Page 144 of Begin Again Again

“Why not? You’re not tied here.”

He pulled at the Thomas Electrical logo on his polo shirt. “What’s this?”

“A job you’ve got with your old man? One that’ll be waiting for you if you decide to come home?”

Anger burst inside him—a lit match thrown into alcohol. “I can’t leave Dad in the lurch.”

Derek’s face closed, but fuck him. He didn’t know anything about family. His parents were in jail, his siblings scattered to the wind. Derek Hardiman had never had to bridge the gap between himself and anyone else.

Derek put his can on the coffee table. “Do what you want then. But if your missus ends up fucking fifty surfers, it’s not your dad’s fault.” He stood, pulling his phone from his pocket. “See you ‘round.”

“Hold up.” Byron stood. “So, what do I do? Just chuck it all in and follow her?”

“Yeah, nah, that’d be too easy, wouldn’t it?”

“The fuck’s that mean?”

Derek squared off. For the first time since he’d let those girls steal from him, Byron wondered if he was about to get hit. “What are you doing?”

Derek’s lip curled. “Are you asking? Or are you trying to start shit again?”

“Of course, I’m fucking asking!”

Derek’s arms peeled from his body, his weight shifting forward. Byron tensed. If they went there, he was in for a beating. Derek was near match fit. He, on the other hand, had been drinking for the better part of way too long. But there was no sense in being a coward. “You wanna go outside or what?”

Derek held his gaze for a second, then smirked. “Yeah, I just told you there’s a cunt out there taking pictures, but let’s go into the fucking yard and have a scrap, BT. Great call.”

Byron shook his head, wanting to laugh, wanting to cry. “Might get some good headlines?”

“Better than‘Derek Hardiman punches a cunt out at the strippers’?’”

“Hey! That’s‘Derek Hardiman and some random guy punch a cunt out at the strippers’,thanks, mate.”

“Ah, sorry to deprive you of your pivotal role in the proceedings.”

“Forgiven. For now.”

Derek grinned, then his smile melted away. He put his hands behind his head and stretched. “Look, we might need to get serious here.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Derek headed for the door.

“That might be a bit hard with you leaving,” Byron called.

“Fuck off, I’m getting the port.”

Byron smiled. The port thing had started when they were teenagers. They’d drunk a bottle when they were crashing at their mate Artie’s house. They’d thought it was just red wine and had gotten so shitfaced they’d ended up pouring their hearts out—about girls and football, but also black holes and deep sea diving and the Grizzly Man documentary. It had been such a good time they’d ended up making a thing of it—bringing bottles of port on fishing trips, getting wasted and talking about whatever they wanted—no AFL allowed. But they hadn’t done it since his fuck up. Byron’s gut squirmed. Were they going to talk about that? His thoughts boomeranged to Beth. Was she packing right now? Relieved she’d offloaded him?

“Here, mate.” Derek returned with two wine glasses full of burgundy.

Byron winced. “I’m not supposed to be drinking.”

“Yeah, I noticed there weren’t as many beers missing from the fridge. What’s that for? Your girl?”

“Nah. Well maybe. I was trying to stop for a month. Fucked it up though.”

“We don’t have to drink this?”

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