The Beauty of the End by Debbie Howells

all I had. “Thanks.” Then I added hurriedly, “So do you.”
    â€œThank you.” This time, her eyes smiled back at me. “So, what did you have in mind?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I felt foolish. “We could have lunch—if you haven’t eaten? Or go for a walk? Or see a movie, if you like. Only I don’t know what’s on, but we could find out. . . .”
    As we walked across the street, I babbled on, until I felt her hand slip under my arm, and the softness of her skin on mine stunned me into silence.
    We settled on Cornish pasties in brown paper bags, bought from a small corner shop, then made our way toward the park. We shouldn’t waste such a beautiful day, April said, her hair glinting in the sun. So we walked, away from the parched flower beds, the chatter of the people sitting in groups on the grass, toward an empty bench under the shade of a tree.
    I’d waited so long for this. Dreamed that it would be as if we were soul mates, who, because of the bond each of us recognized, would instantly confide our innermost thoughts. But it wasn’t quite as I’d hoped. The easy and relaxed banter of old friends, as I thought of us, was absent, conversation stilted, skirting around the one subject that in the end I had to ask her about.
    â€œI was really worried about you,” I said eventually, referring to the last time I’d seen her, just before she moved away. “Before you left, you said you’d write.”
    Her face was a picture of astonishment. “But I did. Several times, Noah. When you didn’t reply, I gave up. I couldn’t see the point.”
    â€œI never got any letters.” I was filled with relief that she’d written, but also anger that her letters had never reached me, as I imagined someone, who could only have been my mother, intercepting them.
    â€œMy mother.” I frowned. “Since my father died, she does crazy things.” Which was true, but if I thought about it, she’d been strange before he’d gone. Today, however, was not about my mother.
    â€œWell, I wrote to tell you I was fine. And to thank you for finding me that time.” She broke off, gazing into the distance, as if remembering. “Anyway, then I wrote another letter when I moved again, to give you my new address.”
    Which made two, at least. Possibly more, their contents to remain forever a mystery to me.
    â€œI never got any of them,” I said hotly.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter.” She shrugged, but her face was turned away from me and I couldn’t tell if she meant it.
    â€œBut it does.” I was quietly furious.
    â€œReally, Noah. It’s okay.” I felt her hand on my arm.
    It wasn’t. So much time had been wasted, time during which I’d believed I meant nothing to her, because someone who thought she’s known what was best for me had taken the decision out of my hands. That it was behind us, in the past, made no difference.
    I continued eating, not tasting the rest of my pasty, only the bitter tang of resentment, in silence until April spoke.
    â€œTell me about your classes.”
    I was still angry, but not wanting to waste the day, I let myself be distracted. It was the last time we spoke of it—for many years. I went on about the course options I’d chosen, the work experience I’d done that summer, the reading list I was ploughing my way through, thinking she’d find it boring, but she listened intently.
    â€œSo, when you’ve qualified, you’ll be a solicitor? Hey! That’s impressive.”
    But I didn’t want to talk about myself. “I always thought you’d continue studying. You always did well—in school. Before. . .” My voice died away.
    I wondered from her silence if I’d pushed her too far.
    â€œIf things had turned out differently, then maybe I would have. But now, I don’t have time,” she said. Her