The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  "Go ahead. Drink it." Hope’s attention is also locked on the couple across the street. "Trust me, sometimes you just need it."

  "I don't want to need anything."

  "Ah, but that's a problem. We all need something, don't we?" Hope releases a long sigh. "Poppy, I know you're confused about the whole Brandon thing, but stop beating yourself up."

  "I can't lose him."

  "You’ll never lose Brandon O’Kieffe," Hope says. “Since the day I met you, that boy’s been as lovesick for you as you have been for him. He may be a pikey, but if he makes you happy…” She studies me for a moment. “What are you scared of, Poppy?”

  While I am worried about losing Brandon, I think what I’m most afraid of is losing the memory of Connor. “Forgetting Connor,” I whisper.

  Hope’s face crumples, and she reaches for my hand. “Poppy, you won’t forget him, but he’s gone, and nothing is going to bring him back.”

  I close my eyes and lean back in the seat, wishing things never had to change. After a few minutes, Hope exhales. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but sometimes, the regret of not doing something is far worse than the regret of what you did."

  And that's just the thing, either way, I know I will regret something.

  "B-4.” The announcer coughs into the microphone. “B-4."

  Hope has about ten bingo cards spread out in front of her, the little stamper hovering over them as she searches for the place on her board. Smiling, she pounds it over one of the cards. "That's right. I just made B-4 my bitch."

  Doris glances over at me, grinning as she lifts her flask to her mouth. "I like her."

  I nod. "Hope’s something, that's for sure."

  "Aw, I'm a little fond of you, too, Doris." Hope eyes the flask. "What's in there?"

  "Whiskey,” Doris says, then passes the flask to Hope.

  "Spirit animals, Doris, we are spirit animals." She tips the flask back just as the announcer calls out another space.

  "G-45. G-45."

  I stamp the spot on my card. And the next thing I know, the silver flask is shaking right in front of my face. I glance over at Hope. "You're sad," she says. "Whiskey makes people happy."

  "So, basically, you want me to be a drunk?"

  "No. Just be like an Irishman."

  "Again, a drunk?"

  "Look, I'm pretty sure the Irish have the lowest rate of depression in the world."

  "They do not."

  "Sure, they do. You can't be sad when you're drunk."

  I stare at Hope, shaking my head. "You're crazy, you know that?"

  "The next space is N-12. N-12."

  Hope jumps up from the table, knocking over her chair and scaring awake the elderly woman who nodded off on the other side of her. "Bingo!" She waves one of her cards around before placing a foot on the metal folding chair and grinding the air as she sings out: "Bingo. B-I-N-fucking-G-O."

  Everyone stares, Doris claps, and I just sink into my chair and cover my face with my hands.

  "Damn, that was the last game," Doris says, tipping the flask back again.

  "All right." I gather the bingo cards and stack them together. "Well, thanks for inviting us, Doris."

  She nods.

  Hope grins. "Yep, I think I've found a new hobby."

  "Great, so your list is drinking, screwing, and bingo?"

  "Basically. Sounds legit."

  My phone dings with a text. I pull it from my purse while Hope walks to the front of the room to collect her prize: A heated neck massager.

  I stare at the text, my chest going all tight. I told you you'd hate me. Sorry, poss.

  Like a child, he's ignored my texts and calls for the past day. And then he sends me this crap. Brandon is an emotional rollercoaster, one storm after another, and even though that should be enough to make me run in the opposite direction, it hasn’t.

  "A heated neck massager. Amazing!" Hope holds the bright pink object up and smiles. "Perfect for a rainy day, huh?"

  "Yep."

  Hope's phone blares from her purse, and her lips pull into a wry smile. "Well, I know what that one wants." She digs her phone from her purse, touches the screen, and places it to her ear. "Hey, hot stuff." She pauses for a second, and her smile slowly fades. "Fine. Fine. I'll send her over." She disconnects the call and shoots an annoyed look in my direction.

  "Brandon got shitfaced and evidently needs you. Kyan said he's done babysitting him."

