Page 101 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"Brandon." I hesitate to ask. "What are you talking about?"
"Why don't you just leave, Poppy? I'll never be what you want me to be! I hate this. I hate that job. I hate this bullshit life."
He paces the length of the floor, his fists constantly clenching. I don't know where any of this came from, but it's here, and it's been here, looming beneath the surface.
"Stop it. Just…" I cover my face with my hands.
"I hate that I don't fit in your perfect fucking box."
"Stop it," I shout.
He laughs, his expression turning cruel and unrecognizable. "Why? So we can go back to pretending I'm Connor?"
That is an arrow through the chest, hard and swift, and one that leaves my jaw dropped. Out of all the things Brandon has said, that is the cruelest and the most depressing because what he’ll never see is that it has always been him—always, Brandon, who owned my heart. I fight the tightening sensation in my chest, my brow wrinkling. "Why?" I exhale and swallow, trying to manage my emotions. "Why would you say that?"
"I stole his life. Took his girl. Hell, I even have the shitty nine-to-five he would have happily worked for you." Brandon kicks the coffee table over with a string of obscenities, and Mort goes dashing across the living room.
"I swear to God!” Brandon's fist goes through the sheetrock, sending dust into the air. Then he grabs a vase from the side table and smashes it, and I find myself moving away from him until my back hits a wall. And just like that, he freezes. His eyes lock on mine, and all that rage rippling over his face melts into despair and grief.
Without a word, he takes his jacket from the hook by the door and storms out, leaving me standing in the middle of so much destruction; the remnants of love and war.
58
Brandon
Ifound the first shitty bar I could and ducked in for a drink, but now there’s a bottle of whiskey on the bar top in front of me, a short glass beside it that I keep filling up and necking in a few gulps.
Finally, that numbness and quiet I've missed sets in, and my mind stills. Today, tomorrow, they don't matter, just this exact moment, and to a guy like me, that’s sheer bliss.
What was I thinking, trying to work a normal job, trying not to drink? I didn't get rid of the monster, I just threw it in a cellar and prayed it wouldn't come back out, but eventually it was roaring so loud the floorboards were shaking, and when it got loose…
I wish Poppy would get out of this shit because God knows I'm too damn weak to leave her.
* * *
It’spast three when I stumble out of the bar and into the drizzly London night. Traffic zooms past, the lull of tires over the wet tarmac almost has me in a trance when I step off the curb. I close my eyes and keep putting one foot in front of the other until I’m in the middle of the road. Waiting, thinking that if I stand here long enough, perhaps fate will fix everything for me.
A horn blares, followed by the breeze of a vehicle passing close by, then someone grabs onto my shirt and yanks me back several feet. “Hey mate, what are you doing?”
I turn, focusing my blurred vision on the stranger. “You all right?” He glances back at the traffic and thumbs to the bus, now taking the corner. “That double-decker nearly flattened you out.”
Adrenaline floods my veins as I watch the cars whizz past, then shake my head as my senses return. “Thanks.”
He pats me on the shoulder and gives me one last, concerned look before walking off.
I wander through London;down alleys and across parks, until I end up at Finn's door, asking if I can crash for the night. I skip work the next morning, and when my manager calls wanting to know where I am, I tell him he can shove the job, then hang up.
"Smooth," Finn says from the kitchen doorway.
"Looks like I'm in the market for a job, huh?"
"Your skill set is pretty limited." He rounds the coffee table. "But, you can always fight."
I know he's joking, but the idea is oh so tempting. Such easy money, and that feeling… I miss the energy of it, the bloodlust in the air, but most of all, I miss the respect that everyone used to look at me with. I miss being the best at something. And maybe I miss the continuity of it.
Fighting was something I did before everything went to shit, a constant point in my life that has never changed. The ability to fight. The ability to win.
I dial Larry's number, imagining the disappointment on Poppy's face, and while I wait for him to answer, I tell myself I need this in ways she can’t understand.
