The End is Where We Begin Maria Goodin (best classic romance novels .TXT) 📖

“Stop trying to avoid mine,” I say, surprised by his perceptiveness.

“It is normal to look at that stuff, Dad,” he tells me dismissively, not nearly as embarrassed as I might have expected, “everyone does it.”

“It’s not the fact you’re looking at it that bothers me so much as what you’re looking at.”

He rolls onto his side and peers round the arm of the sofa at me, pointing a finger accusingly. He’s got my number. “We weren’t talking about me, we were talking about you!” he retorts with a self-conscious smile, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

“I mean, some of that stuff, Josh… you know that’s not what girls are really into, don’t you?”

“We were talking about you!” he reiterates. “Let’s talk about you and—”

“’Cause if you think that’s what sex is really like, you’re gonna have one hell of a shock—”

“You!” he shouts, throwing a cushion at me. “We were talking about you and just ’cause you don’t want to answer—”

“I mean the stuff with the cheerleaders?” I say, throwing the cushion back at him playfully. “Seriously?”

“Okay, okay, shut up!” he begs, flipping onto his back. “Although… hang on… that means you watched it!”

“No,” I laugh, “it means you watched it! I just came across it on my laptop.”

Josh clutches his stomach and doubles up with laughter.

“What?”

“Did you seriously not hear what you just said?” he laughs loudly.

“What? That I came across— Oh, grow up! You know what I meant.”

But it seems like my faux pas is the funniest things ever.

“I’m serious,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I’m trying to tell you something here, Josh. You know that’s not how you treat girls, right? It’s not how you speak to them, it’s not what you expect from them—”

“Oh my God, Dad, seriously?! I’m not a complete idiot, you know?”

“Okay, I’m just checking. I just sometimes worry… you know… without a mum around, without any sisters…”

“What? That I’m going to turn into some kind of perv?”

“No! Just… I don’t know. I just thought we should have that discussion.”

“Well, it was great, Dad. Thank you. I feel like I learned a lot.”

I give up and throw a marshmallow at his head. It bounces off the top, onto his stomach and is promptly stuffed into his mouth.

“Anyway,” he mumbles, “you’re not getting out of it that easily. Back to you.”

“What about me?” I ask, feigning memory loss.

“Girlfriends. Why don’t you ever have any? I mean, don’t you get… um… you know… kind of…”

I can hear he’s struggling to spit it out, and I want to help him talk openly.

“Sexually frustrated?”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat that makes me wonder if he’s about to choke after all.

“I was gonna say lonely, but whatever.”

“Oh, right.”

Do I get lonely? I honestly never thought I did. I’ve told myself that I’m too busy with work and parenting and family commitments to have a relationship, that I could never give what would be required of me. But that’s all just been an excuse. I suppose you can convince yourself of anything if you really want to believe it.

“Yeah, I guess maybe I do get a bit lonely sometimes,” I say, thoughtfully.

“So, like, hasn’t there been anyone over the years you could see yourself with?”

Since she left I’ve tried to put Libby out of my head, but even with so many distractions it hasn’t quite worked. In fact, it hasn’t worked at all. I wonder what she’s doing, whether she’s okay after her split with Will, whether she’s found any work… I think about what Irena told me, and I wonder whether it was all true, whether Irena was exaggerating, or whether something got misinterpreted. But then I always decide the same thing; it really doesn’t matter anyway. I made my decision long ago about not wanting any more children, and that’s not something I feel I could be flexible about. A relationship, yes. I can maybe see that now. Perhaps I can see myself being with someone. But I can’t bring myself to want more kids. I just can’t risk that again.

At least, I don’t think I can.

“No,” I tell Josh, “there’s not been anyone I can see myself with.”

We fall silent for a while, watching as some generic ITV police drama comes on. It’s surprisingly liberating to have a limited number of channels instead of the overwhelming choice we have at home.

“I don’t think you should worry, Dad,” says Josh suddenly, “about me not having had a mum around.”

I stare at the police officer sitting in his patrol car and unexcitedly, but stereotypically, eating a doughnut.

“Of course I worry,” I tell him, “it’s not ideal, is it?”

“Not ideal,” he agrees, “but it’s been all right. I feel like I’ve had lots of people in my life who really care about me – you, Laura, Michael, Brenda, Grandad, even though he’s not quite with it anymore. I’ve always felt, like, loved and cared for or whatever. And I know loads of people with two parents who don’t have that. Plus, I think I’ve turned out okay.”

“I think you turned out great,” I smile.

“And I think maybe the fact that it’s just been you and me, and maybe the fact that you’re not, like, nearly as ancient as some of my friends’ parents, I think that means maybe we’ve been, kind of, closer? Like, I can talk to you about more stuff?”

“I hope so,” I tell him, touched. “I know I haven’t always taken on board what you’ve been trying to tell me, like about maybe putting too much pressure on you, or not letting you have enough freedom. I know I should have done better there. But I hope you still feel like you can talk to me about your worries, your feelings…”

“I do. Generally.”

“I know it’s not easy. I know boys especially don’t always think they can talk about things like feelings and emotions.”

“I talk about that stuff with my friends quite a lot,” he corrects