Page 62 of The Beginning and End of Everything
There’s the slightest hiccup in his steps before he bangs a palm against the wall and disappears into his room with a slam of the door.
Anger pulses through me, crackling and popping like a live wire as I pace the living room, then slam my fist against the heavy punching bag. The bag barely budges, so I punch it again and again, fighting tears. Fighting the sinking feeling that has weighed me down for almost a year. Fighting desperation.
I just want some sense of normal, some semblance of happiness. I long for the days when he was just Brandon, and I was his possum, the days when things were so much less complicated.
He stays in his room for over an hour before I finally give in and slowly push open the door.
The blue haze of twilight creeps in through the window, illuminating his silhouette on the edge of the bed, where his head hangs to his chest, and he’s looking at a picture frame clutched in his hands.
Brandon 'The Breaker' —so indestructible, yet so utterly shattered.
Without a word, I crawl onto the bed and settle behind him. Sadness creeps in when I notice the photograph in his hands is one of him and Connor.
I peer over his shoulder at the picture of the only two men I’ve ever loved.
"I hated every minute of training,” Brandon says. “Only stayed because I refused to leave him."
Connor only joined the army because Brandon did. They had always taken care of each other.
I take the picture frame from his hand, trying to forget the pain and remember anything else. "I bet Connor a hundred quid you wouldn't last three weeks."
"Ye of little faith.” Brandon snorts, then shakes his head. “I'll give it to you; I was close to walking out when they made us sit in that muddy ditch for two days in the piss-wet rain. But Con was determined…"
I rest my chin on his shoulder, sucking in the scent of soap and sweat, the unmistakable, unchanging smell of Brandon that automatically makes me feel at ease. It’s familiar—he’s familiar, and I realize I still have some part of my life right here with him. "We don't have to let him go, Brandon,” I say. “Just the hurt. But never him."
"I was screwed up long before Connor died. That just… It pushed me over the edge. I'm angry at everyone and everything." He turns, resting his forehead to mine while his callused fingertips brush my cheek. "Except you."
Long moments pass, and I find myself leaning into his touch. His rough fingers continue to trail over my face, and the longer they do, the more I lean into him because it’s safe and as close to home as I’ll ever get. "I don't want to fix you, Brandon. I just want to understand you." Tears blur my vision, so I close my eyes.
"Trust me, you don't," he whispers.
"I know you, Brandon." I trace a finger over his shoulder. "Iknowyou."
There's a beat of silence before his thumb brushes my bottom lip. "God, I wish I was still that guy you knew, poss. I really do."
"You are," I whisper. "Deep down, you are."
And I believe that.
I have to believe that.
36
Brandon
“Deep down, you are,” she says. And there’s such misplaced hope in that statement.
"That guy wouldn't have kissed you, poss."
"That guydidkiss me once." On an exhale, her gaze drifts to my mouth, and her eyes close. "Besides, it was just a kiss, Brandon.”
"This is you and me. There is no 'just.'"
A sad smile touches her lips. “But we've always beenjustfriends."
I can still picture the broken expression on her innocent, sixteen-year-old face as I uttered those exact words to her.We’re just friends.I can practically feel my chest aching the same way it did then. The truth is, we were never just friends.
I felt things for her that I had no right to feel, because Connor loved Poppy, and I loved him. So I stepped back and watched destiny take its course, even though I wanted her more than anything else, even though I was too selfish to ever let her go completely. And every day I felt like the world's biggest prick because I was in love with my best friend's girl. Every day, I looked at her and pretended I felt nothing. In a way, nothing has changed.
