Page 84 of The Beginning and End of Everything
Over the past few months, I’ve come to look forward to his appointments. He tells me about his ex-wife and estranged children, about the war, and I tell him about Brandon. Sometimes I think I just want to have someone tell me Brandon’s going to be okay.
Mr. Brighton pulls a cigarette from his coat pocket and lights it. “He’s still fighting?”
“He says it’s all he’s good at.”
He nods knowingly as he takes another drag from the cigarette. “You know, Poppy, Hollywood is a crock of shit.” Smoke billows from his lips. “They paint this picture of war where it's all black and white, it's not. There are a million shades of gray in there." Another swift drag. "I've not met many soldiers who actually wanted to kill someone."
He's no longer looking at me, more like through me. It’s the same fogged-over look Brandon gets when he talks about the war like it drags them right back to that desert and holds them hostage in their own head. So, I stand, waiting for Mr. Brighton to come back.
Squeezing his eyes closed, he lifts the cigarette to his lips, his hand shaking as he puffs away. "Killing a person, it screws with your head. It's not like in the movies, Poppy. Most of us aren't running out there in a battle cry with guns raised, bullets flying. Most of us, whether we’ll admit it or not, are scared shitless. And those horrors we live day in and day out, they don't ever go away. They haunt you. They whisper to you in your sleep." He hesitates for a moment. "Sometimes, I think the guys who died were the lucky ones because they have peace, and that's a damn sight more than I can say for myself."
The hum of traffic on the road swirls around me. I know I should say something, but I'm at a loss.
He frowns. “I think the fighting doesn't matter much because the fighting's not the root cause of it, you know? He stops fighting, that war, those horrors," he taps his forefinger over his temple, "They'll still be there. Until he can learn how to ignore those ghosts clinging to his back, well…"
It feels like a stone just sank to the bottom of my stomach because it all sounds so hopeless.
"Hey, poss."
Mr. Brighton glances over my shoulder, and I turn around to find Brandon a few steps behind me, his hands shoved in his pockets.
I introduce the two men, and they shake hands, followed by an awkward silence.
Mr. Brighton clears his throat, locking his gaze on Brandon as he nods toward me. "Your Poppy is the ray of sunshine around here, you know it?"
Brandon smiles, and a cab pulls over to the curb. Mr. Brighton tosses the cigarette down before he clasps a hand over Brandon’s shoulder. "You take care of her.” Then he turns to me. "You've got a good heart, love. And I thank you for that."
"See you next week, Mr. Brighton," I say.
He waves as he climbs into the cab.
"He's my favorite," I tell Brandon as we walk down the sidewalk. "He reminds me of you."
48
Brandon
We watch her patient take off in the cab, and then I take Poppy's hand and lead her down the steps to the subway.
"You know I can drive?" Poppy says.
I shake my head. "We're going into the city." London at rush hour...we'll be on the road for hours.
I can feel her eyes on me. The underground this time of day is a personal brand of hell for me, but I want to do this for her. I want to show her some kind of normalcy and be able to give her a life. That involves doing shit outside of the apartment. So, I grip her hand as we fight our way through the commuters and squeeze onto a packed tube.
I hate having people at my back, and tension grips my body as sweat trickles down my neck. Poppy subtly shifts, moving behind me and wrapping her arms around my waist. My gaze darts around at the people pressing in on us, and the second we reach our stop, I'm dragging her through the open doors. She never complains, simply jogs to keep up with me. When I reach the top of the steps, I take a deep breath as the tightness in my chest evaporates.
"Okay?" she asks.
I nod. "Yeah, come on. We'll be late."
"You still haven't told me what we're doing."
"That's generally what a surprise entails, you not knowing." I smirk at her.
We move through the crowded streets of central London until we're right by the river. The smell of silt, oil, and shit hang heavy in the air.
Poppy shoots me a funny look when I lead her toward the London Eye. "You, the guy whorefusesto do, in your own words, touristy shit, are going to the London Eye?" She puts a palm to my forehead. "Have you fallen ill, babe?"