  The second I walk into Brandon's flat, I roll my eyes. Clothes and empty beer cans scatter the living room, and Kyan's sitting at the end of the sofa with a beer in his hand while Brandon hangs halfway off the couch, swatting at a bottle of whiskey on the table.

  Kyan’s gaze locks on me when he grabs the liquor and hands it to Brandon. "Well, 'bout time you came back. He's been like this for twenty-four hours. Missed his fight."

  Brandon looks over, squinting his bloodshot eyes. "Possum. You're here." He lifts the bottle to me. "Come have a drink."

  "Possum?" Kyan says, laughing as he slaps a hand over his forehead. "Fuck me."

  I glare at Kyan, and he shrinks back a step. "What the hell are you doing, Brandon?"

  Brandon’s eyebrows pull together in a frown. "Drinking.”

  "Yes, that I can clearly see. But why have you been drunk for twenty-four hours."

  The frown deepens, and he lifts the bottle to his lips, turning it up, and taking a glug before he drops it to his side.

  “For the love of…” Huffing, I cross the room, pointing at Kyan when I reach the couch. "And really? You’ve been sitting here feeding him alcohol?"

  Kyan shrugs.

  "God, you are an idiot," I mumble. "Just get out of here.”

  Holding up his hands, Kyan gets to his feet. "He's got a fight in eight hours, you may want to try to sober him up a bit."

  "He's not fighting."

  "Oh, like hell he's not. He missed his fight last night. Larry'll have him by the balls if he no shows again."

  My face heats, and I push onto the tips of my toes, inching toward Kyan's face. "Tell Larry if he thinks Brandon’s fighting, I'll have him by the balls."

  "You got a bit of feist in you yet, don't you?"

  I shove him one good time, and he stumbles toward the door.

  "All right then, I'll see you later, Brandon." The door closes behind him, and I turn back to Brandon, who’s attempting to take off his shirt but failing miserably.

  "God, you are like a child sometimes," I say as I lean down and tug his shirt over his head.

  His chin drops, and I grab it, raising his head back up. "Thanks."

  "Why are you drunk—I mean, you're drunk a lot, but this?" I let go of his chin, and his face falls forward.

  "You left, poss," he slurs.

  "I went to Hope's. I didn't leave."

  Without lifting his head, he mumbles, "Left me."

  Sighing, I flop onto the couch next to him and comb my fingers through his hair. When he looks up, I notice his cheekbone is swollen and bruised. "So, if you didn't fight, why is your cheek all banged up?"

  He rubs a hand over his cheek. "My cheek?"

  I toss my head against the cushion on a hard exhale. "You wear me out."

  "I can wear you out if you like?" He grins, even though he can barely open his eyes.

  He’s on point tonight, and it takes everything inside me not to laugh. "Wow.”

  He lifts his hand, trying to stroke my hair, but instead, he ends up petting my cheek. "I'm sorry.”

  How many times will I hear that if I stay with him? I’m terrified that I’m setting myself up for a lifetime of apologies, a constant Tilt a ‘Whirl of emotions, and while I know there’s so very little about this that’s ideal, I crave it. “You have to take better care of yourself."

  “No.” He halfway shakes his head. "I'm sorry I fucked you."

  A stuttered breath catches in my lungs. He regrets what I long for. This is why I shouldn’t have crossed that line because, just like the first
time, I took it to mean something more.

  "And now you hate me," he mumbles. "Please don't hate me. Just forget it happened. Then we can be Brandon and possum again." He nods to himself. "Brandon and possum." His brow wrinkles, and he looks so distressed that I have the urge to smooth out the deep-set lines.

  "I don't hate you,” I whisper. “And we'll always be Brandon and possum. Nothing can change that."

  A flicker of a smile touches his lips but quickly fades, his eyes going distant. "He would hate me."

  "Damn it." I feel my chest tighten, not from anger, but from how pathetic the two of us are. "Stop it. Just stop it. If he were alive, we wouldn't be here, but we are. Connor’s gone.” My words catch in my throat. My chest aches. “So just…” I exhale and drop my chin to my chest. "Stop."

