Page 61 of The Beginning and End of Everything
I kiss her damp hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo mixed with rainwater. It was much easier when I thought the worst part of life was limited to my dad—not the entire world. "Remember when we used to climb up that oak in your garden and throw shit at Connor?"
“You mean, you climbed up and threw stuff at him.”
I shrug. "Yeah.”
A soft smile forms on her lips, and she swipes a hand over her cheek. That churning sensation settles in my stomach, and neither of us says another word. We watch the documentary, and eventually, she falls asleep on me. Having her small body pressed against mine is comforting, soothing in a strange way, but as much as I like it, I don't trust myself to fall asleep like this. I slip out from underneath her and carry her to bed. When I pull the duvet over her, she grabs my wrist.
"Connor?" she murmurs in her sleep, and my heart plummets.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and kiss her forehead, wishing, for her sake, that I was the man she wanted.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her sleep. We’re two lost souls trying to save each other from unsalvageable events, and while she may be my hope, I'm surely her destruction.
35
Poppy
March 2015
Weeks have passed, and Brandon and I have settled into a somewhat normal routine. Much to Hope’s dismay, I’ve taken a job at Headley Court, helping out in their Veteran’s clinic. She doesn’t understand it—I don’t expect her to—but I can’t leave him, and going back to Ireland—there are too many memories there.
I glance over the paperwork for my new job, signing my name to the contracts before stacking them into a pile on the table.
"What's that?" Brandon asks on his way to the kitchen.
"Stuff for work."
“Yeah. What hospital did you say again?”
He knows I’ve taken a job as a nurse; I just haven’t told him where yet. “Headley Court.” I pause, and he opens a cabinet. “In the PTSD clinic.”
He rolls his eyes, then swats his hand through the air and takes a mug from the cabinet. "What a bunch of bullshit. The fighting ring is better therapy than any doctor would ever be."
Violence may temporarily grant him some relief, but, in the long run, it’s ineffective. It won’t help him deal with the emotions or the memories that haunt him—the trauma from his past or from war. All that ring is, is a recipe for disaster and destruction. “The ring does nothing to help you, Brandon.”
"Gives me someone to hit."He spreads his arms wide. "They get paid. I get paid. Everyone's happy." Then he douses his coffee with a nip of whiskey and takes a sip.
"But you're not happy." And as much as I wish I hadn’t said it, it’s the truth.
The muscles in his jaw clench, and he grips the edge of the counter. “This is as good as it gets, Poppy. I don't need anything more. I don't want more."
"How can you not want more thanthis?"
At one point, Brandon would have wanted anythingbutthis, because although this bleak apartment isn’t the caravan, it’s not much different. Everywhere I look, I see the things Brandon so desperately wanted to escape. The empty bottles, the dishes piling up. The fighting…the loneliness. He deserves so much more than this, and I just wish I could make him see it.
A strand of dark hair falls over his forehead when he drops his chin to his chest, and there’s a tense moment of silence before his head lifts, his sad gaze locking with mine. "Because those are the cards I was fucking dealt," he whispers.
With a shake of my head, I push up from the couch and reach to skim my fingers over his arm. "Stop wallowing in it."
"Every time I close my eyes, I see him.” His brows pull together, and he drags in a ragged breath. “Every single thing I do makes me feel guilty because Con’s not getting to do it. So, I'll take the damned punches, and give them right back, because it makes me feel better.” His eyes grow cold and hard, and I can almost feel the hate in the room, seeping through the air like a toxic fog. “If you want to move on—if you can just let him go, be my guest, but I can't."
Anger flares in my chest. It’s not that I want to move on, but that I must. I tried wallowing in it when I lost Connor. There are days I long to die right along with him, but Connor wouldn’t want that. Not for me. Not for Brandon. And if Brandon thinks this loss is harder on him than me… If he thinks I’m simply letting Connor go the way someone would a used pair of jeans. I died the day Connor did. Every part of my heart and soul crashed and burned, but Brandon wouldn’t know that because he didn’t see it. Because he ran, leaving me to grieve not one but two of the most important people in my life.
I grit my teeth and inch toward him, fists balled and muscles tense. "Don't youdaredo that!" Before I realize what I’m doing, my palms smack his chest, and I shove him. "Don’t you act like I'm just letting him go, Brandon."
He pushes off the kitchen counter and starts out of the room while shooting a dismissive look over his shoulder. "Don't try to fix me, Poppy. You'll be bitterly disappointed."
I step into the hallway after him, rage igniting inside me. “Like that’s anything new!” I shout, regretting the words the very moment they leave my mouth.
