Page 51 of The Beginning and End of Everything
Suddenly, I'm on my knees, straddling Poppy with my forearm pressed to her throat. Her eyes lock with mine as a choking sound slips past her lips, and realitysets in. In a panic, I scramble to the edge of the mattress.
She shouldn't even be here, let alone in my bed.
An all too familiar sinking sensation settles in my gut.
I rise to my feet. "You need to go," I say through clenched teeth. I'm angry at myself—angry at her. I'm angry at the whole world for screwing me so damn hard.
She stares at me like I just punched her.
"Just go, Poppy!" I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow around the lump in my throat. “I can't look at you. I look at you, and all I see is him."
"And when I look at you, all I see is him, too, but I don't want to let that go. I feel him when I'm with you…"
"He's dead.” I open my eyes. “I've let go. So should you." And with that, I leave the room.
Hurting Poppy is the only thing I could possibly do that would make Connor hate me, and that thought eats away at me.
"Fuck you, Brandon O’Kieffe!” she shouts from my room.
I can't take this shit—her grief. Mine. The guilt and tragedy of it all. I find myself running for the kitchen and tearing open the cabinet in need of a drink.
The bottle of whiskey sits there like the answer to all my prayers, and I press it to my lips, swallowing gulp after gulp, finding a mild form of relief in the familiar burn.
Poppy moves into the kitchen, but I ignore her, instead, watching bubbles float their way up the neck of the bottle as I continue to drink.
She snatches the bottle from me, and liquid spills onto my chest before it splashes onto the linoleum floor. "You can be as mean and nasty as you want, but I'm not going anywhere."
I try to grab the bottle, but she smashes it against the wall. Glass and whiskey spray everywhere.
Anger rises like a cobra, hissing and spitting its way to the surface, and I grab her shoulder, backing her into the whiskey-soaked wall while glass cuts into the soles of my bare feet. "What the hell do you want from me?" I shout. "You want me to save you? Huh, Poppy?" I laugh as my grip on her shoulder tightens.
Tears cling to her lashes before spilling down her cheeks. “I think I'm the one who needs to save you."
"I don't need saving." I shove away from her. "The devil looks after his own. And I’m beyond redemption."
I just want her to leave—having her here is too painful. Too real. I'd almost convinced myself that Connor never existed, that everything before the fight ring in London was nothing more than a dream.
Almost…
Poppy rubs at the finger marks on her arms. "Then take me down with you.” She slides to the floor and buries her face in her hands. The diamonds of her wedding ring glint in the light, and that’s just another knife in my heart because she hasn't let him go. Not one bit.
"You're all I have, Brandon,” she whispers. Her tired gaze meets mine. “So if you want to drink yourself to death, fine. Push me away. But I'm not going anywhere."
I drop next to her, and she leans her head on my shoulder like nothing has changed. And we sit in silence, allowing the pain and heartbreak to fester between us.
They say the people left behind are the ones who suffer the most—isn’t that the truth? I'd give anything to swap places with Connor.Anything.Poppy didn't deserve this. And now, I'm all she has.
If there is a God, he has a sick sense of humor.
29
Poppy
Itossed and turned on the couch last night, and finally, around four am, I gave up and started cleaning the grime from the coffee table. I picked up beer bottles and half-smoked joints, socks, and condom wrappers, thanking God Brandon was at least safe. Around seven am, I pulled the cushions from the couch and found a crumpled photo of Brandon perched on the hood of a tank, Connor against the side with an AK-47 saddled on his hip. The sight of the two of them at war tore my heart right in two, and I sank onto the couch with a half-filled trash bin at my feet. It’s true.; life is ever-changing—it’s unfair. But that knowledge doesn’t make any of it easier.
"My head." Brandon stumbles down the hall with his hands to his head, his shirt off.
My gaze skims the tattoos peppering his bare chest, ones I’ve never seen, and then my gaze lingers on the one both Connor and Brandon had. Connor regretted it, thinking it looked more like a rat than a possum, but Brandon had worn it with pride, insisting it wasn’t a rodent.Possum.
