Page 90 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"I'm serious."
"You're the only one who can help me, poss. I don't know what you want from me."
But I can’t help. I can't make things better for him, because sometimes, I'm just as lost as he is, and sometimes, I fear our sorrow threatens to drown us both. "Brandon, don't you see I can't fix you. I can’t—"
"Fix me?" His eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches before he carefully shifts me off his lap and stands.
That came out differently than I meant it, and I stumble for words to backtrack, but he’s already pacing.
"Is that what I am to you?" His body bristles with agitation, and his fists clench. "Something broken? Defective?"
"I didn't mean it like that.” My heart pounds against my ribs. “I just meant—"
"I don't need you to fixshit!" He storms out of the room, and I drop my chin to my chest on a hard exhale.
I know that sounded like I think he’s a broken toy that can be pieced back together, but that’s not at all what I think. I’m terrified, worried that nothing will make this better and that all he’ll do is continue to sink in the muck and mire of depression, and it makes me angry. It makes me angry that this is the life he’s been given—we’vebeen given. Nothing about it seems fair. I follow him into the hallway. "You don't need to be fixed; you need help.Weneed help.”
"There isnohelping this!" His voice booms off the walls, and I flinch. "There is no fucking cure. Nofix. This is survival, one day at a time. You knew what you were getting, Poppy." He spreads his arms wide as a mocking laugh slips from his lips. "Is it everything you hoped it would be?"
That dig stings, and it brings angry blood rushing to my cheeks. From the age of ten, I had hoped for so much more for us, for Connor. "Nothing in my life has ever been everything I hoped it would be. But the way you were yesterday—"
"It was Connor's fucking birthday yesterday!" he shouts, then slaps a palm over the wall, and my thoughts come to an abrupt halt, my lungs seizing.
I forgot him. I was so consumed with running late and Brandon and Mr. Brighton, so worried about my life as it is now, that I forgot someone I promised I never would, and this is where my strength gives out.
Burying my face in my hands, I sink to the floor. This time, I don't try to stop the tears from falling.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. To Brandon and Connor. "I forgot.” A fresh wave of pain grips my heart in its clutches.
Brandon crouches in front of me, swiping his thumbs below my eyes to dry my tears before he pulls me to his chest, cocooning me in his warmth. "It’s all right.”
But it’s not. I want to throw things and punch things. I want to destroy something until it's as ugly and battered as I feel—but, instead, I cling to him.
"I love you," he mumbles against my hair.
When I fall to pieces, he is the only thing that keeps me from completely breaking.
51
Brandon
October 2015
Istep into the ring and crack my neck from side to side. Josh Harmon grins before he blows me a kiss.
"I'm gonna break that pretty little face of yours," he says. His eyes are blown wide, pupils nothing more than pinpricks, and his hands twitch in agitation as he bounces on his feet.
Brilliant.I tell Larry to step it up, and he brings me some gear-jacked thug.
I don’t respond to his jeers, but I do allow the rage to swirl and build like a thick cloud until it swamps me, wrapping me in its tendrils.
The sound of Larry's voice becomes a distant hum, as if I'm underwater, removed from the situation rather than at the center of it. And then, the bell dings and everything snaps back into place in an instant: the roar of the crowd, the smell of sweat, beer, and cigarettes. And the rage—it punches against my skin like a rabid animal waiting to get out.
Harmon comes at me like a train, fists swinging. He instantly tries to step inside and block my leg with his. It's a dirty move, and in any normal fight, an illegal one. I swerve to avoid his trip and catch the end of his swing, only a glancing blow, but enough to split my lip.
I pause, swiping my fingertips over the tiny cut and smiling when my hand comes away bloody. He comes at me again. Whatever he's on must be some good shit because he's lightning-fast, but even with his speed, I still nail him twice in the face. It doesn’t faze him.
He takes another swing. His fist barely brushes past my side, but I wince at the sting that breaks out over my skin. When I glance down, I notice three bright red lines stretching across my ribs. Blood wells up and spills down my side, and the crowd erupts. Some booing, some cheering.
