The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  "How can you not want more than this?"

  At one point, Brandon would have wanted anything but this, because although this bleak apartment isn’t the caravan, it’s not much different. Everywhere I look, I see the things Brandon so desperately wanted to escape. The empty bottles, the dishes piling up. The fighting…the loneliness. He deserves so much more than this, and I just wish I could make him see it.

  A strand of dark hair falls over his forehead when he drops his chin to his chest, and there’s a tense moment of silence before his head lifts, his sad gaze locking with mine. "Because those are the cards I was fucking dealt," he whispers.

  With a shake of my head, I push up from the couch and reach to skim my fingers over his arm. "Stop wallowing in it."

  "Every time I close my eyes, I see him.” His brows pull together, and he drags in a ragged breath. “Every single thing I do makes me feel guilty because Con’s not getting to do it. So, I'll take the damned punches, and give them right back, because it makes me feel better.” His eyes grow cold and hard, and I can almost feel the hate in the room, seeping through the air like a toxic fog. “If you want to move on—if you can just let him go, be my guest, but I can't."

  Anger flares in my chest. It’s not that I want to move on, but that I must. I tried wallowing in it when I lost Connor. There are days I long to die right along with him, but Connor wouldn’t want that. Not for me. Not for Brandon. And if Brandon thinks this loss is harder on him than me… If he thinks I’m simply letting Connor go the way someone would a used pair of jeans. I died the day Connor did. Every part of my heart and soul crashed and burned, but Brandon wouldn’t know that because he didn’t see it. Because he ran, leaving me to grieve not one but two of the most important people in my life.

  I grit my teeth and inch toward him, fists balled and muscles tense. "Don't you dare do that!" Before I realize what I’m doing, my palms smack his chest, and I shove him. "Don’t you act like I'm just letting him go, Brandon."

  He pushes off the kitchen counter and starts out of the room while shooting a dismissive look over his shoulder. "Don't try to fix me, Poppy. You'll be bitterly disappointed."

  I step into the hallway after him, rage igniting inside me. “Like that’s anything new!” I shout, regretting the words the very moment they leave my mouth.

  There’s the slightest hiccup in his steps before he bangs a palm against the wall and disappears into his room with a slam of the door.

  Anger pulses through me, crackling and popping like a live wire as I pace the living room, then slam my fist against the heavy punching bag. The bag barely budges, so I punch it again and again, fighting tears. Fighting the sinking feeling that has weighed me down for almost a year. Fighting desperation.

  I just want some sense of normal, some semblance of happiness. I long for the days when he was just Brandon, and I was his possum, the days when things were so much less complicated.

  He stays in his room for over an hour before I finally give in and slowly push open the door.

  The blue haze of twilight creeps in through the window, illuminating his silhouette on the edge of the bed, where his head hangs to his chest, and he’s looking at a picture frame clutched in his hands.

  Brandon 'The Breaker' —so indestructible, yet so utterly shattered.

  Without a word, I crawl onto the bed and settle behind him. Sadness creeps in when I notice the photograph in his hands is one of him and Connor.

  I peer over his shoulder at the picture of the only two men I’ve ever loved.

  "I hated every minute of training,” Brandon says. “Only stayed because I refused to leave him."

  Connor only joined the army because Brandon did. They had always taken care of each other.

  I take the picture frame from his hand, trying to forget the pain and remember anything else. "I bet Connor a hundred quid you wouldn't last three weeks."

  "Ye of little faith.” Brandon snorts, then shakes his head. “I'll give it to you; I was close to walking out when they made us sit in that muddy ditch for two days in the piss-wet rain. But Con was determined…"

  I rest my chin on his shoulder, sucking in the scent of soap and sweat, the unmistakable, unchanging smell of Brandon that automatically makes me feel at ease. It’s familiar—he’s familiar, and I realize I still have some part of my life right here with him. "We don't have to let him go, Brandon,” I say. “Just the hurt. But never him."