  "You know, he made me promise? We were in this shithole hut in the middle of the desert. There was a goat. And bullets, lots of bullets. He made me promise him that if he karked it, I'd look after you.” He draws circles on my arm with his fingers. “That goat was cool as shit."

  "A goat…" I shake my head, and we sit in silence, each staring off into nothing for a moment. "In his grave letter he asked me to look after you. So, here we are, looking after each other." I trail my fingertips along his jawline, and he huffs a laugh.

  "Of course he did. And that's exactly why Connor was always so worthy of you."

  Worthy of me like I’m some prize. I narrow my gaze. "Don't say things like that."

  “Okay.”

  I turn on the TV, and Brandon’s head lands in my lap, and we sit, me combing through his hair while we watch a rerun. Just when I think Brandon’s passed out, his fingers grip at my shirt.

  “Please don't leave me."

  I lean over, placing my face right in front of his. "I'm not leaving you." I take a breath, warring with myself because I want to kiss him, but I can’t manage the fallout. "Friends no matter what, remember? I promised."

  "But I don't want to just be your friend.” His finger brushes my bottom lip. "And I feel like a fucking arsehole for it."

  44

  Brandon

  My head is pounding, and my mouth tastes like something curled up and died in it. When the bed shifts beside me, I open my eyes and glance across at Poppy. Her back is to me, her small body covered in one of my over-sized T-shirts. Dark hair spills across the pillow, and the scent of her shampoo just manages to cut through the stench of whiskey on my breath.

  I can't remember a thing past the fact that I came home and she was gone. I thought she had left, and I started drinking. Whatever this is between us, it's dangerous to me because it's so damn vital. I crawl out of bed and stumble into the shower. It feels like a marching band has taken up residence inside my head, and it hurts to think, which is…inconvenient given the tornado of thoughts whirling through my brain.

  By the time I get out of the shower, Poppy's up and moving around the kitchen. I throw on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and brace myself before I go into the kitchen. As soon as her eyes crash into mine, a painful squeeze takes over my chest.

  "Hey," I mumble.

  Clasping a mug of coffee in both hands, she asks, "How's your head?"

  "Been better."

  She pours me a cup and grabs the whiskey from the cupboard, dumping in a shot. She’s learning.

  “Ah, the hair of the dog.”

  Her brow wrinkles. “Hair of what?”

  I snort. "And you call yourself Irish, woman." I pick up the mug and swallow a mouthful of hot liquid.

  She rolls her eyes. "I'm not Irish.”

  "Oh, I know.” I smirk. “Measch.”

  She narrows her eyes at me, tossing out some playful banter. “At least I'm not a pikey."

  "Don't pretend you don't have a thing for pikey lads," I say, cocking an eyebrow. “You were always hanging around the camp.”

  A soft smile touches her lips, and she ducks her head. "Did you never realize I was in love with you for all those years, Brandon?" Her question takes me by surprise, and what feels like a lead weight settles on my chest.

  "Don't say that," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut and gripping the edge of the kitchen island.

  "Answer me."

  "He loved you. And that was all that mattered."

  "And I loved you first. And for years, that was all that mattered to me."

  I slam my palm over the worktop. "Fuck, Poppy. What do you want me to say? Yes, I knew you had a crush on me. Yes, I wanted you, but we were kids. I was no good. I am no good. Connor...he deserved you."

  This has lingered between us for years, unspoken but ever-present. Connor buffered it because I would always put his happiness before my own. Every damn time. He was my brother, and I would have given him the world. This is the first time we've put a voice to the great, pink elephant that has always been just in the periphery.

  "Is that what it was about?" Her face crumples for the briefest of moments. “What you thought we deserved?" Her jaw tics, and she pulls in a breath. "Because I'll tell you what I think I deserved. And that was to be loved by the boy I was in love with. To have him acknowledge that he took my virginity, for him to treat me like I was more than just a friend."

  She makes me want something I shouldn’t. She is hope, and hope is fatal to a guy like me. When it's gone, there's nothing left. And if we do this, one day she will leave, because I will break her the way I do everything and everyone. I'm just trying to prolong the inevitable, keep her at arm’s length for as long as I possibly can. I drag a hand through my hair. "I would have destroyed you, Poppy."

