Page 100 of The Beginning and End of Everything
I stupidly clung to that futile hope that the therapy would make everything better, never even realizing how much I needed that possibility.
But this is it.
Thisisbetter. As good as it gets, and while I don't want this life, I have no choice, but she does.
She does…
57
Poppy
April 2016
"What the fuck!" Brandon shouts, waking me from a restless sleep. Something in the living room crashes, and I glance at the clock flashing: 1:08 in red.
Glass tinkers like it’s being swept into a pile, and I climb out of bed, warily making my way to the living room.
The blue haze from the TV puts off just enough light that I can make out Brandon’s body, huddled over, sweeping up the remnants of whatever he broke into the dustpan.
Mort jumps down from his spot on the couch, kneading his claws on the rug. "Stop it, Mort." I snap my fingers at the cat, and Brandon freezes.
"Hey, poss."
"What happened?"
"It's nothing; I just knocked over the lamp. Go back to bed." He dumps the shattered glass into the trash, then flops back onto the sofa.
"Come with me," I say, wanting nothing more than him to curl up beside me and hold me. Lately, it seems more times than not that he falls asleep watching TV, and I miss the intimacy. The closeness of waking up with him right there.
"No."
My heart crumples. "Please." I sound desperate, but I don’t care. I’ve spent half my life feeling desperate when it comes to him.
"Just go back to bed, Poppy." He drags a hand through his hair, then fists a handful of it like I’m working his last nerve. "Please."
I study him, the furrow of his brow, the bounce in his knee, and I know why he’s out here and why the lamp is broken. "Did you have a nightmare?"
"No. Leave it alone."
A commercial comes on the TV. The pale light dances across his face and I catch his jaw tense, and I know he’s lying.
"It's okay if you did."
A cynical laugh rumbles from his chest. "Good to know I have your permission to be a fuck up."
"You're not a fuck up. It's just a dream—"
"Really?" He sits up and swings his legs off the sofa, resting his elbows on his spread knees while his head drops forward. "Is that what you tell yourself? That I'm not screwed up? That I just have bad dreams?" There’s a cold cruelty lacing his voice. "Do you think I'm allfixed, Poppy?"
That jab was low, and it hurt. "All I want is to understand."
He balls one fist tight and rests it against his forehead, gritting his teeth as he presses his knuckles into his skin. "You will never understand me!" The hate that fills his voice causes me to flinch. "Why the fuck would you want to understand this?" He slaps his palm against his bare chest, while his shoulders rise and fall in uneven swells.
Moments like this make me feel completely helpless like I'm just watching him drown while I'm holding onto a life raft. Like he’s Jack and I’m Rose.
When I step forward and try to take his hand, he jerks away.
"God, he's right." He grips his head, his fingers winding through his hair in agitation. "I’ll never be good enough for you."
