Page 141 of Begin Again Again

The phrase came to him like a coin in a magic trick. “So you need to begin again, again.”

Beth’s smile transformed her face, made her so beautiful it hurt. “You remembered.”

He stared at her, the first girl he’d loved since… ever. “What are you trying to find in Perth?”

She blinked, a bright tear splashing down her cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll get it when I see it.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then I’ll regret not trying.”

Byron pulled on his boots and stroked the cats goodbye. “Talk soon,” he said, not sure if he meant it.

“Where are you going?”

To get drunk. “Home.”

“Can I call you?”

“If you like. See you later, Beth.”

“Don’t,” she called after him. “Just give me a—”

He slammed the door on her sentence and moved through the sunlit garden to his Hilux. It didn’t matter what she wanted to ask. Everyone was gone. Now it was his turn to disappear.

Chapter 22

Byron’s house was dark, flat in the way that said it was empty. The last of his hope that Sal would still be there slipped away. When the fuck would he see them next? Would they even pick up if he called?

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. It, like Beth, could wait until tomorrow. He opened the fridge door and sighed with relief. The whole way home he’d been sure he’d open it and, against all logical consistency, find it empty. But it wasn’t empty. Brown bottles of Little Creatures gleamed alongside fat cans of Young Henry. There was a colourful six-pack he’d never seen before, Panhead India Pale Ale. He checked the back and found they were 6.7 percent.

“… and we have a winner.” Byron popped the top on a can and drank without tasting. Derek wouldn’t mind—they were always drinking each other’s shit. As long as he replaced it, all was fine. He tilted the can up, drinking deeply. He intended to stop, but then he didn’t. Instead, he let the beer funnel past his mouth and into his throat as though he was back racing pints at The Albion. He was down to the last inch when someone cleared their throat. “Afternoon.”

Byron jumped a mile. He threw up his hands in a karate pose, Panhead slopping down his front and onto the floor. Derek, sitting at the kitchen counter, didn’t move a muscle. “Sorry.”

“Fuck me, how long have you been there?”

Derek raised a brow and Byron took that to mean the whole fucking time.

“How come I didn’t…?” Byron shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

He put his now-empty can on the counter and collected the sponge. He could feel Derek watching him as he mopped the floor—probably wanting to tell him to use paper towels. He was weird about shit like that. Weird about a whole bunch of things the media never would have guessed. He stood, holding the sponge like a threat.

Derek’s face was unreadable. “You right?”

Oh, fuck you, Hardiman.

“I’m fine.” He threw the sponge at the sink and to his relief it landed. Fuck knew what he would have done if he’d missed—cried probably. Or punched a hole in the wall. Anything to get that calm, flat look off Derek’s face.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

Byron had a flash of certainty. “You wouldn’t be leaving by any chance?”

Derek looked taken aback. “How’d you know?”

“It’s the fucking day for it.”

Byron headed back to the fridge and grabbed another Panhead. Derek stared at him as he went. Journalists were always calling him ‘inscrutable’ and ‘intimidating.’ Byron didn’t think of him like that, but he could admit Derek was fucking eerie when he wanted to be. His eyes were dark, almost black, and he didn’t blink nearly as much as you thought he should. When he stared at you, you wanted to look away. It took a lot of effort to hold his gaze now.

---