Page 67 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"Youwant to go to a museum."
"I like the dinosaur," I grumble.
She laughs and loops her arm through mine. "Okay. Dinosaurs it is."
By the timewe walk the mile or so to the museum, her cheeks have flushed a rosy red from the cold, autumn wind. I pay the admission to get in, and then we're standing in front of the massive Brontosaurus skeleton, its neck stretching toward the high ceiling.
We once came here on a school trip, and another time, Connor's parents visited London for a long weekend and brought me along to keep him company. There was always something so grand about it. I can't really explain it, but when I’m standing in front of the remnants of a creature that is millions of years old and probably five times the size of an elephant, I suddenly feel small. So incredibly inconsequential.
Poppy smiles as she watches a screaming child goes hurtling past me, a balloon trailing in his wake as a stressed-looking guy runs after him. The kid runs circles around the poor man, and I wonder what she’s thinking—if she’s thinking about the children she never had with Connor.
"I miss being that little sometimes, you know?" Her gaze is still glued to the kid.
"Yep. No responsibilities, free food, and you can even shit yourself and someone else will clean it up for you."
She drags her attention from the child and scrunches her nose at me. "You’re such a boy."
I cock a brow. "All man, sweetheart."
"Oh my God, come on." She marches away from me, and I follow, laughing—and staring at her arse. I need to stop doing that.
She wanders around the room, finally stopping in front of the butterfly display.
"Kind of harsh," I say, looking at their lifeless bodies pinned to a board encased behind glass, hundreds of them all lined up in rows. All so people can admire their pretty wings.
Poppy studies the insects behind the glass and then turns to meet me with sympathetic eyes. "It is, but then again, life is harsh, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but it's not supposed to be for a butterfly. Damn.” I lean closer, studying the iridescent color of their wings. “Don't they only get a few months anyway?”
"Maybe months are years to butterflies, who knows.” Poppy shrugs. “Quality of life, not quantity, right?”
I stare at the butterflies for a moment longer, then tentatively thread my fingers through hers. It feels strange, and yet, the simple touch grounds me.
The museum crowd seems a little less threatening, the noises quieter. Poppy brings me back to the here and now, physically forcing everything else from my mind. It seems impossible, and yet, hereweare.
39
Poppy
After dinner in a small pub, we take a cab back to Brandon’s house. It sputters to a stop, and I check the meter before pulling money from my purse, but Brandon grabs my shoulder and passes cash to the driver.
"You know, we could have taken the tube," he says, climbing out and stopping to hold the door for me.
He acts like it’s no big deal, but I wasn’t blind to how uncomfortable the train made him. The smallest movement from someone beside him and his eyes went wild. His muscles remained tense the entire time we were out, and I could tell it took everything in him just to focus on me when I would speak. There was no way I'd force him back on that tube, but I also didn’t want him to think I knew how uneasy he was.
"I wanted to take a cab," I say as we step inside.
He falls onto the couch and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Want to watch a film?"
"Sure." I sit beside him, ignoring the awkward tension that shouldn’t be there—the desire that wants nothing more than his lips on mine again. I subtly lean away, putting a little space between us.
"Pick something.” He drops his phone onto my lap on his way to the kitchen, and I scroll through Netflix.Stardust, Pirates of the Caribbean, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and…
"Hey, Brandon?"
"Yeah."
"How do you feel about a classic?"
