After the End

by Alex Kidwell

  “Wait.” A smile curled up my lips. “You were a science geek?”

  “A very handsome science geek,” Brady shot back, poking a finger at me with a haughty look that only lasted through the beginnings of his laugh. Rubbing a hand through his hair, he shrugged. “I like knowing what makes people work. But now I use that knowledge for creating beautiful moments instead of cutting open frogs.”

  Our coffee and pie came out and I dug into the sweet fruit. As promised, Brady reached over to steal my crust. I batted at his fork with mine, but he triumphed, grinning. I didn’t mind at all.

  “How about you? Tracy mentioned something about a store?”

  Shifting a bit, I fussed with my coffee, adding cream, keeping my eyes down. “Uh, yeah. I own a comic book store.”

  People had different reactions to that. Mostly, I got laughed at. Yes, the grown man still spent his days talking about comic books. And Brady did laugh, yeah, but it wasn’t an unkind sound.

  “Really? That’s kind of adorable.”

  My eyes lifted to find him smiling at me. Something tight lifted in my stomach, a soaring kind of lurch, and I fiddled with my fork. “Adorable?” I murmured, quirking up an eyebrow.

  “Yeah.” His hand stole across the table to find mine, that smile still doing weird flippy things in my chest. “Cool. Adorable. Kind of awesome. Take your pick of adjectives.”

  “You really shouldn’t be this sweet,” I managed, kind of abruptly, though maybe it just felt that way because my cheeks were all red and I was barely able to keep from stuttering. “I just…. You’re the first person I’ve done this with in a really long time. And Aaron….”

  And Aaron. Wasn’t that always the coda in everything? The start and the end and the fucking middle. And Aaron. Only there wasn’t any and anymore.

  But instead of pulling away, instead of recognizing the whole Titanic-sized crater of mess I was carrying around with me, Brady just tightened his grip on my hand. Hanging on past what I thought any sane person would. “Tell me about Aaron,” he said, so softly, so kindly, that I really did start to cry then. Right in the middle of some stupid diner, over my plate of peach pie with no crust, I cried.

  Just like that, Brady was sitting next to me, arm around my shoulders as he pulled me in close. “It’s okay,” he hushed, lips pressed against my hair. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. Shit. I’m sorry, Quinn.”

  Making some terrible snorting sob, I shook my head. I rubbed the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying desperately to suck in air, to compose myself. “No. God, no, it’s not you. Jesus, I’m just a fucking mess.” I attempted a smile, shaky and blurry eyed looking up into Brady’s concerned face.

  “Not a mess.” The backs of his fingers traced across my cheeks. It was like he didn’t even care we were in public, he was so focused on me. On us. “Just a guy who’s been hurting for a while.”

  Another terrible snotty sound and I forced myself to pull back, to not use his shirt like a place to deposit all my tears. This was only a really nice guy I’d just met. He did not need me losing my mind all over him in the middle of a diner. “Yeah, well,” I mumbled, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “Do, uh, do you want to get out of here?”

  “Sure.” Smoothly, Brady paid the bill, grabbed his coat, and held mine out to help me into it. He was so damn graceful about everything, like it didn’t even faze him that I was blubbering everywhere in the middle of a whole bunch of people. It wasn’t until we got out onto the street, his hand firmly at the small of my back, that the mortification hit.

  My God. I’d turned into a Regency romance heroine.

  “I can’t believe I just did that,” I admitted, the cold air stinging against the wetness of my cheeks. I scrubbed them more vigorously, as if that could erase my embarrassment.

  “What?” Brady asked, voice a low rumble as he let his hand slide more firmly around my waist, pulling me gently into him. “Had a little moment? It’s okay, Quinn.” He looked over at me, expression serious behind the soft smile. “I mean that. It really is okay. You can stop apologizing to me for grieving.”

  Frowning slightly, I just leaned into him, letting the streets wash past me, the people, the noises, all of it. It faded away.

