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

games. What was there to talk about? She, on the other hand, had always tried to be chatty and sociable, unhindered by the teenage awkwardness that had slowly taken hold of me. It was only out of sheer desperation that I’d sat down with her six weeks ago, wondering how I was meant to make small talk with this girl I no longer knew, and who wasn’t like any other teenager. Now, here I was, trying to find a way to tell her how much I liked her, desperate to know if there was any chance she liked me too. But how was I meant to do that? How did anybody ever find the courage?

“Do you want to stop?” asked Libby, staring inquisitively at me. I suddenly realised she must have been talking to me.

“Uh, no, it’s fine,” I laughed, embarrassed. Could she tell what I was thinking? Was it obvious? “Sorry, town and countryside, yeah, let’s do it.”

“No, we’re looking at sports and hobbies,” she smiled.

“Oh, right, yeah. Cool. Okay.”

She laughed. “Have you got something else on your mind?”

For the first time that afternoon we really faced each other, holding each other’s gaze.

Go, go, go! Say it! Now!

“Actually, I… uhh…”

Just spit it out!

My heart was suddenly racing, thumping so loudly I thought she must be able to hear it. My back felt like it was on fire, and I could feel perspiration gathering under my arms.

“I wanted to ask you… err…”

Will you go out with me? Do you want to go to the cinema? Do you like me? Anything! Just say something!

“I’ve been wondering if… err… I really like you.”

I really like you! That’s it! I’ve done it! Oh my God…

“You’ve been wondering if you really like me?” she frowned, looking wounded.

“No!” I practically shouted, realising what I’d just said. “I mean, I do. I do really like you.”

You idiot!

“Oh. Ok-ay,” she said warily, “but what?”

“But nothing,” I said, shaking my head. This wasn’t going well.

“Oh, okay. So, you just—”

“I just like you.”

“You just like me. Oh, good,” she laughed, looking relieved. “I like you too. It’s been nice getting together again after all these years. It’s been such a long time and, actually, I was always convinced you didn’t really like me because you never seemed to say much when we met, so I wasn’t sure if you—” She stopped talking and stared at me, realisation slowly dawning on her face. “Oh! Do you mean you… like… me?”

I felt heat spreading across my cheeks, so hot my eyes started to sting. I wanted to take a sip of water, but I didn’t dare reach for my glass in case my hands were shaking.

“Oh, okay,” she smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. For the first time ever she looked embarrassed and shifted awkwardly on the seat. The silence seemed to stretch forever.

You moron, what have you done?

“Sorry,” I mumbled, “I didn’t—”

“I like you, too,” she said, staring me straight in the eye, smiling.

“You do? I mean… so what, you like me, or you like…”

“I like you,” she said with a giggle.

Shyly, she slid her hand towards me on the table. I stared at the tips of her fingers protruding from the wool of her sleeve. Then I tentatively reached out and placed my hand over hers.

Relief flooded through my body, and suddenly, for the second time in our lives, she leaned in and kissed me.

I remember the order.

“Run and get help!”

I had one job.

Just one job.

I knew that canal like the back of my hand. How many times had I cycled the towpath with Tom and Max? We’d been doing it since we were what, eight, nine? And then there was that summer I’d spent playing with Libby when we were children. We’d explored the woodlands, the meadows, the bridges… How many times had I passed the lock?

And I’d run that towpath. I’d run it so many times that past year. Sure, I might have been failing French, but so what? At Saint John’s, what made me stand out – what made me accepted – was my place on the athletics team and that was something I was working damn hard to keep.

So when we realised we needed help – and fast – who else would have gone?

I remember the thud of my trainers along the path, the pain in my chest as I pushed myself, dragging in the warm summer night’s air, the sound of my own rasping breath. I remember the fear that help would arrive too late, that something terrible would have happened by the time I got back to my friends. But that fear drove me on, surely made me run faster than I ever had in my life. Fuelled by adrenaline and desperation, I felt like I was flying, air rushing past me, my thighs and calves burning. My pockets were light; they’d taken everything we had on us.

Then I remember skidding to a halt.

I couldn’t think which was closer, the Kingfisher pub or the lockhouse. Across the footbridge and down towards the road, or straight on? I set off one way, but then I changed my mind, stopped, searched the darkness trying to get my bearings, started back the way I had just come, but then abruptly changed my mind again and was off once more.

Later, when I ran that same stretch of towpath again and timed myself, I worked out that I wasted approximately fifteen seconds on indecision, and that the Kingfisher was forty-five seconds further away than the lockhouse. So that was a neat sixty seconds of wasted time.

It was the last time I ever ran.

Sixty seconds. That’s all.

But it was sixty seconds too long.

I remember sitting on my bed, my back against the wall, my knees pulled up to my chest. My mind was racing. This couldn’t be happening to me, it just couldn’t. My brain whirred, seeking a way out of this situation. It had to be a bad dream.

I chewed mercilessly