Page 55 of The Beginning and End of Everything
There are only a few people left upstairs, playing cards at a table by the door. I take a seat at the end of the bar and bury my face in my hands. The image of Brandon taking hit after hit plays on a loop. He’s always had a dark cloud looming over his head, but now it seems more like a violent storm, swirling and churning, waiting to implode. I’m afraid I don’t even know who he is anymore. But then again, I’m not even sure that I know who I am anymore, either.
War and loss. Those things will destroy a person from the inside out.
"Looks like you might need this." A martini glass slides in front of me, and I glance up at the young blond standing on the other side of the counter. She drums her nails over the wood top and narrows her gaze on me. "You don't look like the kind of girl who'd be hanging ‘round here."
I run a finger along the rim of the glass, not at all interested in having a sip. My stomach is already enough of a mess. A loud boom of applause comes from the floor.
"Bet Brandon just knocked the lad square on his arse,” she says before walking off to serve another patron.
Minutes go by, and a few men trickle up from downstairs, counting money on their way to the front.
“Haven, get me a beer, would you?”
The legs of the barstool beside me scrape the floor before Kyan sits, folding his thick forearms over the bar. “Too much, eh?” he asks, and I give a curt nod.
Haven places a pint of beer in front of him, and he swipes the foam with his thumb. “You staying with him?”
I shrug a shoulder and finally take a sip of my drink.
"I really don't think you should go back to his flat tonight.”
Annoyance tenses my muscles, and my gaze lifts, expecting a cocky smirk to be plastered to his face, but all that’s there is a look of worry.
“Look, I know I come across like a ripe prick, but I know how he can get.”
My defenses go up. "And I know how Brandon can get."
"Look, Poppy. I know youknewBrandon, but that's just it. You knew him before war ate him up and spat him out."
Lowering my gaze to my drink, I swallow.Knew him. Maybe Kyan is right. Maybe I've lost all grasp of who Brandon is.
"Treacle." Kyan gently takes my chin in his hand and turns my face toward his. "You've not a clue what we've seen—him and me. It ain't something you watch in a film. There’s not a speck of that tragic glamour the media gives it. Honestly, there ain't a word that can touch what war is. Feckin' hell is the closest you can come to it." He releases a sigh. "And right now, I promise, you don't want to go dancing with the devil."
Even though something in my gut tells me I should listen to Kyan, I don’t want to admit that I’ve lost Brandon, too. "It's fine,” I say, pulling my face from his hold. “But I appreciate your concern.” And with that, I leave my drink and make my way to the exit.
I drivearound London for the better part of an hour, listening to the radio and thinking. I’ve been so hung up on finding Brandon, I never once thought about what I would do if he didn’t want to be found. Which makes me feel stupid. People only disappear when they want to be lost
I may need Brandon, but I don’t think he needs me.
And I have to be okay with that.
Eventually, I pull in front of Brandon’s flat and cut the engine, convincing myself on the way up the walkway that I should go in and tell him goodbye. Connor may have asked us to look after one another, but he had no way of knowing the people we would become once he was gone.
The front door is cracked open, and the repetitive thwack of Brandon taking swings at the punching bag drifts through the opening. He glances over his shoulder when the hinges creak, and I step inside. Shooting a cold stare at me, he throws one last punch to the bag, his busted knuckles leaving a bloody mark on the side. Without one word of acknowledgment, he snatches the bottle of whiskey from the coffee table, then disappears down the hall, slamming the door seconds later. I listen to the sounds of silence until the water cuts on in the shower, and suddenly, I’m not so sure I can leave.
He's lost. We’re both lost without Connor.
I drop to the couch and close my eyes. We should be able to understand one another. We always have…
I waitfor over half an hour before I start to worry that he’s drunk himself into a stupor, and maybe passed out, face down in the tub.
I make my way down the hall, stopping in front of the bathroom door, and knock. "Brandon?"
He doesn’t answer.
"Hey!” I grab the doorknob when he still hasn’t made a noise and twist. “You okay?"
Brandon’s in his boxing short, on the floor of the tub with his back against the wall, water pouring over him. He lifts the bottle of whiskey to his mouth and takes a gulp without looking at me.
