully this week, if the weather holds.”

“And then I guess you’ll be done here.”

“Yeah, and Irena’s doing much better now so… yeah, I’ll be done here.”

I feel a wave of relief wash over me. A week from now she’ll be gone and I’ll have one less thing to deal with.

“Look, I know you have far bigger things on your mind,” says Libby, sheepishly, “but when we were in the van the other night looking for Josh… I just… I shouldn’t have said what I did. About how you could have given us a shot. I don’t know why