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

online gives me longer to think of witty things to say.”

She laughs, suddenly more at ease. “Okay, so you’re not as funny and I’m not as pretty… that makes us more even.”

“No, you are… you’re… I mean, you’re really pretty,” Josh mumbles, unsure whether to look at her face or his shoes.

Becky looks like she could burst with happiness. I feel a flood or pride and think that I could probably learn a few things from my son. Where did he get the confidence to put himself out there like that? Where did he learn to swallow his pride and say what he feels? I’m not happy about the stunt he’s pulled today, but he’s clearly able to take a risk where matters of the heart are concerned and that’s a good thing. And I feel a little calmer in the face of his competence.

Becky looks over her shoulder and beckons over a woman standing a few feet away.

“This is my mum,” she smiles.

Becky’s mum is also tall, very slim and looks about fifty. She greets Josh with a smile, her eyes creasing at the edges.

“This is my dad,” mumbles Josh, less enthusiastically, gesturing vaguely towards me.

Becky’s mum eyes me with surprise and then holds her hand out to me.

“Becky thought I was being too overprotective,” she smiles with a roll of her eyes, as if we’re in this together, “but I said there was no way I was letting her travel from Reading to London on her own, not at this age, and meeting someone online… well… you can’t be too careful, can you?”

I shake her hand.

“No,” I say, catching Josh’s eye, “you really can’t.”

We all stand in silence for a moment.

“So,” says Becky, smiling a bit more confidently at Josh, “I thought maybe we could go get some lunch?”

Josh looks quizzically at Becky’s mum and then at me, as if he’s not sure how all this is going to work.

“Oh, I thought I’d just… you know… potter around here for a bit,” says Becky’s mum quickly, looking around as if wondering how to occupy herself for an hour in Accessorize and Boots.

“And didn’t you have somewhere important to be at three o’clock, Dad?” asks Josh.

I check my watch, thinking I’ve got plenty of time. I can hang around here, stay close. It’s not the greatest part of London: too many strangers, drug pushers, groups huddling suspiciously in corners. I can get a coffee, accompany him home…

But he’s staring pointedly at me, and I know these fears that seem to be escalating out of control are mine to deal with, not his.

“Yeah, I guess I should get back really,” I say. “You’re sure you’re okay making your way—”

He glares at me.

“Right. Keep your money safe and text me,” I say, fighting the urge to drag him home.

But the tiny smile he gives me as I tear myself away makes it clear my pissing off and giving him his own space is very much appreciated.

Later that day, I wait on grass so bright green and springy it barely seems real. I stand beneath a large oak tree, watching people arriving at the crematorium, stepping out of their cars in dark suits and dresses. My stomach turns.

You have to do this, I tell myself, you just have to.

But I don’t move. I don’t want to face what lies ahead. I want to walk back to my van and drive home.

“You okay?” a voice asks.

I turn to see Michael approaching.

I shake my head slowly. I’ve worked my way through an entire packet of paracetamol this week and I still can’t shift the pulsating pain in my temples.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I tell him.

He sighs, watching the mourners. “There’s no right way.”

“I don’t know what to say, what to do.”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Michael. “What’s important is that you’re here, that you say something.”

I nod thoughtfully.

“Come on,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder and taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

There’s a figure crouched in front of the gravestone, a grown man with a broad back and hairy arms. I still can’t understand how he got that way, how he grew upwards and outwards without my even knowing.

Michael clears his throat. “Tom?”

Tom stands up, his eyes darting between Michael and I as if he’s having exactly the same thoughts as me: who are these men?

“Fuck me,” says Tom, eyeing Michael up and down. “What happened to that prissy little choir boy I once knew?”

Michael smiles. “Some cocky kid introduced him to metal music and Jack Daniel’s. It was a slippery slope from there.”

Tom laughs, pulling Michael in for a hug.

They swap life stories – over a decade of love, loss, achievements and disappointments summarised in a few minutes – but it’s just background noise to me. There’s a slight chill in the air, and the day seems to have a strange dreamlike quality. We’re boys, but we’re pretending to be grown men. We’re standing at a graveside, but we’re laughing. Nothing feels right or real.

As they talk, I crouch down in front of the headstone, just as I have done in the past. My eyes linger on the chiselled lettering.

Barclay James Macintyre…

I close my eyes, take a breath and open them again. “Hey, Max,” I whisper.

I’ve tried and tried to prepare for what I wanted to say today. But what’s fitting for a friend you lost too soon? For a friend you haven’t spoken to in sixteen years? For a friend you let down? I haven’t been able to come up with anything.

“We’re all here,” I tell him, feeling like I’m stating the obvious. “We all came to see you.”

I can see him in my mind’s eye, watching me, waiting, finding humour in my discomfort, an amused smile on his face. Always, always a smile on his face.

I want to tell him I miss him. That I miss his deep, dirty laugh, his jokes and his self-deprecating wit. I miss his ability to cheer everyone