Page 115 of Begin Again Again

Guy from your rugby team?

How the fuck did he know that? She typed back four question marks.

The way he looked at you. It’s a shit date. Stop wasting your time and come fuck me.

It’s not a shit date, she typed back.

So why are you messaging me?

Beth bared her teeth at her phone.

Where do you get the balls telling me to stop wasting my time? No one has wasted more of my time than you.

True. Let me come to your place and make it up to you.

Before she could reply he sent another picture. The air rushed out of her lungs. It was his hard hand wrapped around his cock.

The last time I had you in my bed, you were screaming for me to fuck you harder. You told me no one ever fucked you so good in your life.

Beth flushed and for the first time wished she had more inhibitions in bed.

Do you feel that way about touch rugby dickhead? Are you gonna have that with him?

“No,” Beth whispered. “But…”

Just see me and I’ll make it all up to you, I promise. This is stupid. We should be together. Let me come over.

Beth looked at her reflection. She was smiling wider than she’d ever seen herself smile. Why deny it? Why pretend he didn’t have a point? When it came to Byron Thomas, she had never had a plan, only her instincts, and all her instincts were screaming at her to see him tonight. She drew in a deep breath and wrote her message. Writing to him felt as good as eating the doughnut you’d been ignoring all day.

No more messages. If you’re serious, meet me at 121 Palm Beach Road, St Kilda at 12am.

His reply came a second later.

See you at midnight, Bethany.

Chapter 18

Beth’s new temporary home had its own bar. A long white marble table with adorable white leather stools and three giant shelves of crystal tumblers, liquors, champagne flutes and polished steel cocktail shakers. It took up a quarter of the enormous living room and when Beth went behind it, she found a dishwasher, a sink and a mini-fridge full of Strangelove tonic water, organic fruit juices, and bitter lemon. The owner, an older woman who introduced herself only as ‘Mrs J’, told Beth she could drink anything she wanted.

“As long as you feed the cats, I don’t care if you try my clothes on.”

Seeing as Mrs J had a wardrobe full of Chanel and DNKY, Beth was still considering it. But not as much as she considered mixing a cocktail as soon as Mrs J walked out the door. It wasn’t that she wanted a drink, it just seemed such a waste not to make one. She missed the athletics of cocktails, the pretty bottles and special glasses, the syrups and herbs and tonics and occasional bursts of flame. The feel that alchemy was taking place. Transformation in a glass. So far, she’d controlled her urge to shake up a dark and stormy ‘for practise,’ but it was now ten past midnight and Byron hadn’t arrived—the temptation to mix something was mounting. She stood and paced to the wide dark windows. She couldn’t see a thing. Her phone buzzed and she snapped the screen to her face like a sharpshooter.

Thanks for tonight. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, sexy.

Beth winced. It had been pretty easy to end her date with Josh. She’d come out of the bathroom and told him she had an early morning and should head off. He’d smiled and said that sounded good because he had a personal training session at 7am. She’d kissed his cheek and they’d caught separate trams home. She’d spent most of the ride compiling a ‘let’s be friends’ text, but decided to send it in the morning. It would be less confronting than right after the date. But now she had a ‘let’s do it again’ text, complete with a ‘sexy’ of all things. Josh was keener than she thought. A transition back to easy-going rugby teammates might be impossible.

Fuck.

Beth walked to the bar. She’d just hold one of the heavy, crystal glasses. No harm in that. She spotted a huge bottle of Adolo Ouzo and her stomach turned. The last time she’d seen it, she’d been doing shots with Dolly and Ginnifer, Dolly’s new housemate. They’d all thrown up that night. Beth was pretty sure she and Ginny had kissed too. She hoped not in that order. They never talked after that, never went out for quesadillas like they’d said they would. The hot glue of their friendship burned up in the light of day, the way it had with a hundred people BETH! had drunk with. Funny how her brain still thought it was a great idea; drinking to smooth things over—the big Hail Mary pass instead of the smaller, more accurate one.

She walked to Mrs J’s kitchen and found Muffin, the ragdoll cat, sleeping in the windowsill. Muffin jumped down and rubbed herself against Beth’s legs. Beth picked her up and carried her to the kitchen counter. She’d make Tulsi tea, and if Byron wasn’t here in fifteen minutes, she’d block his number and go to bed. She flicked the kettle on, and Muffin hissed, arching out of her hands. She hit the floor like a ninja and streaked toward the living room. Beth’s heart jumped. Was he—

The doorbell chimed.

“Fucking hell.”

Beth walked to the entrance like a woman in a dream. Muffin was waiting, pawing at the door. Byron knocked again and she scarpered, taking Beth’s heart with her. She stared at the white panel of wood. One twist of the knob and he’d be with her, in this new space. He knocked again, gently. As though he knew she was there and didn’t want to scare her. Beth rocked on her toes, wanting to go and needing to stay. Her phone buzzed.

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