  "Do you not realize that you did anyway?" She shakes her head. "You did anyway."

  "And Connor was there to wipe away the tears, to love you. Don’t—" I clench my fists, a wave of anger gripping me in its clutches. “Don’t diminish what you two had.”

  Her eyes quickly fill with tears, her cheeks turning a deep red. "Brandon, I loved him. I—”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.” I know I’m a dick, but I can’t stand the idea that Connor was nothing more than a stand-in, a band-aid to her heartbreak.

  I barely see her move before her palm collides with my cheek. “Don’t you dare. I loved you both!”

  I move closer to her until I can feel her rapid breaths over my face. “You were supposed to love Connor more.”

  “Fuck you!” She shoves me away, then moves around me.

  I grab her by the wrist, and she halts. “I won’t watch you spiral down with me. You’re all I have left.” I speak the words, a broken confession.

  She takes a step toward me, her expression angry. “You don't have a choice."

  "Is that so?"

  She grabs my shirt, jerking me toward her. “I love you. So no, there is no choice, Brandon."

  My heart thuds unevenly in my chest, and that age-old longing creeps up. It's selfish and shitty, but I'm starting to lose sight of all the reasons I should stay away from Poppy. I cup her cheek, touching my forehead to hers. "There are only so many times I can do the selfless thing when it comes to you." I tilt my chin, brushing my lips across hers. I crave her like my own personal brand of crack. "It's always been you," I breathe the words I can't fight any longer.

  I'm already trapped in my own personal war, and I need her beside me, not standing across the battle lines. I can't help but feel as though this was always inevitable—her and me. No matter how many women I screwed or how perfect Connor was for Poppy, this has always been a twisted form of fate. And I hate that.

  For Connor, I hate that.

  Poppy presses her small body against mine. My arms come around her waist, and damn, she feels like home.

  It's a big fight tonight, and the pub is packed. The roar from the crowd is a constant in the background, and adrenaline fires though my veins. There’s nothing quite like the fervor of a big fight. It’s infectious.

  Poppy sits on the metal bench to the side of the room, her leg bouncing and her arms folded over her chest.

  I stare at her as I y
ank my shorts over my hips. Her bouncing stops, as those grey eyes linger on my bare torso. She slowly lifts her gaze to my face, and a blush touches her cheeks. It's so damn cute.

  "You know I hate that you do this," she says, standing and walking over to me.

  I smirk. "Easiest money I ever made, poss."

  "Yeah, I'm pretty sure drug dealers make 'easy' money, too. Doesn't mean you should do it." She glares at me, and I can't help but see that little girl she once was, sulking because she didn't get her way. "I mean, if he beats your ass, fine, but don't let him hit you just because you like it. Don’t be a Neanderthal, Brandon."

  "It's manly. I'm just making him feel better about himself anyway."

  "It's idiotic."

  I grab her waist and pull her against me. "You concerned about the preservation of my dashing good looks?" I brush my lips across her jaw, placing a kiss below her ear.

  It's strange being able to touch her. I've always loved her from afar. She was like the sun, beautiful and so unattainable. Now she’s right in front of me, and I can't quite believe she won't burn me.

  "I won't let him 'beat my ass,'" I say in a poor imitation of her American twang.

  “Dick.”

  "Stay here." I kiss her forehead and walk away, heading to the exit. The second I open the door, the noise from outside becomes deafening: Breaker, Breaker, Breaker.

  "You let him hit you, I'm flushing your weed down the toilet," she shouts, her soft voice just carrying over the cries from the crowd.

  I glance over my shoulder and wink at her before stepping through the door. I don't want her watching, out here amongst this lot. It's too distracting.

  The audience presses all around me. The shouts and cheers rise like a crescendo, beer sloshing everywhere as they jostle against one another.

  I slide between the ropes lining the ring. Larry is standing in the middle, microphone in hand as he riles up the crowd, encouraging them to bet more of their money.

  "It's Brandon 'The Breaker' Blaine!"