The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

me. “Like, if we’re feeling depressed or anxious or whatever, or have, like, low self-esteem days or dark thoughts. It’s better for your mental health, isn’t it? To talk, I mean.”

I’m taken aback by his use of language. I think back to Tom’s dad, how this puzzling “depression” thing he had was something none of us liked to mention, as if it was some shameful family secret that shouldn’t be discussed. If one of us was feeling low, we’d accuse them of being “arsey” and tell them to snap out of it. If one of us showed signs of anxiety, we’d tell them to grow some balls. “Mental” was just a word used to insult one another.

“So, do you talk about your problems with your friends?” I ask him. “Like, I don’t know, all this stuff with your mum, or how annoying I am…”

“Yeah, I talk a lot about how annoying you are,” he says with blunt humour, “and, yeah, about Mum, about the stress of school, about girls and sexuality and all kinds of sh—stuff.”

“Sexuality?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, like he’s growing bored of this conversation now, “like, I’ve got friends who identify as bi or asexual or who don’t see themselves as cisgender or whatever, so yeah, we talk about it.”

I raise an eyebrow, wondering which friends these are, and try to remember what cisgender even is. God, how teenage life has changed in the space of a few short years. I’m pleased – and perhaps a little envious – to hear about their conversations. What would it have changed if my friends and I had been able to talk like that? To say how confused or depressed or anxious we felt? I just don’t think we had the words, and if we did we weren’t comfortable expressing them. The stiff-upper-lip attitude of St John’s had only compounded that. It was only once we’d grown up – only really after Michael had ended up in therapy – that he introduced me to the language of feelings and the two of us had started to establish some kind of genuine emotional dialogue. From that point on, we said, we’d be more open and honest about what was really going on inside us. But it shouldn’t have taken one of us being pushed to the brink to reach that point.

“I’m glad you’ve got friends you can talk to, Josh,” I tell him. “Whether it’s them, me, whoever… just make sure you don’t hold everything in.”

“Okay,” he says, stuffing the final marshmallow in his mouth. “And don’t worry about what I haven’t had. You’ve done okay, Dad.”

I smile, feeling a bit emotional.

“Thanks, mate.”

That night, when Josh has gone to bed, I head into the cottage garden seeking a decent phone signal and call Michael. I know he’ll be awake, even though it’s nearly midnight. I’ve been thinking about that promise we made years ago that we’d be more open and honest with each other. And we have been. Much more so. But we both know it’s been a little one-sided, that I’ve always been holding back, and I realise there are things I haven’t told him, things I’d like to say.

“It doesn’t matter,” he scoffs when I tell him.

“Of course it matters. I was a shit to you.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“How can you not remember?”

“I mean, I remember being vaguely aware of this new boy arriving at school and joining their little gang, and I guess I thought Oh crap, now there are four of them, but I don’t remember you ever really doing anything to me. I don’t even think you spoke to me until that day when you stood up for me.”

“We hadn’t spoken before that day. But I did join in with them. I remember hiding your bag, taking pieces of your PE kit… I mean, your dad must have given you a bollocking every time you went home with something else missing. And I hate the fact that I was part of that, even for a while.”

“Jay, Addison started all his crap when I was, like, eleven. By the time you came along, I’d been putting up with it for three years. Your contribution was pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Plus, you’ve more than made up for anything you did back then. I’m not even sure if I’d still be standing today if it wasn’t for you. You were the one who made me get help, who got me to stop drinking, you’re the person I’ve always been able to turn to if I’ve needed to talk.”

“Yeah, but that’s not even true is it.”

I’ve been remembering little things lately, things I’d long ago forgotten or pushed out of my mind.

“When you said that you’d tried to talk to me about what happened that night—”

“You mean the night that Max died,” he corrects me.

I swallow hard. Both of us have recently noticed that that’s how we’ve always referred to it – that night, the night of the fairground, that thing that happened. We’ve agreed we need to call it what it is.

“Yes,” I concede, “the night Max died. When you said I wouldn’t talk about it, you were right. I remember that now. You tried to talk to me about it several times—”

“And you couldn’t. And that’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, because you had no one else to turn to—”

“But that’s not your fault. You can’t fix everything for everyone.”

He sighs.

“Look, you haven’t got it right all the time, Jay, and God knows I haven’t either, but you’ve been the greatest friend I could ever wish for. When I’ve been a complete mess, you’ve picked me up, over and over again. When I’ve got myself in sticky situations, you’ve come to my rescue and bailed me out. When I finally found the balls to confess about my sexuality, you said just the rights things… I don’t think I would have ever opened up about that without you to talk to. I have never, ever doubted that