Page 60 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"You're slipping," Finn says quietly.
I lean against the wall next to him. Finn fights like an animal when he's in the ring, but outside of it, he's practically a ghost. He's the guy that sits back. The one you forget is even there, but he hears and sees everything. He may not say much, but when he does, everyone listens, and, to me, his presence is a comfortable silence.
"It's just been a rough couple of weeks." I take another drag from the cigarette.
He shrugs one shoulder, throwing his fag on the ground and stomping it out. "Careful, friend. If you go up in flames with her standing too close, she's going to get burned."
I know. I know all too well. Finn pushes off the wall and saunters back inside. He has this way of putting thoughts in your head and then just leaving you to think. The hurt look on Poppy's face plays through my mind over and over. And It's not the first time I've put that look there, either. I'm an arsehole.
Later that night,I linger in the hallway outside my apartment, key in hand. I've tried to think of what to say to her the entire way home, but I can't come up with a single thing. I inhale, slide the key into the keyhole, and brace myself. But when I open the door, I'm met with darkness.
"Poss?"Nothing.
She's not here.
I switch the light on, head straight for the kitchen, and grab a bottle of whiskey. For a moment, I feel guilty that I'm not better than this. But I'm just not, and there's no point in pretending otherwise. I yank off the top and press the glass to my lips, swallowing back a third of the bottle in several gulps. Numbness, lack of feeling; these are the things I'm constantly chasing, and Poppy—she makes everything bright and shiny. I don't want it. So, I drink, and I drink.
By the time the front door clicks open, I'm three-quarters of the way into the bottle, and rain .pounds against the windows, thunder rumbling as though the whole world is mad at me.
Poppy steps into the room, her long brown hair drenched and hanging in front of her face. She gives me a short-lived glance before making her way back to the bedroom, banging into the wall as she goes. No way she’s drunk…
A few minutes later, she comes stumbling down the hall wearing one of my ratty, old Nirvana T-shirts that hits her mid-thigh. My eyes stray to her bare legs, and I try to block out the thoughts running through my mind. I’m fighting a losing battle. That kiss was like ripping off a Band-Aid. I haven't kissed Poppy for nearly ten years, not since I was seventeen years old. I blocked it all out, shoved any romantic feelings I had for her into a hole so deep, I hoped they would never surface again because I could never hurt Connor that way.
She plops down at the end of the couch, grabs the TV remote, and turns it on, surfing through the channels. I want to say something, but instead, I just tilt that bottle back.
"Gonna drink the whole bottle again?" she asks, her eyes glued to the TV.
I down the remaining whiskey and drop the empty bottle on the floor, allowing it to roll across the carpet. "Yep."
"Wanna go wander out into the street and see if you can find someone else to beat up?" She shakes her head. "Really, it's amazing. You're an angry, drunk fighter." She turns her cold gaze on me. "Way to go, Brandon. You’re just like your father.”
My chest tightens, but the anger I should feel is blissfully muted beneath the whiskey swimming in my veins.
The thing with Poppy, she's the sweetest person you could wish to meet until you hurt her feelings. And then she’ll try to hurt you in return. I'm invincible now though; she can’t reach me.
"The apple never falls far from the tree, right?”
She snorts, pushing the buttons on the remote so hard, her hand shakes. Minutes pass. She’s gone through every channel at least three times before she turns and glares at me, but the effect is lost when she hiccups. "You're an asshole." Poppy's shit at being mad, but damn she's cute when she's drunk.
"I've always been an arsehole, poss. Nothing new.”
There’s a beat of silence before she finally speaks. "Why did you kiss me?"
And there it is, the question I don't have an answer for. All I know is that Poppy represents something good; happiness, a better time. I both love and hate her for it. I want to push her away and hold her tight at the same time. Everything about her is a double-edged sword. All I know is that for those precious few seconds that she kissed me back, I found peace.
“Why, Brandon?”
"I don't know," I whisper honestly. "It was a mistake. I was—my head was in a bad place." I stumble over my words.
"Your head'salwaysin a bad place."
That little demon in me rears its ugly head. "Yeah, it is. And I ‘ve told you a hundred times to run as far and as fast as you can."But I don't want her to. I'm a selfish prick."Can't take the hits, then get the hell out of the way."
She stops the channel on some ocean documentary and flops back against the couch cushion. “I can’t do that with you. Not again.”
And honestly, neither can I. As much as I know I broke her heart, I broke my own, too. I wait until a commercial break, then elbow her in the ribs. “I’m sorry.”
There a long pause before she huffs, “Me too.” Then she scoots closer, resting her head on my shoulder with a sigh. “Everything was so much simpler when we were kids."
