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

that once, but even at his age I always needed my time alone, my space apart from the world. He can’t seem to go an hour without being on social media, commenting on someone else’s life, sharing details of his own. Maybe he’s just typical of his generation. But I think it’s also in his genes.

His mother was very outgoing, very extrovert. Her threshold for boredom was non-existent, as evidenced by the fact that her infatuation with her newborn infant burned out within a matter of weeks. She loved being the object of gossip and revelled in the scandal of her pregnancy. Josh brought her all the attention she desired, and in those early weeks I felt my son belonged more to her gaggle of friends than he did to me. But as everyone else’s interest in the baby died down so did hers. And then she was off chasing the next thing that would make her centre stage. When I first met her, I thought she was fearless and uninhibited, and I was fascinated and perhaps a little in awe. Later, I realised she was needy and desperate, and her vulnerability made her more human to me. It took a little longer to realise she was completely and inexcusably self-centred, but by then it was too late.

So, no, maybe my son’s not so much like his mother after all. Maybe he has her better parts – her sense of adventure, her air of confidence, her zest for life. But he has none of her selfishness, none of her clawing need for approval. He enjoys attention, but he doesn’t rely on it. He likes to be heard, but not to the exclusion of others. Perhaps my introverted genes have balanced out her more dramatic ones. Perhaps, somehow, out of the mess that was us, we created something that was just right.

Anyway, when I walk in from work and find Josh lying on the sofa texting, Snapchatting, WhatsApping or whatever else, I’m hardly surprised.

“All right?” I ask from the doorway.

He makes some kind of non-committal noise without bothering to look up.

The TV’s on, even though he’s not looking at it, as are the lights, despite it being a bright summer’s evening. Aren’t today’s teenagers meant to be concerned about the environment? I flick the light switch off and bite my tongue, determined not to start the evening by making a fuss about his waste of electricity. Or the mess he’s created by leaving plates, glasses, crisp packets and biscuit wrappers around the lounge. Or the fact that the washing I asked him to put away is still sitting in a pile on the coffee table. What helps me restrain myself in these situations is the guilt I feel at leaving him to his own devices almost every day of the summer holidays while I work.

“I’m gonna jump in the shower,” I tell him, already stripping off my T-shirt, “can you get some water boiling for dinner?”

He smiles, but it’s not at me. It’s at his damn phone. But it isn’t the smile that usually spreads over his face when he’s texting – that of a sniggering schoolboy, the one that tells me he’s exchanging rude or snide remarks with one of his mates. It’s a soft, contented smile. I have a feeling it’s Chloe.

“Josh?”

“What?”

“Water—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I’m about to walk away when my curiosity gets the better of me.

“Who are you chatting with?”

“What?” he asks, glancing up for the first time. “No one. I mean, just, you know, friends.”

He’s lying, I know. He looks shifty.

“Put that washing away please,” I say, heading for the bathroom, knowing I’ll get no more out of him.

According to Josh’s friends, I’m meant to be the laid-back, lenient, easy-going dad, since I’m about fifteen years younger than most of their parents. I’m meant to be the cool dad, the one that lets Josh get away with things they’re not allowed to, the one who’s more like a friend than a parent. Evidently, I’m not that dad, which they find highly amusing. They rib Josh about it all the time – the way I lay down rules, monitor his homework, correct his grammar. In front of his friends he takes it in good humour, shaking his head despairingly and muttering about how lame I am. But when we’re alone it’s another matter. Nothing causes more arguments between us than me “doing my anal parenting thing”.

“Why can’t we just eat in front of the TV for once like normal people?” Josh complains, slumping into a kitchen chair.

“The amazing thing about on demand, Josh, is that you can watch what you want when you want,” I tell him, sliding two bowls of pasta onto the table, “which means you’re not missing anything.”

“Seriously, we are, like, the only family I know who never eat dinner in front of the TV.”

“We are like them? You mean we resemble them?”

I know this is going to antagonise him, but I’m easily irritated tonight. I’ve been going in circles in my head all week, dissecting last week’s encounter with Libby, feeling increasingly angry at myself for the rubbish way I handled it and sad about the outcome.

Josh tuts. “I mean we are the only family I know.”

“Really? The only family you know? Somehow I can’t imagine the Stapleton-Porters sprawling on the sofas at mealtimes.”

“Actually, they do. Well, not her parents maybe, but last time I had dinner at Chloe’s, we ate in the games room in front of the telly.”

“That’s because you were about nine the last time you ate dinner at Chloe’s.”

“No, I wasn’t. It was, like, a year ago.”

“What’s the games room anyway? Where they keep the billiard table?”

Josh rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Dad, it’s where they keep the billiard table. It’s right above the servants’ quarters.”

I like to tease Josh about Chloe’s family being rich, mainly because it seems to annoy him, but also because it’s a way of venting my envy. It’s not so much their wealth I’m jealous of; in reality,