  "I was screwed up long before Connor died. That just… It pushed me over the edge. I'm angry at everyone and everything." He turns, resting his forehead to mine while his callused fingertips brush my cheek. "Except you."

  Long moments pass, and I find myself leaning into his touch. His rough fingers continue to trail over my face, and the longer they do, the more I lean into him because it’s safe and as close to home as I’ll ever get. "I don't want to fix you, Brandon. I just want to understand you." Tears blur my vision, so I close my eyes.

  "Trust me, you don't," he whispers.

  "I know you, Brandon." I trace a finger over his shoulder. "I know you."

  There's a beat of silence before his thumb brushes my bottom lip. "God, I wish I was still that guy you knew, poss. I really do."

  "You are," I whisper. "Deep down, you are."

  And I believe that.

  I have to believe that.

  36

  Brandon

  “Deep down, you are,” she says. And there’s such misplaced hope in that statement.

  "That guy wouldn't have kissed you, poss."

  "That guy did kiss me once." On an exhale, her gaze drifts to my mouth, and her eyes close. "Besides, it was just a kiss, Brandon.”

  "This is you and me. There is no 'just.'"

  A sad smile touches her lips. “But we've always been just friends."

  I can still picture the broken expression on her innocent, sixteen-year-old face as I uttered those exact words to her. We’re just friends. I can practically feel my chest aching the same way it did then. The truth is, we were never just friends.

  I felt things for her that I had no right to feel, because Connor loved Poppy, and I loved him. So I stepped back and watched destiny take its course, even though I wanted her more than anything else, even though I was too selfish to ever let her go completely. And every day I felt like the world's biggest prick because I was in love with my best friend's girl. Every day, I looked at her and pretended I felt nothing. In a way, nothing has changed.

  Connor's ghost is more of a deterrent than he ever was in life.

  In the end, we all lost. Poppy and I, we're all that's left of something so beautiful and so vital to my survival. I need her.

  "No,” I say. “I loved you enough to be your friend. Even when it hurt." I take her chin in my hand, turning her face to mine. She won’t look at me. "I've always loved you, Poppy, and you know it." On instinct, I sweep a thumb over her bottom lip, hating myself when I remember how perfect her lips felt against mine all those years ago. "You bring me peace when all I know is war.” My hand drops, and I move closer, an instinctive pull dragging me in. “You always have."

  Our lips graze, and a calm washes over me—one only found in the quiet of snow-covered woods. Silent and utterly still. I pull her closer, needing every part of her while the voice in the back of my mind screams how wrong this is, but it’s too late. Rational thought has given way to the simple need to survive.

  And that's what Poppy feels like, survival.

  A soft sob passes from her lips to mine before the kiss deepens. We're trapped in this swirling vortex of guilt and anger, twisted love and desperate need.

  The kiss grows into something desperate, as though we're both fusing together while fracturing apart. The guilt eats away at me like a parasite.

  If I were a better person, I would push her away.

  If I truly loved Connor, surely I couldn't do this, to him—to her. But Poppy has always been too easy to get lost in.

  Whatever sliver of my worthless s
oul is left, I will hand it over to her willingly, for this tiny piece of serenity and futile salvation.

  Before I know it, I have my hands on her hips and shove her back onto the mattress. She’s so small beneath me, so fragile, and I crave her in a way that borders on insanity. I reach for the bottom of her shirt, leaning in to kiss her again, but she slides a hand over my mouth, halting me. The trance shatters, and, once again, I feel like an arsehole.

  "I'm sorry." I drag a hand down my face, shame crawling over me.

  Poppy is like holy ground that I just desecrated.

  The mattress dips, the silence deafening as she walks from the room and closes the door.

  There are some things a man can never take back, some things that have the potential to be destructive, and this is most definitely one of them.

  37

  Poppy

  The unmistakable taste of Brandon’s lips rests on mine, and like a lovely poison, it leaves me dizzy.

  The second his mouth touched mine, I lost all hope of pretending we have never been anything but friends. That kiss felt like a moment my entire life had been leading up to when it should have felt like the moment my life derailed. After all these years, I’m right back to where I started, only this time, as Brandon’s best friend’s widow.

