Page 89 of The Beginning and End of Everything
Brandon mumbles Connor's name in his sleep, and chill bumps scatter my skin.
He sits bolt upright in the bed, chest heaving as he pulls in deep breaths. His head whips to the side, and when his eyes fix on me, he relaxes. "Did I hurt you?"
Shaking my head, I rub a hand over his clammy chest, and he falls back against the mattress, his chest still heaving, and his skin clammy with sweat. “Bad dream?”
He nods.
"Tell me.”
Inhaling, he turns to face me. "I can't." His eyes squeeze shut, and he swallows. "It's not the kind of shit you talk about."
I don’t say anything, but when his eyes open and meet my gaze, he exhales again before he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me down against his chest, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Go to sleep, poss."
I think of Mr. Brighton, of how he called the memories of the war ghosts. And I just want to know. "Tell me, Brandon.Please."
"You don't want to know the details of how he died. It will run through your mind on repeat. Trust me."
I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, like a caged animal desperate to get out. "I am stronger than you think,” I say. “I accepted long ago that it was brutal." I pause, my gaze veering up to him for the briefest of moments. I feel like I’m invading some personal space of his, but I can't help it. "Did he suffer?"
"No. It was an IED. I don't even remember the bomb going off. I just remember waking up. The foxhound was on its side, everyone else was dead. I tried to save him, I tried, but he was already gone." His voice is a distant hum, disconnected as though he recalled a story he read in the paper. "The truck was leaking diesel, and, for a moment, I thought that if I just stayed there, just kept pressing on his chest, the whole thing would blow, and I wouldn't have to crawl out of that fucking truck and leave my best friend behind."
For a second, I feel like I'm suffocating with him. There are so many things I selfishly want to force out of him, but I won’t. I just want the undue guilt he carries day in and day out to vanish. For all Connor meant to me, I know he meant so much more to Brandon. Connor was my love, but to Brandon, Connor was his salvation. "You did the right thing,” I whisper. “You know that."
"There were four of us in that truck. Connor was the best person I knew, and he died while I survived.Howis that right?" He inhales a ragged breath. "It's not fucking right."
"Some people, Brandon…" I fight the tears and the hurt, even though I want nothing more than to collapse and crumble. I want to wallow in this hurt with Brandon, but I can't allow myself. "Some people are too bright for this world."
He squeezes me tighter. "Yeah. He always was the golden boy."
50
Poppy
Every time I closed my eyes last night, my mind drifted to thoughts of Mr. Brighton, of how he smiled and called Doris a wench the last time I saw him. I wondered what dark place he must have been in for to death to seem enticing. For most people, life is a series of ups and downs, peaks and valleys—but when the valley is so damn bleak and dark, how long can a person survive there?
I'm afraid one day Brandon may get so low he'll never be able to come up again, like Mr. Brighton…because while Brandon wouldn't do something like that, that darkness would.
The coffee maker beeps, and I fill my cup to the brim just as the bedroom door creaks and Brandon shuffles out. Dark circles loom beneath his eyes, and I question how he can look so exhausted even though he slept most of the day yesterday.
"Morning," he mumbles as he steps in front of me and grabs a mug from the cabinet.
"Sleep good?"
"Yeah.” He cups my cheek and presses a kiss against my hair before moving to the coffee machine. He pours creamer into his cup, followed, of course, with whiskey before he moves to the couch. “You sleep okay?”
"Yeah…"
Mort claws his way up the side of the sofa, crawls into Brandon's lap, and nudges his hand. Brandon sips his coffee, stroking the tiny tuft of fur on Mort’s head while he stares off into the nothing, with a vacant glaze to his eyes. And I wonder, how would I know. How would I possibly know if Brandon had reached the point of no return? Anxiety creeps up my throat.
I sit on the edge of the sofa, petting Mort’s back. "Brandon.” I hesitate. I’ve always been able to talk to him, but something about this feels invasive, like I’m accusing him or degrading him. "I worry about you."
His eyes narrow, and he shoos Mort away. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“The doctors at the clinic are really good with PTSD, and I just thought…”
He rubs a hand over his face, places his coffee on the table, then takes my mug from my hand, and sets it beside his. “Poss”—he drags me into his lap and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear—"You're everything I need."
"Brandon, stop." I move his hand away from my cheek, and he glares at me.
