Page 47 of Begin Again Again

“You yelled at me from a car. I’d say that’s one all.”

Beth poked his side. “I wasn’t complaining, just saying you’re not what I expected.”

“You had high expectations of me when you were yelling at me from a moving car?”

“Yeah, I thought you’d put out sooner.”

Byron laughed, properly laughed, and he remembered Sal’s suggestion. “Hey, come to my sister’s burlesque show tomorrow night.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Sorry, what?”

“My sister is in a burlesque show. They’re… a lot. But it should be fun, and I’ve got a spare ticket. Want to come with me?”

Beth’s smile was puzzled but clearly delighted and as he watched her, his chest contracted uncomfortably.Heartburn,he thought as though that made it real. As though he didn’t already know it was because of Beth.

Chapter 9

Beth stumbled home, her mind shooting between what she and Byron had said and how it felt to be held by him, kissed by him, crushed against a rough brick wall by him. She played Black Dog by Led Zeppelin on repeat, setting the music to her memories. Her stomach fizzed as she ran, her heartbeat pulsing in her ears. It had been so long since she’d been spun out on a guy like this, she almost didn’t believe it.

She reached Lara’s street and headed for the park where she’d hung out with Angus. Between her jog to and from the field and the game itself, she must have run ten kilometres, but the idea of food or rest was repulsive. She needed to move and think andfeel. She pulled out her phone and re-read Byron’s first and only text—Told you I’d remember. See you at 8.

She wanted to press it to her heart like a lovesick idiot. Instead, she walked to the empty swing set and sat down. She swung herself back and forward, feeling raw and restless and proud and embarrassed. She wanted to see Byron. She never wanted to see Byron again. She wanted to call everyone she knew and talk about him. She wanted to keep him a secret forever. She swung higher, Charlotte Lawrence blasting in her ears.

How? How was this so intense? Byron was better-looking than anyone she’d been with before, and between Stephen and COVID, ithadbeen a while since she’d dated anyone new, but how—

Then it hit her. If she’d felt like this two years ago, three, five, ten—she would have gotten drunk. She was so used to thinking of alcohol as fun serum, she’d forgotten she’d used it to stabilise. Whenever she was crushed out or having a hard day or feeling much of anything, she’d call Dolly or Lara or any number of drinking buddies and chill her emotions with iced wine. And if everyone was busy, or she didn’t want to talk, she had a few glasses on her balcony, staring up at the sky. This mood—these feelings about Byron—was the first time she’d been infatuated without the use of medicinal mood control since she was seventeen, and it was as disturbing and all-consuming as it felt back then.

Beth swung higher, relieved to have found a cause for her frothing mind. Funny how falling for a guy could still do this to her. She thought she’d learned to safely tread these paths in her early twenties, but here she was coaching herself through them again as a sober adult. At least this was a nice feeling…

The urge to discuss what had happened rose in her again. Maybe she could call Dolly? They’d known each other since school, when talking about boys happened over chips, not cocktails. Maybe she could just ring her and say what was on her mind. Then Beth heard Dolly’s voice reverberating around her kitchen.She can’t sit still and deal with her feelings.

No, she wasn’t calling Dolly.

She focused her gaze on the lavender sky, the bruised clouds and fading sunlight. A week after Dolly’s house party, she’d confronted her about what she’d said. Dolly apologised and they both cried and agreed to put it all behind them, but things were never the same. Then the podcast folded, and everything got worse. Beth missed Dolly like mad, but she didn’t know how to start putting the pieces of their friendship back together. Didn’t know if it was even possible.

She stayed on the swings until her music started to annoy her, then jumped off and headed to Lara’s. When she opened the door, she found she still wasn’t ready for company. She called hello to Lara and Nathan as they sat watching TV and rushed upstairs for a shower. She ran the water as hot as it would go, trying to flay her feelings into a new, more manageable form and when she stepped out, steaming and pink, she felt more human.

She went to Lara’s spare room—her room—and sat on the bed in front of the full-sized mirror. It showed a flushed, naked redhead. Beth opened her towel and admired her body. The lines on her stomach were new enough that they still gave her a thrill. She opened her legs and she saw her face wasn’t the only thing that was flushed.

Beth looked at the closed door. Nathan and Lara were watching The Sopranos and Angus seemed to be asleep. It was a little rude not to go downstairs and say hi, but surely, after all this time she was owed a little privacy?

Beth closed her eyes, running her hands down her neck and cupping her breasts. She pictured Byron staring at her naked body, his jaw hard with single-minded need. She shivered, cunt aching, and an idea occurred to her. She sat up, the thought unspooling like an apple seed, taking root and putting out leaves. She could take them right now—it wasn’t like she had to be up super early. And she could always delete them if they were horrible. She stood, putting in her AirPods and selecting Purity Ring on Spotify. It was time to do another thing she’d never done sober—unless you counted sending a picture of her bra to Gerard Ulysses in year nine.

“Fireshrine” blasting in her ears, Beth shed her towel and tugged on her pink American Apparel underwear. It was sportier than lingerie and less intimidating, she hoped. People said redheads couldn’t do pink, but it depended on the shade. Bright, taffy pink suited her. She arranged the cotton triangles, so her breasts sat at symmetrical angles and her nipples aligned. She’d ruined many a bikini selfie by not checking boob balance before taking the picture. Beth pulled her underwear up, so it sat high against her stomach and showed most of her ass.

She crept to the bathroom and smoothed on moisturiser and CC cream. She dotted concealer over the zits on her chin then decided to go for broke—drawing in her eyebrows and applying almond oil mascara, peach eyeshadow and a touch of diamond highlighter. She knew she was undermining her shower, but it would be worth it for one spectacular nude. Beth slicked Fenty Glass Bomb over her mouth and applied a spritz of her precious Babydoll perfume for no reason whatsoever. Studying herself through her phone camera, she found that the best lighting in the spare room was to the right of the bedside lamp. She looked good—petal fresh and glowing, with none of the redness that usually chased her around after exercise.

She lay back on the bed and snapped a few pictures. Upon re-inspection, the angle gave her a hundred chins. She needed her selfie stick, but she’d donated it because Stephen laughed his ass off whenever she used it. Vowing to buy a new one, Beth arranged herself on the carpet in front of the mirror. If she kneeled and arched her back at the same time, you could see a good amount of tits and ass. She snapped about a hundred photos, adjusting her smile and her expression every few seconds. When she was done, she launched herself onto her bed to choose the best picture.

As usual, the first was the best. Her eyes were wide, her smile natural and her body lithe and toned. She opened Facetune and applied a lighter filter and a contouring effect before smoothing the skin under her eyes and across her cheeks and chin. Zooming out, she saw she’d gone too far and given herself a ‘cursed Victorian doll’ look. She restored the original image and tried editing with a lighter touch.

You don’t have to send the picture, she reminded herself as “Lofticries” surged in her ears. But she knew she would. She wanted to. Just thinking about Byron unlocking his phone and staring at her semi-naked body made her fingers tremble. When she was done editing, Beth resaved the image and opened it in the photo app. She had it—one spectacular nude; the first she’d taken in years. Beth opened her text chain with Byron, finger hovering over the ‘image’ icon. Was it appropriate to send this? Would he think she was a freak?

Oh, come on, what guy has ever complained about being sent nudes? And this isn’t even a nude. It’s an underwear pic. You could put it on Instagram.

But she wasn’t putting it on Instagram. She was sending it to Byron. What if he wasn’t into it? What if he was and showed someone?

Like, who? Derek Hardiman? They don’t even seem to like each other. Besides, I’m sure Football Jesus gets sent more explicit DMs before breakfast.

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