  My heart plummets to my stomach like a stone, sinking deep and hard until the weight of it brings me to the couch. I don’t know what I’m doing.

  Memories flash through my mind like the projection of old, tattered film, and I bury my head in my hands.

  Brandon O’Kieffe wasn’t just some guy—he wasn’t just Connor’s friend. For all of my life, he had been my secret. My secret first love and secret first kiss, and the only person, aside from Connor that I had ever slept with. A person I had felt so guilty for loving that I never once breathed a word of it to anyone for fear of what it may ruin.

  The bedroom door creaks open, and Brandon comes down the hall, cramming clothes into his gym bag. He doesn’t even glance at me when he grabs the keys from the table and leaves me alone in his house.

  “Shit,” I breathe, dragging my hands through my hair and flopping back against the sofa cushions.

  The muffled bickers of two people arguing come through the window, but I’m too focused on the awkward conversation I’ll inevitably have this afternoon to be bothered by it until someone bangs on the door.

  “Open the door, Poppy!” Hope shouts from the other side before the handle rattles. “I saw the pikey on the way out. Kicked him in the shin for being a ripe dick.”

  I go to the door, and the second it swings open, Hope places one designer heel over the threshold, then halts. Her gaze swings from one end of the living room to the other, and the scowl on her face deepens to a disgusted snarl. “Dear God, and I thought the caravan was questionable.”

  “How in the world did you find me?”

  “Nice to see you, too.” With a roll of her eyes, she steps inside and shuts the door. “Do you have any idea how many calls I had to make to find out where an illegal fight ring was in London?”

  “How did you…”

  Her arms cross her chest. “So, you were drunk when you called?”

  “Yes. I got drunk and sat on the fountain at Piccadilly, then called you, which…” I love Hope, but honestly, I wish she weren’t here. It’s already messy enough as it is.

  “I’m staying at Daddy’s flat in Chelsea. If you’re insistent on staying in London, at least come stay with me.” She gives another disgusted glance around Brandon’s apartment when I drop back to the sofa. “This place reeks of man and filth.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Look, as much as the pikey has pissed me off a right treat for running off like he did,” she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, “if this is what you think you need, fine. Maybe it is. A new start, someplace different. But Brandon… I can tell you from dealing with Silas, this is not a road you need to go down right now.”

  Silas. She’s comparing Brandon to Silas? Surely he’s not that bad.

  “You need to—“

  “I don’t need to do anything,” I almost shout.

  There is no doubt this is a disaster waiting to happen. All the swirling tension, the grief and anger, and what-ifs. Nothing about it is a good idea, but at the same time, I think I want to drown right along with him. "I'll think about it."

  “Think about it. Fine. But we aren’t sitting in here today, so come on.”

  I glare at her. “I don’t want to go anywhere, Hope.”

  She gives an adamant shake of her head. “Not hearing it. I’m hungry, and I’m sure as shit not eating anything he has in his freezer.”

  We eat lunch at the Giggling Squid, then Hope drags me to a nail salon and over half of London before we end up at the Dog’s Bell.

  Sunlight filters through the lead-glass windows, spilling over the vacant tables. At four in the afternoon, the normal hustle and bustle of the pub is missing. It’s only Kyan and Brandon at the bar, and my heart does an uneven tap dance in my chest because I can still feel that kiss bleeding through my veins.

  Hope leans in, nodding toward Brandon. "Always so broody. Just look at him.”

  But I wouldn’t call the slump in his shoulders or the way he’s scrubbing a hand over his jaw brooding. To me, that’s broken.

  Kyan’s gaze strays to the doorway when he tips back his pint glass, and a slick smirk kicks up the corner of his lips. "Ah, look what that cat drug in. Who’s the pretty redhead with you?”

  Brandon gives the doorway a fleeting glance, then goes back to his drink.

  "Brooding…" Hope sings in my ear.

  “My friend Hope.”