  “I met Aaron while I was taking a shortcut across the college campus. I, uh, I was doing a presentation for their graphic arts classes. Aaron was out on the lawn with this giant broadsword.” A smile quirked up my lips and I breathed out a laugh. “He was waving it around and I just…. How do you walk away from that? This giant man with red hair and a sword, bellowing about the class system and the political structure of Rome. And he looked over at me where I was standing in this group of people who’d stopped to watch, and he smiled. And that was it, you know?”

  Brady’s arm tightened around me slightly. “Yeah,” he murmured, thumb rubbing along my side. “Yeah, I kinda do.”

  Feeling a bit worn out, I let my feet follow his until we were standing outside my place. “We didn’t really get coffee,” I offered, quiet, eyes darting up to him and back down again as I struggled to get my key to work. “If you want to come in, uh, maybe we can make some? I don’t have pie, but….”

  As my voice trailed off, Brady just gave me a sad little smile. He reached out, gently tucking a strand of my hair back, fingers dropping to straighten the scarf he’d loaned me. “I’d really love to, Quinn,” he said. “But we’re icebergs, remember? Super glacial slow. And if I come in, I’m going to want to kiss you.”

  A surge of heat hit me at that, at the way he was looking at me, at how close and gorgeous he was. Following it, though, was a twist of guilt, souring the anticipation and making my eyes drop. He was right there, gently nudging my head back up with two fingers under my chin. “I had a great time tonight,” he told me earnestly, gaze searching mine. “Look, you’re someone who’s still trying to figure everything out. I respect that. And I get that until you do, I’m going to be living with the ghost of your ex for a while. But I like you. We click. So I’m okay with just being your movie buddy for the time being.”

  Taking a deep breath, I nodded. “I had a good time too, Brady,” I assured him. I reached out to fuss with his jacket, trying to laugh at my own stupidity. “Even if I was a total spaz.”

  “Yeah, well, I like spazzes sometimes,” he rumbled, hands covering mine. We stood like that for a few beats, just warmth and closeness and the depths of his eyes.

  I leaned in and kissed his cheek, softly, a bare brush of my lips against his skin. I felt him shudder in a breath under my hands, and he tilted his head to return the touch.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked quietly, voice a breath against my ear. “Tracy’s dinner looms.”

  I nodded, pulling back with reluctance and a strange, sick twist of relief at the distance. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  With one last smile, one last trail of his fingers against mine, he was gone. And I was alone again.

  Chapter 3

  THE cat got sick on the carpet.

  I’d dreamed of Aaron. Nothing earth-shattering—but then again, when the world itself had ended around you, you didn’t long for the grand anymore. I dreamed of his weight in the bed beside me, of the warmth of his legs under the sheets next to mind. I dreamed I wasn’t alone.

  And then the goddamn cat got sick on the carpet.

  I woke from bliss to the cacophonous retching sounds of Winston deciding the best way to wake me up was to redeposit his previous dinner on the floor next to my bed. For a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, at the lazy turn of the ceiling fan. Just for a moment, I let myself miss Aaron so much it hurt to breathe.

  Winston’s substantial weight landed on my stomach, sharp claws kneading me through the blanket. “Yeah, yeah,” I sighed, rubbing a hand through his fur. Winston arched up into it, a rumbling, rusty purr resonating through him. After a moment, with a head nudge against my arm, he padded over to the empty pillow next to me and collapsed into a furry circle.

  So we lay there. Him and m
e, in a bed that was too big, me staring blankly at the ceiling and watching the fan turn. It wasn’t Aaron’s pillow any longer. Just an empty spot for the cat to nap.

  Eventually, I had to move. I cleaned up after Winston, I made coffee, I lived. I went about my life. And the dream of Aaron faded, as they always did, because he wasn’t real. All that personality, that giant, beautiful man, had been reduced to a ghost.

  Shuffling into the living room, I looked around, a bit at a loss. I had my coffee in my hand, the sun was peering through the windows, the couch was empty. It seemed a simple equation. But what did I do, really? What was the point of sitting? Of drinking the damn coffee, of staring out the window, of doing anything? Aaron couldn’t. Instead of warmth and love and laughter, instead of planning our weekend or reading the paper in cozy silence, it would just be me.

