Page 73 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"Fine!" I push my cup to the side and get to my feet, tossing my hands in the air as I glare at her. "I'm standing."
Shrugging, she lifts her cup to her mouth and takes a sip. "Fine."
But when I sit back down, I can’t bite back the wince.
"Guilty!" she shouts, slamming her palm on the table like a judge with a gavel before she leans over, closing the space separating us. "The wince. You screwed him."
I prop my elbows on the table and cover my face with my hands.
My phone dings with a text, and I glance through the slit between my fingers, reading Brandon’s one-word response:Yep.
"Look at it this way, it's not like you're a first-time offender." She reaches across the table and yanks my hand away from my face. "Shit happens."
Shit happens. It sure does, I think, while I send another text.
Me: We need to talk.
Brandon: Yep.
Brandon hates when people send him one-word responses, so the fact that all he can manage isyepis not a good sign.
I stare into my coffee cup, unable to shake the tingling in my stomach when I think of how it felt when he touched me; of how much he is something I need and crave.
Another ding from my phone.Brandon: It was a mistake.And the reality of it all comes crashing down.
Later that evening,I sit on the patio of Hope’s apartment, staring across at the rows of identical, white townhomes.
I never texted to tell him I wasn’t coming back tonight, and although I should, he hasn’t sent another text after he said last night was a mistake. And what happens if I go back?
We fight. Maybe kiss, maybe end up in bed together again?
It’s as though all rationale disappears, and I’m unable to weed through my emotions. But most of all, I’m hurt and disappointed. In myself. In him…
Hope bustles onto the patio and takes a seat on the lounge beside me. "You like the flat?"
"Yeah, it's nice."
It’s extravagantly nice. A three-bedroom flat in a neighborhood most people only dream of living and Hope's father signed it over to her simply because she’d wanted it. That's how her life has always gone. Whatever Hope wants, if money can possibly buy it, it's hers.
I gaze off, watching a man across the street jog up to a door, roses in hand. He knocks, and when a woman answers the door, he wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her the way I only see in movies—the way Brandon kisses. A knot forms in the pit of my stomach, slipping like a snake coiled around itself, and I reach for the wine but stop.
"Go ahead. Drink it." Hope’s attention is also locked on the couple across the street. "Trust me, sometimes you just need it."
"I don'twantto need anything."
"Ah, but that's a problem. We all needsomething, don't we?" Hope releases a long sigh. "Poppy, I know you're confused about the whole Brandon thing, but stop beating yourself up."
"I can't lose him."
"You’ll never lose Brandon O’Kieffe," Hope says. “Since the day I met you, that boy’s been as lovesick for you as you have been for him. He may be a pikey, but if he makes you happy…” She studies me for a moment. “What are you scared of, Poppy?”
While I am worried about losing Brandon, I think what I’m most afraid of is losing the memory of Connor. “Forgetting Connor,” I whisper.
Hope’s face crumples, and she reaches for my hand. “Poppy, you won’t forget him, but he’s gone, and nothing is going to bring him back.”
I close my eyes and lean back in the seat, wishing things never had to change. After a few minutes, Hope exhales. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but sometimes, the regret of not doing something is far worse than the regret of what you did."
And that's just the thing, either way, I know I will regret something.
