The End is Where We Begin

intended.
“Mate, if that worked I wouldn’t have called you,” said Tizzo, scratching his shaved head.
I gave Michael a shake and raised my voice. “Michael!”
His head lolled on his shoulders, his face a deathly pale.
“How much has he drunk or… whatever?” I asked.
“Mate, he was already pretty out of it when he got here. You know what he’s like, I keep trying to talk sense into him, but—”
“Yeah, right,” I mumbled, “sure you do.”
“Just shift him!” a voice barked from out in the hallway.
I cursed and tried to lift Michael up from the sofa, but he was a dead weight. He didn’t mutter or groan or make any sound at all. I dropped him back onto the stained, sagging cushions and put my ear to his mouth. I couldn’t hear anything.
“Turn the light on,” I told Tizzo.
“What light, mate?”
“The light!” I snapped. “The main light!”
Tizzo flicked a switch on the wall. In the harsh light of the unshaded bulb, Michael looked more grey than white. My heart started racing.
“What’s he taken?”
Tizzo shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Bollocks you don’t know!”
“Look, mate, he’s been crazy lately, you know that.”
“Michael,” I called, tapping his cheek. “Michael, wake up.”
I felt a wave of panic wash over me. I put my palm on his forehead, then his cheek. He felt cold and kind of clammy. Cold enough to be dead? I touched his neck, feeling for a pulse. That was it, right? There it was, I was sure of it. But then it was gone again. My fingers prodded, but I couldn’t find anything. Was I even doing it right, searching in the right place?
“I think we should call an ambulance,” I said.
“We don’t need an ambulance, mate, he just needs to sleep it off.”
I studied Michael’s face, hesitating. I’d lost all faith in my judgement long ago. But my heart was pounding and my stomach had tied itself into a knot. Nothing about this felt right.
“We need an ambulance.”
“Oh, come on, mate, calm dow—”
I pulled my phone out of my jacket and dialled nine nine nine.
“Hey, wait a minute, I wouldn’t have called you if I thought you were gonna freak out.”
I ignored him and tried to take a deep breath, knowing I needed to stay calm.
“Mate, honestly,” said Tizzo, reaching out and gripping my shoulder, “you don’t need to call—”
“I’m not your fucking mate!” I yelled, shrugging his hand away.
I looked at Michael and wondered why I had even hesitated.
“I need an ambulance immediately,” I told the operator, barely concealing the panic in my voice.

Chapter 5
Reunion
I’m stood staring, frozen like a statue, when she glances over at me, then has to look again. It’s a classic double-take, almost comical in other circumstances. My automatic reaction is to look away, hope she hasn’t seen me, and then I have to remind myself that I’m the one who came looking for her. The reality dawns that this is it, I can’t hide from her now. I’ve made my choice and here we are.
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity but must only be a matter of seconds; her confused, disbelieving, trying to work out if I’m really the boy she once knew; me like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I force my feet to take a couple of tentative steps towards her. She steps forwards too, more decisively, ignoring the potential customer who’s asking a question about her painting. Even standing right in front of me, she looks unsure, searching my face for confirmation.
“Jamie?”
The first time I try to speak, nothing comes out and I have to quickly clear my throat. “Hi.”
“I wasn’t sure if that was you,” she says, her fingers going to her throat, grabbing hold of the pendant on her necklace as if for safety.
“Yeah, sorry, I’ve probably changed quite a lot,” I say, hooking my hands into my back pockets, wondering what kind of idiot apologises for changing over the years.
“Yeah,” Libby nods, briefly scanning me up and down, “just a bit.”
I laugh nervously. “You too.” I aim to scan her up and down in a similarly nonchalant way, but I suddenly panic about where my eyes are landing: on her chest, her hips, her legs… It all feels equally inappropriate. I quickly look back to her face, trying not to let my eyes linger on the two-inch scar that runs from the side of her left eye to the top her cheekbone. It’s faded with time, but it’s still visible, light pink and slightly shiny. I feel a stab of guilt, knowing that I caused her pain, in more ways than one. I quickly open my mouth to make a comment about how well she looks, enquire after her health, say something friendly to break the ice.
“What are you doing here?” she asks without a smile. She sounds almost confrontational and I’m completely thrown. Stupidly, I hadn’t prepared for that question, and now I wonder what I am doing here.
“I… err… I was wondering if I could talk to you.” I suddenly feel exposed, self-conscious, as if the people around us are listening, just waiting for me to cock up.
“Talk to me? What… you came here to see me?”
“I…well… I saw your website and—”
“You saw my website? What, were you googling me or something?”
I definitely don’t remember Libby being this blunt. And this is definitely not the way our conversations ever went in my head.
“No. Not googling…I mean, yes, but just to try and find out where you were living or—”
“Where I’m living?” She looks mildly horrified, like I’ve been stalking her.
“Actually,” I say, trying to get a grip on things, “do you want to… Are you free to go get a coffee or something?”
She holds up her cup. I notice her hand is shaking slightly.
“Or not get a coffee then. Just, maybe talk—”
“I’m sort of busy,” she says, glancing at the paintings.
“Yeah, of course.”
“What is it you want? Why are you here?” she asks. Her cheeks, her neck, the base of her throat