The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin

Author:Maria Goodin [Goodin, Maria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Legend Press

We talk more about our families, our jobs, the changes in Timpton. It feels strange, having an adult conversation with her. We used to talk excitedly about our hopes, dreams and ambitions. Now she’s trying to explain Will’s plan to get an off-set mortgage and we’re lamenting the arrival of a Wetherspoon’s in the town. As we fill each other in on the details of our lives, it all seems so far from what we had once envisaged when we were young and the world was full of possibilities.

She asks about Michael, but I’m careful what I say, protective of his privacy. We also touch briefly on Tom and Max, but there’s not much to say there. I’m not going to tell her about my plan. I don’t want her knowing she was just the first step in my strategy to move on from the past, the first person on my list of people to go and see.

In the moments of silence, memories of our shared past flood my mind. Some of them are innocent and some are intimate. Either way, it doesn’t feel right to bring them up between us like some kind of shared secret, not when she’s engaged to someone else. Besides, she might not remember. Relationship-wise, she moved on years ago to something far more serious, far more grown-up than anything we ever had. It’s just me that got stuck.

But it’s okay. Because the more we talk about where we are now, the more I’m assured that this is not the same Libby I used to know. This isn’t the girl I held in my arms, the one who was so full of life and dreams and a thirst of knowledge. This is a grown woman, with stresses and responsibilities just like me. We’re totally different people to who we were back then, and it’s good to realise this. It’s helping me let go. Whatever fantasy I’ve been entertaining all these years, I’m reminded that it’s just that: a fantasy.

Finally, we meet Josh towards the end of the wall. He hasn’t covered much ground, but at least it’s something.

“Oh my God, my back’s killing me,” he groans, stretching out.

“You’re the young one! You shouldn’t be complaining,” teases Libby.

“Yeah, stop whinging,” I tell him, flicking my paintbrush out and slapping a bit of white paint on his arm.

“Hey!” he cries. He hastily swipes back at me with his own paintbrush, but I dodge him. Somehow he ends up painting his own elbow.

“Ah, man!” he cries, and I laugh.

“Boys, boys,” chides Libby.

Josh goes for me again, a bit more aggressively this time, and daubs paint on my wrist.

“Whoa, it’s a draw,” I tell him, holding my hands up in surrender.

“Thank you so much for your help,” Libby interrupts, “I really do appreciate you both giving up your Sunday morning.”

“No problem,” I tell her, “we weren’t doing anything. In fact, our Sunday mornings have just become free, so any more help you need…”

I stare purposefully at Josh, who rolls his eyes slightly.

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