Page 57 of The Beginning and End of Everything
Iblink open my eyes, groaning as the bright morning light scorches my retinas. My head is pounding, and my stomach clenches uncomfortably when I roll over, nearly falling off the sofa. When I glance up, Poppy is leaning against the kitchen side, a cup of coffee in her hand. Wet hair hangs in her face, and dark, makeup stains linger beneath her eyes. She looks worse than I feel, and that's saying something. I get to my feet and unsteadily rock back and forth.
"I have a headache," she mumbles.
Blurred memories surface of her drinking whiskey straight from the bottle last night.
"Whiskey will do that to you." I place my hand on the wall and make my way to the bathroom. Stumbling inside, I squint against the sunlight as I piss. Today is not going to be a good day. By the time I stagger back to the kitchen, Poppy is bent over the counter with her face resting on her outstretched arms.
I open the cupboard and grab a new bottle of whiskey. Poppy doesn’t even lift her head as I pour a splash into her coffee and take a sip. This will fix my head. Poppy, on the other hand, I’m not sure there’s any fixing that.
“Possum, what are you doing?”
She slowly lifts her face and stares at me, eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Dying.”
“This isn’t you, Poppy. You don’t do this shit.”
She was the good girl. Well, unless I was involved. She was always on this pedestal, the girl that was far too good to be anything to me, but miraculously, she was my best friend.
She mumbles something before snagging my coffee and taking a swig. Her eyes water and her lips purse together, and then she turns to the sink and spits it out. "What the hell, Brandon? Whiskey? In your coffee?" Placing her palm on her forehead, she shakes her head.
I snort. "Seriously, what are you doing? You just gonna hole up in this shitty apartment, dragging my drunk arse off the couch every night and watching me fight? This isn't your world, poss, and he'd want better for you."Iwant better for her, but we both know Connor's opinion was always worth a damn sight more than mine. "Sort out your shit. Get the house back."
"I don't want it back. I don't want any of it. Surely you, of all people, can understand that..."
I drag my hand down my face. "Well, then you sell it, you…you plan. Me. This—this is not a plan, babe." I can see her spiraling right on down with me, and the truth is, in just a few days, I’ve come to like her being here.
Poppy was always like this shiny light, something I had to consciously stay away from. Even at the tender age of ten, I knew I'd extinguish her if I weren't careful. By the time I was eighteen, she felt like a damn addiction. Just being around her made the world a bit brighter and the shit a little easier to bear.
My world is darker and shittier than it ever was before, and here she is, her light dulled but never completely gone. Only now, Connor isn't here, and I will destroy her. The worst part is that I think I already selfishly need her too much to do the right thing.
"It's too late," she says. "I had an eviction notice on the door the day I left."
"How? The army must have paid out a war pension for Con."
Her gaze falls to the floor, and she takes a deep breath. "I spent it. Most of it, anyway, you know…"
"Don't tell me you did rent-a-crowd for his funeral." I smirk. "Got him a horse-drawn carriage and unicorns?"
She almost laughs. "No." Her eyes lift to mine, so fractured.
That familiar ache surfaces, and I find myself shuffling back to the cabinet and reaching for the bottle of whiskey to top off my coffee. "The suspense is killing me here, poss." The liquor glugs into the hot black liquid.
"Finding you. I spent it finding you."
I pause before placing the bottle down and moving closer to her. She's broke and homeless because of me. Her eyes close, and slow tears trail over her porcelain skin. I wipe them with my thumb and cup her cheek.
On a sharp breath, she leans into my touch. "Youare all I have left in this world, Brandon."
And that's the saddest thing I've ever heard.
She wraps her arms around my waist, and I inhale the scent that is all Poppy as my lips press to her forehead. She needs me, and I need her. It's a twisted form of co-dependency, but it's all we have.
"You're better than this, Poppy. I'll help you, but I won't watch you nosedive into this shit with me."
"I'll make a deal with you then,” she mumbles against my throat. "I'll get out of it when you do."
I can't agree to that because I thrive in the gutter. It’s where I belong. “You always were manipulative,” I say, smiling as I step away from her.
The torn look on her face tells me she knows I have no intention of getting out of here.
