Page 50 of The Beginning and End of Everything
He straightens his arms, gripping the steering wheel while his jaw tics. Just as I think he’s about to argue, he slides over into the passenger seat, giving me silent permission to take the wheel.
Brandon directsme through London’s city center. We wind through squares and roundabouts, and all I can think about is how in the world he would have ever made it home. We park in front of a row of townhomes, and he topples out of the passenger side, swaying and bobbing on his way up to the entrance.
He slumps against the door, and I grab him by the elbow to pull him away, so he doesn’t fall on his face when I open the door. He stumbles over empty pizza boxes and bottles of whiskey before he falls onto the sofa.
I take a hesitant step inside, and my stomach sinks. This reminds me of his dad—the one person Brandon never wanted to be like.
His stomach rumbles. "Oh, shit,” he groans and sits up, wobbling for a second before he slides to the floor and starts to crawl across the floor.
"Whatare you doing?" I grab his arm and attempt to get him to his feet, but he swats me away.
When he reaches the bathroom, he grabs the doorframe, hoists himself up, and hurls himself inside. A chorus of heaves and coughs, followed by a string of profanities filter through the door, and then, minutes later, the toilet flushes. Brandon stumbles out and slumps against the doorway. His bloodshot eyes meet mine for a moment before he pushes off the frame and heads down the hall.
"Brandon?"
He swipes a hand through the air and grunts before disappearing into another room. By the time I step to the doorway, he’s stripped out of his shirt and jeans and lies, sprawled out and face-down on a bare mattress. For a moment, I’m sixteen again, watching him self-destruct after his mother passed away. Only this time he hasn’t climbed through my window—he’s run away.
Exhaling, I make my way to his bed and sit on the edge. Out of habit, I sweep my fingers through his thick hair, and the memories of who we once were nearly crush me.
"I'm fine," he manages. But he’s not, neither of us is.
“No matter how pissed I am at you,” I say around the lump lodged in my throat. “I’m just glad you’re alive."
"And I didn't—" he hiccups—"I didn't mean it when I said you should go home.”
"I know."
"You always know, possum."
He hasn’t called me possum since that night at Hope’s party—the night that changed everything between us. Tears blur my vision, and I duck my chin, swiping them away.
"You’re still my possum.” He swats at my hair. “That never changes.”
I knot my hands, fighting the emotions, the hurt, the memories of Brandon and Connor, and me. Brandon’s breaths fall into a heavy rhythm, and before long, a deep snore cuts through the silence. For a moment, I sit and watch him sleep. There were so many nights growing up just like this. A lifetime of memories, of heartbreak, of promises to never leave each other. I trace a light finger over his bruised jaw. I lay beside him, and all I can think of is Connor.
"Possum…" Brandon mumbles in his sleep.
My chest tightens, placing my lungs in a vice and forcing me out of bed. Grief weighs me down. Learning to accept my life without Connor has been the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.
It destroyed my soul, and it destroyed Brandon’s.
28
Brandon
Istare down the scope of my rifle. My heart slams against my ribs, no matter how much I will it to slow. The ground trembles as chaos ensues around me. The occasional explosion interrupts the steady pop of gunfire, and my arm shakes but stills when Connor’s hand lands on my shoulder.
"Breathe, Bran. Just take a breath.”
"I can't do this."
"Those guys," he points toward the derelict factory our unit surrounds, "They'll kill hundreds, if not thousands. They’d blow up kids in the name of their cause. This is war, Bran. And in war, there are always casualties."
It really is that simple to him, right and wrong. Good and bad. I pick up my rifle and stare down the sight before I pull the trigger.
The bullet tears a hole straight through the chest of the elderly woman the enemy is using as a shield. I aimed for her shoulder but missed. I didn't want to kill her, but I did, and that makes me a monster.
I jolt awake,pitching upright as a ragged breath fills my lungs. The bedsheets are drenched with sweat, the same as always. But this time, something brushes my arm, and it’s not until I instinctively lash out that my mind quiets from the memory of war and comes back into focus.
