Page 63 of The Beginning and End of Everything
Connor's ghost is more of a deterrent than he ever was in life.
In the end, we all lost. Poppy and I, we're all that's left of something so beautiful and so vital to my survival. I need her.
"No,” I say. “I loved you enough tobeyour friend. Even when it hurt." I take her chin in my hand, turning her face to mine. She won’t look at me. "I've always loved you, Poppy, and you know it." On instinct, I sweep a thumb over her bottom lip, hating myself when I remember how perfect her lips felt against mine all those years ago. "You bring me peace when all I know is war.” My hand drops, and I move closer, an instinctive pull dragging me in. “You always have."
Our lips graze, and a calm washes over me—one only found in the quiet of snow-covered woods. Silent and utterly still. I pull her closer, needing every part of her while the voice in the back of my mind screams how wrong this is, but it’s too late. Rational thought has given way to the simple need to survive.
And that's what Poppy feels like, survival.
A soft sob passes from her lips to mine before the kiss deepens. We're trapped in this swirling vortex of guilt and anger, twisted love and desperate need.
The kiss grows into something desperate, as though we're both fusing together while fracturing apart. The guilt eats away at me like a parasite.
If I were a better person, I would push her away.
If I truly loved Connor, surely I couldn't do this, to him—to her. But Poppy has always been too easy to get lost in.
Whatever sliver of my worthless soul is left, I will hand it over to her willingly, for this tiny piece of serenity and futile salvation.
Before I know it, I have my hands on her hips and shove her back onto the mattress. She’s so small beneath me, so fragile, and I crave her in a way that borders on insanity. I reach for the bottom of her shirt, leaning in to kiss her again, but she slides a hand over my mouth, halting me. The trance shatters, and, once again, I feel like an arsehole.
"I'm sorry." I drag a hand down my face, shame crawling over me.
Poppy is like holy ground that I just desecrated.
The mattress dips, the silence deafening as she walks from the room and closes the door.
There are some things a man can never take back, some things that have the potential to be destructive, and this is most definitely one of them.
37
Poppy
The unmistakable taste of Brandon’s lips rests on mine, and like a lovely poison, it leaves me dizzy.
The second his mouth touched mine, I lost all hope of pretending we have never been anything but friends. That kiss felt like a moment my entire life had been leading up to when it should have felt like the moment my life derailed. After all these years, I’m right back to where I started, only this time, as Brandon’s best friend’s widow.
My heart plummets to my stomach like a stone, sinking deep and hard until the weight of it brings me to the couch. I don’t know what I’m doing.
Memories flash through my mind like the projection of old, tattered film, and I bury my head in my hands.
Brandon O’Kieffe wasn’t just some guy—he wasn’t just Connor’s friend. For all of my life, he had been my secret. My secret first love and secret first kiss, and the only person, aside from Connor that I had ever slept with. A person I had felt so guilty for loving that I never once breathed a word of it to anyone for fear of what it may ruin.
The bedroom door creaks open, and Brandon comes down the hall, cramming clothes into his gym bag. He doesn’t even glance at me when he grabs the keys from the table and leaves me alone in his house.
“Shit,” I breathe, dragging my hands through my hair and flopping back against the sofa cushions.
The muffled bickers of two people arguing come through the window, but I’m too focused on the awkward conversation I’ll inevitably have this afternoon to be bothered by it until someone bangs on the door.
“Open the door, Poppy!” Hope shouts from the other side before the handle rattles. “I saw the pikey on the way out. Kicked him in the shin for being a ripe dick.”
I go to the door, and the second it swings open, Hope places one designer heel over the threshold, then halts. Her gaze swings from one end of the living room to the other, and the scowl on her face deepens to a disgusted snarl. “Dear God, and I thought the caravan was questionable.”
“How in the world did you find me?”
“Nice to see you, too.” With a roll of her eyes, she steps inside and shuts the door. “Do you have any idea how many calls I had to make to find out where an illegal fight ring was in London?”
“How did you…”
