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

I said it. It was stupid. I’m sorry. It’s been kind of confusing coming back here, there are so many memories and… I think I just… it might not have been the right thing to come back here and—”

“So why did you?” I interrupt, my tone blunter than intended.

“Because you wanted to meet with me,” she frowns.

“We could have met anywhere. You’re the one who said you’d come here.”

“Well, I suppose I thought coming back to Timpton might be good for me. But maybe I was wrong.”

“Well, another week and you’re done, aren’t you?”

I can hear how abrupt I sound, but I can’t stop myself. I stare out at the dark water of the canal.

“You’re the one who came looking for me, remember?” she says, clearly offended.

“But I never asked you to stay.”

I can feel her staring at me.

“Perhaps you would have preferred it if I hadn’t?”

I don’t answer, but I guess my silence speaks volumes.

“You know, I’m sorry you’re going through a hard time, but you’re not the only one with past hurts you want to heal,” she says bitterly, before turning and walking away.

I close my eyes and clench my jaw, wanting to be somewhere – someone – else.

I lose myself in Rachel. I don’t even care about the sound of her housemates drinking and playing music downstairs, I’m just here in this moment. I can smell the alcohol on our breaths, feel my heart racing with anticipation as we pull off each other’s T-shirts. It’s warm in her room and her hands are hot against my back as she pulls me towards her, starts to unbutton my jeans. She pushes her hips against me and I clutch at her bare waist.

And just then I think of what I said to Libby. The tone I used with her.

I concentrate on the feel of Rachel’s smooth, tanned skin beneath my palms. She kisses me with a sense of urgency, running her hands over my chest, through my hair…

Why the hell did I talk to her like that? She’s done nothing to deserve my anger.

Rachel kisses my neck, starts to tug down my jeans.

My feelings towards her are my problems, not hers.

“I can’t do this,” I hear myself murmur.

“What?” whispers Rachel, reaching to unhook her bra.

“I can’t… I’m sorry,” I say, pulling away and buttoning my jeans.

“You what?”

“I need to go. I’m so sorry, it’s not you, I swear. It’s me, I’m… I’ve got stuff going on, I’m sorry.”

She looks understandably affronted.

“God, d’you know what, Jay? I’m done with you!” she says, throwing my T-shirt at me.

“Hey, you’re the one who kept coming on to me, remember?!”

“And you weren’t playing games?!”

I don’t even bother answering her. I’m already halfway out the door.

I’ve never been back to the canal path at night, but tonight I want to torture myself, remember the mistakes I made. As if I ever let myself forget.

I stride through the darkness and the pounding of my trainers against the path reminds me of that night; running fast and yet moving too slow.

Which way? Left or right?

My breath, which that night rasped with the effort of my race, becomes laboured again now, my chest tightening, fighting for air.

Sixty seconds too late.

I quicken my pace, welcoming the surge of pain in my lungs, willing an attack to come on. The lights along the canal path seem to sway and blur, and I remember the sound of shattered glass, a cry of pain, and then blood. Blood on Libby’s face. Blood from a knife sliced across my palm. Blood on the pub carpet from my wound.

Out of the darkness, I see a group of men approaching: three of them, one taller than the others. They’re talking and laughing, a bit worse for wear. They have accents of some kind and I instinctively know it’s the one in the middle who’s their leader.

My heart thumps, desperate to break free from the squeeze of my tightening ribcage. There’s no escape. I put my head down and plough forwards, my breath coming in wheezy, short bursts.

“You all right, fella?” asks the leader when I reach them.

I don’t talk, just stride forwards, but they’re taking up the entire path and my shoulder knocks against one of theirs as I try to pass.

“Hey, watch out!” he says, and I think I see him make a grab for me. Without a thought, I lash out, shoving him away from me and into his two friends, who stumble backwards.

“Hey, what the hell?!” shouts the guy I shoved.

“Leave him, Joe,” says the third man, nervously.

I stride on, hearing them mutter behind me.

“…just asking if the nutter was okay…”

“…off his head on something…”

None of them has an accent, and none of them is the Leader.

As soon as they’re far enough behind me, I stop and lean over, my hands resting on my knees, trying to drag in air.

I climb the steps that lead from the towpath up to the back of the Canal House. Stu spies me crossing the terrace just as he’s closing the back doors for the night.

“You all right, mate?” he calls.

“Is Libby around?”

He takes a step to the side and I see Libby and Irena perched at the bar eating a very late dinner of whatever leftovers have come from the kitchen. They both peer at me, forks in the air.

“Can I talk to you?” I call to Libby.

“What about?” she asks, clearly still annoyed.

“I just want a quick word.”

She looks to Irena, who gives her a little nod. I have a feeling they’ve been discussing me.

Libby slides off her stool with a sigh, making it clear that this is an inconvenience at the end of a long evening.

I wander to the side of the terrace, out of view of Stu and Irena, and she follows me. The outside lights have been switched off and I can only just see her in the darkness. I feel agitated and tense, my heartbeat still accelerated.

“Look, I’m sorry about how I spoke