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

are getting flushed, just like they used to when she was upset. She pushes her hair behind her ear a little too aggressively so that it misses the hook, falls straight down around her face again, and with that one gesture, so familiar, so unchanged, the years seems to fall away. I stare at her face, the way her brow is furrowed, the set of her pursed lips. She’s wearing her angry face.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come, I just… I’ve been doing some reflecting on my life lately and I’m just trying to tie some things up. I feel like things weren’t left well between us and—”

“What, are you dying or something?”

“No,” I laugh nervously, scanning her face for any sign that she would even care if I were dying.

“So, what? You’re going through an early midlife crisis?”

“No. Well, yeah, maybe. I just know that I didn’t handle things back then the way I should have and I suppose I wish things had gone differently, and I thought that perhaps, I mean I know it’s been a long time, but I wanted to just see you to… I don’t know…”

I’m well aware that I am screwing this up and that I should have prepared a lot better, but I didn’t expect our conversation to go anything like this. I’m thrown. This was such a bad idea.

The guy in the beanie hat gets up from his stool, takes the few steps towards us, touches Libby lightly on the arm.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says dismissively, “he’s just an old…just someone I used to know.”

I know I have no right to feel the jolt of pain this causes in me.

The guy slinks back to his seat, but not before throwing me a warning glance. Wondering again if he’s the husband, I check Libby’s hand for a wedding band, but I’m surprised to find there’s nothing there. I’d always imagined her with a husband and a couple of kids by now. I hoped, for her sake, she’d have that.

“Look, I shouldn’t have come,” I say apologetically.

“I have no idea why you did,” she practically snaps, but then immediately looks remorseful. She stares at her coffee cup as if she’d forgotten it was there, quickly shifts it to the other hand and glances at her palm, which is bright pink from the heat.

I take a step back. “Look, I think I’ve upset you coming here and that’s the last thing I wanted—”

“I have no idea what you wanted. I don’t know why you’ve come. Because, what, you wanted to smooth things over or something?”

“Yes, I guess so,” I nod, as if she’s understanding me now. Smoothing things over sounds the right kind of idea, making things neat, doing away with the horrible jagged edges that result from something being broken.

“Okay,” she says, swiftly hooking her hair round her ear again, “well, consider things smoothed then. I mean, it was all a long, long time ago, so… I mean, really, I honestly can’t believe you came all this way to find me.” She’s talking fast, looking agitated. I think I’ve shocked her by showing up like this. Well, of course I’ve shocked her. What was I thinking? “You know I have an email address on my website, you could have just used that.”

“Yeah, I know, I didn’t like the idea of just suddenly contacting you—”

“So you thought it would be better to just turn up in person?”

“Yeah, it seemed the better option, but clearly—”

“Libby!” calls the man in the beanie, gesturing to the sky.

“Look, I’m not sure what all this is about, but I’ve got to go,” she says, moving towards her paintings.

I hadn’t even noticed it starting to rain. The other artists are hastily taking down their pictures or covering them over with plastic sheets. Libby goes to unhook one of her paintings from a railing, fumbling with her coffee cup.

“Let me help you,” I say, going after her.

“No, it’s fine—”

“No seriously, I kept you talking and now—”

“I was about to pack up anyway. I don’t know why I bother doing these things.”

“Well at least let me help you get them out of the rain,” I say, searching for the painting’s fastening.

“Seriously, it’s fine!” she snaps, hot coffee suddenly erupting from underneath the lid, spilling down her forearm as she searches for somewhere to put the cup in among the sudden chaos of tarpaulins and frames.

I quickly take the drink from her.

“Damn!” She wipes her arm across her T-shirt. “Just have it,” she says, waving the coffee – and me – away. She begins packing up with an angry, frantic energy.

“Yeah, sure, I’m sorry, I’ll just go,” I say, taking a couple of steps backwards. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I just thought… I don’t know what I thought actually, but anyway, I’m sorry—”

I turn to leave, coffee dribbling down the side of the cup onto my wrist.

What have I done? Never in a million years did I imagine it would go that badly. What the hell was I thinking when I decided…

“How’s Josh?”

I turn around again. She’s stopped what she’s doing and is looking intently at me, one of her paintings clutched in front of her like a shield. I feel like she’s throwing me a lifeline, a reprieve from the mess I’ve managed to cause.

“He’s good,” I say, gratefully.

She nods thoughtfully. “Good.”

“He’s doing really well at school. Going into his GCSEs. He’s got a girlfriend.” This last bit’s not exactly the truth but I think it virtually is, or would be if he could summon the courage to ask Chloe out. Plus, on some level, I feel it might connect us, me and Libby, remind us of what we once were, where we came from. And for a moment something does seem to shift. We hold each other’s gaze, searching for something, a connection. Dots of rain cling to her hair. I’m just about to ask how she is, open things up, take us over this bumpy start, but she