  I did manage to sit at some point. The coffee was cold by then. It didn’t matter; honestly, I didn’t want to drink it. I wasn’t sure how long I sat curled up on our couch that was now my couch, but it was long enough that Winston decided to come and check why I wasn’t attending to his every whim. My bare feet were requisitioned as his new nap spot, and he blinked happily at me as his paws made biscuits with the air.

  Finally, though, I pulled myself out of the world of shadows and half-seen ghosts. I went to the front door and pulled it open, expecting to find my paper curled up on the front welcome mat. And it was; my paper guy was very meticulous. No paper in the bushes for me. Then again, I didn’t have bushes, so that probably helped.

  But next to the paper was a white bakery box.

  Frowning, glancing around, I hesitantly picked both up, juggling them as I nudged Winston away from the open door and headed back inside. I wasn’t expecting a package, not that there was a label or anything to give me a hint what it might be. Probably not a bomb. I wasn’t exactly bomb material. Was anthrax still a thing?

  After putting the box down on the kitchen table, I pulled a chair over and sat, chin resting on my folded arms, studying it. It didn’t appear to be ticking. And it was too small to hold a head of some kind. Maybe a hand. A smaller body part would definitely fit.

  I really needed to stop watching crime television.

  “Okay, O’Malley,” I muttered, rolling my shoulders back. “You are not afraid of a white box.” Right. No Brad Pitt moments here.

  After tugging open the top, I stared down inside for a long beat, completely speechless.

  Inside was a delicious-looking bowl of peach pie filling. Not a crust to be seen.

  BOTTLE of wine in hand, I knocked on Tracy’s door. I was nervous. I was wearing a corduroy jacket over a T-shirt, I’d shaved, and I was nervous going to have dinner with my two best friends. Then again, it wasn’t seeing them that had my stomach in knots.

  “Quinn!” Tracy opened the door, her trademark smile filling the room. She bussed a kiss against my cheek, hauling me in for a hug. “I’m so glad you came.”

  “And he brought wine.” Annabeth was next, a calm hug following Tracy’s exuberance, both of them feeling more like home than anything else I had left. “My favorite. Someone’s trying to spoil us.”

  “Just a thank you,” I insisted as Anna took the wine away toward the living room with a kiss to Tracy’s cheek.

  “For what?” Tracy took my arm and led me into the kitchen. There was a knowing, smug glint in her eyes as we walked, the source of which I found as I looked up.

  Brady was there. His sleeves were rolled up, there was flour on his cheek, his hair was mussed, and he was laughing with Anna as she searched for a corkscrew. And my heart just… stopped.

  “Shut up,” I muttered to her, leaving her side to go to his. Brady greeted me with a warm smile and a hug, careful not to get his mess all over me.

  “Sorry,” he said with another laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I’m a disaster area when I bake. But, uh, it’s good to see you, Quinn.”

  “You too.” I was smiling back. God, how could I not smile back? “You, um.” Daringly, I reached out, an action that started as me fixing his collar but turned, somehow, into my hand just resting over his heart. His smile softened, and he took a step forward, eyes full of something that made my stomach surge, that dangerous, anticipatory lift shivering through me.

  The oven timer went off and the moment ended. My hand slipped away; Brady wrinkled his nose regretfully, but he turned to save the flan from burning. Taking a deep breath, I went to the wine like a homing pigeon. Annabeth gave me a sympathetic look, gripping my upper arm for a moment before pouring me a glass.

  “So, I have an opening in two months at the gallery. One of my artists just pulled out.” She smiled at me as I gulped down my first drink, eyes straying back over toward the kitchen. Brady was pouring and stirring, mixing something or other, and somehow all of it looked really good while he was doing it.

  Wait. Annabeth was giving me that expectant look, which meant probably she’d just said something I was supposed to respond to. I rewound the whole conversation in my mind and blinked, startled.

  “Are you asking me to do a showing?” I nearly stumbled over the word. “Anna, that’s really….”

