Page 70 of The Beginning and End of Everything
41
Poppy
May 2015
The warmth of Connor's fingers skims my waist, dancing underneath my shirt as real as if they were really there, caressing my skin. I smile. I've missed him. This touch. The way this feels. His warm lips kiss the crook of my neck, and his arm wraps around my waist, tugging my body flush with his. Halfway between awake and asleep, I recognize it’s a dream, but as my eyes flutter, I fight to remain asleep—to stay in the dream and his embrace. I don't want to let go when it feels so real, so right, so needed. I can still feel his hands on me, his lips…
But even as my eyes pop open, I still feel his hands on me, his lips—then Brandon groans against my throat. And I realize why it was so real. Brandon shifts in the bed, his hold on me tightening.
"Don't," he mumbles, his breathing deep and uneven with sleep. "Don't leave me," he whispers before his lips press against the top of my shoulders.
Nothing has happened between us since the day we kissed, although the tension has been unbearable. He and I both know what it's like to cross that line, and sometimes it's better to wonder what something would be like than to know.
But I long for that connection.
I’m starved of it. Sex and attraction and primal need. A heavy breath escapes Brandon's lips, the heat of it blowing across my skin, and sending chill bumps over my body while that undeniable urge settles between my thighs just before the guilt perches on my chest. Only, I don’t know who I am betraying more, Connor for lying in Brandon’s arms, or Brandon for dreaming of Connor while I’m in his bed.
I love them both—separately—I always have.
Despite the fact that I keep telling myself Connor is gone and he wants me to live, I can’t seem to convince myself that it somehow justifies my feelings for Brandon or alleviate the guilt. If anything, death simply immortalizes Connor’s place in my life. It took everything he was and preserved it in stone, leaving him untouchable and incomparable for eternity. But Brandon and I aren’t frozen in stone.
We're here, living, breathing.
We're what's left.
I bite at my lip and turn in the bed to face him, watching the way the streetlight plays across his face while he sleeps. His eyelids flutter. His chest peaks and dips unevenly. I can literally see him fighting those dreams that seem to haunt him more nights than not, and all I want to do is take that away from him.
Leaning over his face, I trail my fingertips over his warm arm and along his side, and I whisper, "I love you, Brandon.” And I touch my lips to his. One quick kiss, it’s all I need for fear to rise in my chest.
I go to pull away, but his hand flies to the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair, and his lips part beneath mine. One of his arms winds around my waist, then he pulls me flush against his solid body. My mind and body go to war, rationality battling against a basic primal need.
But Brandon doesn’t hesitate. His fingers slide beneath my shirt and splay across the small of my back, igniting something raw, something that has been glaringly absent since the last time he kissed me. Only Brandon can heal my broken soul with the splintered remnants of his. He kisses me until I don’t know where he starts and I begin, and just when I’m convinced he’ll never let me go, he does.
We’re both breathless, staring through the darkness at one another.
"Brandon—"
"Shush, poss." He doesn’t give me time to protest and instead drags me onto his chest, placing his palm against my cheek. His lips brush my hair, and his arm tightens around my waist before he relaxes beneath me. Minutes later, his breathing evens out. He's fallen asleep, leaving me very much awake—and on top of him.
I barely slept last night,which has made for a taxing day at work. But even though I’m exhausted, I'm glad to be working again, thankful for the sense of purpose. I finish making notes on Mr. Brighton’s chart before filing it away. So much of his story reminds me of Brandon. Mr. Brighton lost his best friend to a roadside bomb. He was the one survivor in the convoy, and he’s every bit as angry at life as Brandon. Today, he shouted at Doris, the charge nurse who looks like a true-life version of Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother because she "glared" at him.
Doris slaps a patient file on the counter before checking her watch. "Past time for you to go, dear.” She fluffs her graying hair, and a slow grin works over her lips. “Unless you want to go play Bingo with Mary and me tonight?"
I log off the computer and grab my purse from behind the desk. "I’ve got dinner plans with a friend.”
Her face lights up, and she wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh. A guy friend?”
“No, but I’ll take a raincheck."
“Raincheck. Pfft.” She waves me off. "You're young. You don’t want to play bingo with a lot of old birds. Although…" She grabs her handbag and rummages through it before pulling out a shiny, silver flask. "I do like to hit the bottle hard on a Friday night.”
Laughing, I push open the door. “I’ll see you later, Doris.”
I try to call Brandon on the way home to see if he wants to go to dinner with Hope and me—although I know he’ll say no—but he doesn’t answer.
The second I set foot in the apartment, I know why he didn’t answer.
The staple bottle of whiskey sits on the coffee table, and Brandon’s on the sofa, legs spread and elbows resting on his thighs while he stares at the ground. He doesn't spare me a glance, not when I close the door or when I drop my keys loudly on the counter. I clear my throat, and still nothing.
