Page 79 of Begin Again Again

But Beth didn’t feel like a big girl. She didn’t feel like anything unless she was thinking about Byron. She kept dreaming about him touching her, kissing her so hard her mouth bruised.

“You should get back on Hinge,” Lara told her. “You’re young, you’re hot and there’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

That was technically true, but the minute Beth entertained the idea of dating, a slew of hideous memories bobbed to mind. The guy whose profile declared he was six feet tall but turned out to be her height. The podcaster who failed to ask her a single question while he rhapsodised about his work. She’d ditched him after a single beer and she and Dolly shit-talked him on Wine Wives—safe in the knowledge he’d never bother to listen. There was the guy who’d taken her to an upscale whiskey bar and immediately asked her to feel his sleeve. Beth had done so, waiting for the other shoe to drop and with a huge shit-eating grin, the guy said it was ‘boyfriend material.’ She’d been so embarrassed on his behalf she’d drunk nine shots of whiskey. The worst part was that all those fuck-knuckles had been weeded out of dozens—DOZENS—of worse candidates.

Beth didn’t want to risk spending forty-five minutes with another vacuous, jumper-touching, height denialist. She wanted to have fun with someone smart, someone who made her laugh and asked her questions. Someone she didn’t have to try to be attracted to. She wanted to be on a date with Byron Thomas.

Shelving the idea of finding someone else, she redoubled her efforts on the podcast, which she’d given the working title ‘Girl Gangs.’ She took notes and wrote rough scripts for what she hoped would one day make up episodes.

Eight days after she and Byron had last seen each other, Beth got a Facebook message saying she’d been shortlisted for a share house in Richmond. Two girls and a guy, all nice and normal and excited about meeting up. If she got the room, she’d be in a new place before 2021 and hopefully feeling far less stuck. Happier than she’d been in days, she decided to go to the pre-Christmas party hosted by Daisy and Luke from the touch team.

She showed up with a six-pack of Heaps Normal, prepared to leave at the first sign of weirdness. To her delight, it wasn’t necessary. Most of the team was there and they just hung out and ate cheese and talked. There was a post-lockdown giddiness in the air, elevating all of them to higher social competence. Beth couldn’t remember ever laughing so much, especially not sober and with virtual strangers.

A little after midnight, Josh nudged her side. “You getting tired?”

Beth smiled. All night he’d flirted and all night she’d been in two minds about whether she wanted him to. “I am a bit. Why? Are you going to wow me back to life with work chat?”

Josh laughed and they’d done work chat anyway. He turned out to be a senior policy advisor with the Department of Transport.

“If you think the trains are slow, you should see my paperwork,” he said, and she’d laughed. She’d also excused herself to go to the bathroom. He wasn’t creepy, but he was clearly working his way up to something and Beth didn’t want to encourage him. He was good-looking and fun, but hooking up would have just been about putting the middle finger to Byron.

She left when she came out of the bathroom, promising to see everyone at the game on Thursday. As she waited on the street for an Uber, she replayed the evening, Sliding Doors-style, imagining what might have happened if she’d been drunk.

She would have texted Byron to try and meet up and if he’d ignored her, shedefinitelywould have made out with Josh. She’d have been dancing with the other tipsy girls on the table. She’d have snapped when Luke said PC culture had gone too far, instead of recognising a lost cause and changing the subject. She could have slapped someone for touching her ass or messaged Dolly to ask if she missed the podcast. Any and all possibilities seemed likely. She’d been a human hand grenade, throwing herself into social events and letting herself explode. But not anymore. Now that she was sober, she side-stepped problems as she side-stepped prams on the footpath.

That night, safe in her bed, she tried to imagine Josh fucking her. She pictured his arms, his broad shoulders, his cheeky smile. But the images were blurry. Unclear. His body was Ken-doll smooth, his face a whirl of colour. After a few frustrating minutes, she gave in. Byron’s face was rendered in HD, his body as clear in her mind as the house she’d grown up in. She imagined she’d run into him at a club and he was still playing football. She’d flirted with him and he’d invited her into a dark VIP area.

She’d offered—begged—to suck his cock. She stroked herself as she revelled in the humiliation of being used. She imagined him fucking first her mouth and then bending her over a filthy red couch and taking her from behind. Halfway through, his friends would walk in and sit by them, drinking and laughing as Byron ploughed her.

“Look,” he said, pulling her hair. “They’re watching you, you little whore. Can you see them watching you?”

Beth bit her pillow as she came.

Along with ruining her for casual dating, Byron had transferred his fantasies onto her erotic hard drive. She’d never wanted to be watched, but now it was all she could think about—being fucked in public as Byron’s friends—not Derek Hardiman—watched. Sunday dawdled by. Nine days since Byron had refused her offer of a beach trip.

“Has he messaged?” Lara asked while they prepped lamb roast for lunch.

“Yeah,” Beth lied. She couldn’t take Lara’s pleased looks whenever she said that he hadn’t.

Besides, she knew he’d reach out eventually. It might be in six years when he was married and wanted an affair, but men never stayed gone. That afternoon, Beth checked Instagram and found Sal had followed her. Beth’s heart pulsed in a way that had everything to do with their older brother. She followed Sal back and got access to their private account. It was cool in a way that was beyond her—sexy, caption-less photographs and obscure emojis. Sal had a lot of sponsored content, companies that sent them free leather harnesses, lingerie, and skincare stuff. Beth was jealous. Even at the height of Wine Wives, the best brand that ever reached out to her was peach flavoured diarrhoea tea.

She scrolled Sal’s feed, refusing to admit what she was looking for until she found it. A photo of Byron. He and Sal were kids in the image, near identical with big green eyes and light brown curls. The caption read,‘I love you, Big Shark. Whatever you do, you’ll kill it.’

Beth checked the date and saw it was posted almost two years ago. She opened Chrome and typed ‘Byron Thomas’ and ‘injury’ before catching herself. She was jumpy and infatuated enough. She needed to let it go. She exited Sal’s Instagram and deleted the app from her phone.

Monday brought better news. A Christian Not-For-Profit called to tee up an interview for a casual copywriter position she’d applied for.

“Do youwantto write for a Christian magazine?” Lara asked. “What kind of hours are they offering?”

“Three days.”

Lara gaped at her. “How are you going to afford to live on that?”

“It’ll be a pay cut, but…”

The truth was Beth thought it might be fun to work part-time while she focused on Girl Gang. She still had savings and if she got the room in the Richmond share house, she’d manage. When Lara went to the lounge to take a call from her line manager, Beth opened her secret moving-out Google Doc and started calculating a budget. Her phone pinged and she picked it up without thinking.

I’ve been listening to your podcast. You’re really funny.

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