  She was just looking at me with those totally accepting, infinitely patient eyes. Kind of like Mother Theresa crossed with a bulldog. She wasn’t going to let me stammer my way out of this. Tracy would push obviously, would take you by the damn hand and lead you to the water and shove your face down and give you a ten-page list on why you should drink. Anna, though, would walk beside you until you didn’t even realize she’d directed where you were going and then would sit there and wait for you to drink on your own. They were a diabolical team. I expected them to take over the world any day now.

  “It’s been more than two years, Quinn,” Anna reminded me softly, rubbing her hand along my arm, steel behind her eyes. “That’s a long time to not be happy.”

  “A show, though, Anna?”

  “A show about what?” Brady had joined us with a grin, his fingertips resting lightly on the small of my back as he reached over to take a glass of wine. I couldn’t help but give him a little smile, nudging my shoulder against his.

  “Quinn is an artist. Quite a good one, actually. I’m trying to entice him to save me from having bare walls for two weeks.” Annabeth gave me a look over the top of her glass, what I could only categorize as a smirk in her gaze.

  Brady pulled back enough to give me a look, eyebrows winging up. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  Shuffling my feet, I sighed, narrowing my eyes at Anna, who suddenly announced, tone an overt attempt at casual, “I think I need to go check on Tracy and the pasta. Excuse me, boys.”

  Evil woman.

  “Yeah.” I shrugged once she was swaying her way back to the kitchen. Was it possible for a walk to be smug? Because hers was.

  Okay. Well, this was a fun party story. Refilling my glass, I glanced up at him, at those wicked brown eyes under the now messy curls, at the flour he probably didn’t even realize was still brushed across his forehead. I reached out to smooth it off his skin, feeling my expression softening, the tense defensiveness I had when broaching this subject fading a bit. Brady had never done anything to make me think he was going to pry or push. He just wanted to know.

  “I used to draw and ink my own graphic novel,” I explained with a wry little twist of my lips. “I did some shows with the artwork. It was just something I used to do, you know? But once Aaron got really sick, I couldn’t…. None of the colors made sense anymore.” I didn’t know if he’d understand that—hell, some days it didn’t make sense to me either. But Brady nodded, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and kissing my temple.

  “Well, if you decide you want to grace Anna with your brilliance—” He laughed at that and I did too. It was a quiet choked sound, but I laughed. And I didn’t cry. Which was a first for me with Brady, embarrassingly enough. “—I will be the first one in line at the gallery to see your work.”

  Rolling my eyes
at his teasing, I took his hand and led him back into the kitchen. Back into the circle of warmth, into the hearth where two of my favorite women in the world were busy cooking and trying not to stare at us. “Since no one will let me cook—” I started, and Tracy laughed, shaking her head as she busily stirred sauce bubbling on the stove.

  “You mean because no one here is suicidal,” she poked fun at me, sticking her tongue out when I glared.

  “Anyway,” I said, accidentally on purpose tugging her hair out of its ponytail, “how about I set the table?”

  “I’ll help.” Brady smoothly followed me, grabbing the plates when I went for the silverware. “Dessert’s done. I’m officially out of things to do.”

  We went into the dining room, the sound of the clatter of pans and the women’s voices fading as the door swung shut behind us. Moving around the table, I carefully arranged the forks and knives in their appropriate spots. Brady was opposite me, setting the plates onto the linen tablecloth. My eyes kept going to his, over and over, our gazes meeting in a spark of heat before I forced my head back down. The clatter of a plate on the table made me glance up again and there he was, looking at me.

  We danced, the two of us, around the table. Putting silverware down. Plates. Napkins. Mundane actions and yet every one made heat surge in my gut because during each one he was silently watching me, movements graceful, hands so careful with each piece. We moved closer to one another until he was pressed against my back, arms wrapped around me to put the last plate down.

  “Done,” he breathed against my neck, nose nudging in behind my ear.

  With a low noise, I turned, grabbed his tie, and hauled him in for a kiss. An arm braced on either side of me, Brady went willingly, leaning me back across the table. Neat place settings scattered under me, but hell if I cared. Our tongues tangled together, the warm press of Brady’s lips on mine turning into a hungry gasp of need, a sharp thrill as we melted into one another.