  Hope nods. “I’m her best friend.”

  Brandon snorts into his glass, and Hope walks up behind him, whacking him on the back before she settles into the seat beside Kyan. "I’m still pissed at you, pikey."

  Brandon looks at me. “Why is she here?”

  "She’s staying at her Dad’s in Chelsea."

  "Jesus, she's staying?" He takes a hefty swig of his drink.

  Hope narrows her gaze on Brandon, eyes blazing. “Yes, and Poppy’s staying with me since your apartment is deplorable."

  With that, Brandon slams his drink onto the counter and pushes up, grabbing my arm and leading me to the corner of the bar out of the other’s view. He turns and folds his arms over his chest. "Talk.”

  "I'm going to stay with her—”

  "No.”

  The tension presses in on me from all sides, and whatever is going on between us is toxic. "Brandon, I’m just imposing. And after this morning—”

  "No, possum." He takes a deep breath, unfolds his arms, and then slowly closes the space between us. Towering over me, he grips my chin and lifts my face until my eyes meet his, then his gaze falls to my lips. "No," he says quietly, sternly.

  My staying with him shouldn't be a question. Hope is right; we're both too much of a mess. But, like always, I can’t help myself when it comes to Brandon. He’s the imploded remains of a destroyed planet, and I’m his lone moon, bound by a simple gravitational pull I can’t seem to escape.

  “I can't stay with you because…” I chew at my lip, finding it too hard to hold his gaze. I look down, and he ducks, forcing me to look at him again.

  “It won’t happen again,” he says.

  A mixture of relief and disappointment bleed through me. I hated that unsettled feeling that I was left with, wanting him when I shouldn’t. God, I shouldn’t…

  “I can’t lose you,” I whisper, knowing that statement holds so many meanings.

  "I literally disappeared, and you still found me. You can't lose me." There's just a hint of desperation in his voice, his eyes pleading with me. “Stay.”

  I place my palm against his chest, not sure whether to pull him closer or push him away. We're both so vulnerable. "I…"

  My gaze quickly lifts to the perfect dip in the middle of his lip. With Brandon, t
here should be no “us.” We’re two people whose lives are infinitely intertwined but were never meant to touch. I want him to need me just as much as I need him. I loved Connor more than anything in this world, but he's gone, and I don't think I can survive any of this fallout without Brandon.

  "No matter what happens.” He places his hand over mine and squeezes. “You'll always be my best friend. Always." Then he leans in, kissing my forehead, and I wrap my arms around his broad waist, inhaling the scent of his whiskey tainted cologne.

  We're both lost in the middle of a tumultuous storm, and the only way out is together.

  38

  Brandon

  April 2015

  It’s been a week since I kissed Poppy, and we’re both trying to pretend this is normal, but the guilt is still very real. So real, I find myself walking into the gym just to rid myself of it.

  Finn stands in the corner, his vest soaked with sweat while he pummels away at the speed bag. I’m spared a brief glance before he goes back to his workout.

  With little thought, I tape my hands and then make my way to a corner to hammer my fists against one of the bags over and over. The violence consumes me, and I allow my mind to slip until it's blinking through the images that plague me. The rhythmic sound of my fists hitting the bag morphs into the steady pop, pop, pop of gunfire. My legs become unsteady at the memory of explosions vibrating the ground beneath my feet, and Connor’s haunting death stare provides the grand finale. It’s an image that has been branded into my mind in vivid detail, and it’s there, waiting for me every time I close my eyes. I focus on it, allowing the pain to engulf me because I deserve it. I’ve wronged him.

  Poppy is not just some chick. Hell, she isn't even one of those girls that you think could be a keeper. She's Poppy Blaine. She's family.

  "Brandon?"

  I lash out when someone touches my shoulder, then I slam my hand around Finn's throat. He easily twists out of my hold, and his brows pinch together in a deep frown. He should know better. I’m here for a reason. This bag takes punches so people don’t have to. But it takes me a second to regain my bearings as my pulse thrums in my ears, blocking out the noise around me.