The Beauty of the End by Debbie Howells Page A

voice was bright, but I liked to think there was regret there, too. “Now that I have rent to pay, I need to work.”
    â€œIt doesn’t mean you never can,” I said more gently. It seemed so unfair that someone so talented should go to waste. “You should think about training while you work.”
    But she’d shaken her head and placed her small hand on my arm. “You don’t get it, Noah. It isn’t always that simple. Not for everyone.”
    * * *
    We met the following day, lapsing into an easier familiarity, then again, the one after that, on a glorious late summer afternoon, the sun hot and the air still, when we walked up Reynard’s Hill.
    Her cheeks were flushed, from the climb, the sun, and I wanted to believe also from being with me. Then as the path leveled out, it was like standing on top of the world, the jagged edge of it softened by bleached grasses and the tiny pale stars that were dried scabious flowers. As we stood there, I felt the last three years fall away. The disappointments, the broken dreams, the hurt, so that I was alone at last, with my goddess.
    â€œI love it here.” Her voice was wistful. And as she spoke, I forgot all about my earlier anger. None of that mattered. She was here, now. It was suddenly so simple.
    â€œI used to think you were a goddess,” I said humbly. “That you were from another world.”
    She turned to me, her eyes huge with astonishment.
    â€œYou didn’t know?”
    â€œI had no idea. No idea at all. Oh, Noah . . .”
    In that exact moment, as I looked into her eyes, saw the flicker of her pulse in the skin of her neck, I knew that I hadn’t imagined it, that she felt it, too, the magic between us that I had always known was there. Then she stepped toward me.
    That was when I leaned down and kissed her. A long, sweet kiss that was everything I’d dreamed of and much more. Her lips were soft, her hair like silk between my fingers, and when she kissed me back, my heart became hers forever.
    â€œFor years, I’ve dreamed of this,” I murmured into her hair. “Only if I’m dreaming now, I never want to wake up.”
    â€œIt isn’t a dream,” she said, reaching a finger to my lips, as we stood for several moments, not moving. Then she took my hand and placed it against her heart.
    But all I could feel was her warmth through her clothes, the soft swell of her breast. My fingers moving, searching, questioning. She didn’t stop me.
    This time it was April who kissed me. Who led me under the trees, where we lay on fallen leaves and very slowly she let me undress her.
    * * *
    It was dark by the time I got home. I crept in, wondering if anyone would be able to tell just by looking at me. As I closed the front door behind me, my mother called out from the kitchen.
    â€œNoah? Is that you? Where’ve you been?”
    As I thought of April’s letters, resentment coursed through me. I prepared to confront her, but then her face came into view, wearing the anxious expression that these days never left her. I couldn’t do it.
    â€œDo you remember that girl, Ma? The one I helped—from my school, a few years ago?”
    My words were tempered, not just by her world weariness but by the knowledge that she wouldn’t understand, that she’d never known how love could truly make you feel. The rush that was joyous, tolerant, impulsive all at once. I knew she’d never loved my father that way. You couldn’t know love and end up empty, as she was.
    I watched her closely, not sure she’d even remember. Her medication meant her brain worked slowly at best—and at her worst, she jumbled words and lost threads, hearing as if through cotton wool. Change had crept up on her slowly, unnoticed, the way it did with people you saw all the time, until the day I’d properly looked, shocked, seeing a stranger.
    A troubled expression flickered across her face.