Page 72 of The Beginning and End of Everything
My eyes lock with his, and I let my legs fall open in invitation. It’s then that the incredible weight and warmth of his body covers mine—skin to skin. I'm desperate for this connection, and at the same time, I'm terrified.
The emotion, the raw need to belong to him, consumes us both, and the way we tumble and fall is heartbreakingly beautiful. Two people who shouldn't belong together but can’t belong to anyone else.
Each breath and touch and kiss ingrains itself within me until there is nothing more than Brandon and me, drowning in our own tragic bliss—expressing the inexpressible through the movements of our bodies.
I want to linger right here, immortalize us in the dark of night because right now, we're both whole, and I know it will never stay this way.
42
Brandon
Ilie in the dark, listening to Poppy's soft breaths. Her cheek is pressed to my chest, her small body nestled against my side, every naked inch of her touching me. I have slept with countless women and drunk enough whiskey to drown a small town—all in a bid to forget. And the irony is, she is the only thing that shelters me from my own memories. Yet she's the very thing that should haunt me the most.
At times, she's the only thing that keeps me grounded, the only thing that makes sense. But she's also my biggest source of conflict. The second I step back, the second I get some perspective, I remember that fact.
I crave the calm that she brings, even when I have no right to. I close my eyes, and the image of her and Connor on their wedding day flashes through my mind. They were so happy, and she looked at him like he was her entire world. He was, to both of us, and now we're living in some post-apocalyptic replica of a time when Connor made everything seamlessly better.
I wake up to sunlight pouring through the cream curtains. It's morning. I slept through the whole night. No nightmares. No sweating. I can't remember the last time I made it through the night without a serious dose of whiskey or weed.
Poppy is lying next to me on her side, the duvet skimming her hips and exposing her naked back. And in the cold light of day, it’s all too real. This is Poppy, my possum, Connor’s wife. It feels…wrong to see her like this.
The guilt is warring with my basic instinct to survive because I'm no longer deluded enough to think that I can do this without her. It's too dark, too bottomless. She is my only source of hope, my light at the end of the tunnel. And as awful as I feel about betraying Connor, as much as I loved him, I can't quite make myself let go of that light.
I silently climb out of bed and go to the bathroom. Perspective; that’s all I need, just a moment.
My battered and bruised reflection stares back at me from the bathroom mirror. I can barely look at myself, and it has nothing to do with my exterior injuries.
I climb into the shower and allow the hot water to soothe my aching muscles. Bracing my forearms against the tile, I drop my head forward and rest it against the cold surface. This is a mess of epic proportions. I don't even know what I think or feel anymore, but the ever-present band of panic is tightening around my chest, squeezing me. The thought of facing Poppy is too much.
I need air.
I finish my shower and dry off before grabbing some gym clothes from the bathroom floor. Praying Poppy doesn't wake up, I head to the living room, shove on my shoes, and walk straight out the front door like my arse is on fire.
43
Poppy
When I woke this morning, Brandon was gone. And he’s never awake before midday. When I left to meet Hope for lunch, he still hadn’t come home or returned my call.
I’ve barely touched my sandwich, and every few minutes, I check my phone, which is enough to tip Hope off that something is going on.
"Was it any good?" she asks.
I finish my text to Brandon, asking if he’s okay before I look up. “What? Was what any good?"
She stares at me from across the table, clasping her coffee cup while a smirk settles on her lips. "Don't lie to me. I know you slept with the pikey. It’s all over your face.”
My cheeks sting with heat. Feigning a laugh, I reach for a packet of sugar, then dump it into my coffee. "Don't be ridiculous, Hope."
"Liar!" She points at me. "You are lying. I know you, and you slept with him." One eyebrow arches. "Stand up then."
"What?"
"Stand up. If you didn't sleep with him, stand up." A wry smile works its way across her lips when I don’t budge. "Just what I thought."
"Hope,” I sigh. “What are you talking about?"
"Just stand up, and I'll drop it."
