After the End

by Alex Kidwell

  The frantic kiss slowed into something sweet, into softness and my hand tangling into Brady’s hair. We parted, heaving breaths, lips sliding along each other’s as if we couldn’t bear to move further away. “Hey,” I finally said, a smile spreading across my face.

  Brady laughed, nuzzling his nose against mine. “Hey, yourself,” he murmured.

  “You sent me pie.”

  Brady lightly nipped at my lower lip. Objectively, my first thought on that would have been what the hell because who bit someone, but the jolt of desire that hit my stomach at the little spike of pain totally shorted out any of my protests. I must have made a strangled, soft noise because Brady grinned, smooth as honey, and did it again, catching my lip between his teeth and then sucking away the sting.

  “I did,” he replied, voice a rumble I could feel in every inch of me.

  “With no crusts.” Odd how utterly hoarse my tone had gone, like all the air had gotten caught in a ball in my throat.

  “None at all.” Brady kissed me again, one hand sliding down my side to settle at my waist.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, lips moving along his jaw to his ear. I could feel his smile against my cheek and he breathed out a laugh, quiet and low.

  “I’m glad you came tonight.”

  God, so was I.

  Finally, we stood again, fingers tangling together as we straightened our clothes, as we laughed over swollen lips, as he kissed the blush on my cheek and I stood up on the balls of my feet to press my lips against the soft skin just in front of his ear. We rearranged the plates and silverware and napkins, grinning at one another. Sharing that moment between us with every look.

  Slow, yeah. Glacier slow. But Christ, he just looked so good tonight.

  “Ta da!” Tracy came into the room bearing a platter filled with steaming ravioli and butter sauce. Annabeth followed with bread and salad. We bustled about, helping them set everything up, Brady grabbing the wine and our glasses, and then we settled in.

  Brady took a deep breath, grinning and raising his glass to Tracy and Anna. “This smells delicious. Much better than the frozen pizza I had planned.”

  “Agreed.” I toasted them both, but my gaze kept being drawn to Brady, sitting across from me. His hair was still mussed from where my fingers had been caught in silk-soft waves, his cheeks were flushed a bit, and I liked to think it was more than just the wine and the candles that made him smile like that. It was terrifying to feel the surge of heat again, to be caught up in someone’s eyes. It was like I was waking up, bit by bit, the fog of the past two years melting in a puddle of peach pie and borrowed scarves.

  After dinner, Brady and I found ourselves in the kitchen, washing dishes side by side, the gentle clink of plates and cups underscoring the soft music coming from the other room. We were silent, the two of us, bubbles caught on my arms, Brady’s head bent over the drying rack.

  I’d kissed him. Impulsively, sweetly, I’d kissed him. In that moment, there’d been no Aaron at all. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what that meant. Ever since he’d died, ever since someone had taken my heart and laid it in cold dirt, had covered it with etched stone, people had been telling me to move on. To mourn him and to learn to live again.

  It’s what he’d want, I’d been told.

  You deserve to find someone new. As if it was that simple. As if my life could be shaken like a snow globe, turned over and inside out and the view changed. It was a puzzle, missing pieces forgotten as I struggled to make a new image whole.

  I wouldn’t want him to move on. That was my deep, dark secret. If I’d been the one to die, if it’d been me, I wouldn’t want him to find solace in someone else’s arms. Those were my kisses, soft and gentle on his lips. My laugh that had lit up the sky. My hands that had held and stroked and made real. He’d been mine, and I was his. I still was his, wasn’t I? Isn’t that what love was?

  Except I’d kissed Brady.

  Except I wanted to do it again.

  The water swirled down the drain, disappearing in a curl of velvet soapsuds. For a beat, there was nothing. Just us, Brady and I, standing and staring down at the sink.

  “I miss him,” I whispered, voice breaking. “Every second, like I’m screaming all the time, and I can’t stop. I want to go up to people and ask them why they can’t hear it. Why they can be smiling or laughing, why can people eat or drink or live when he’ll never do any of it again. How can I be happy without him? How can anything make any fucking sense?” My eyes went to his, to those damned beautiful depths, so kind and so confused. I could see it in his expression; what could he say? What could anyone?

  “But then I kiss you.” I moved a step forward, a magnet on string, his iron sweet solidness drawing me in. “I kiss you and I don’t miss him. I kiss you and I’m not living in that place. I’m not soaked in sickness and sadness and grief. I just… am. I can breathe.”

  With a soft noise, he reached out for me, gentle fingers trailing along my cheeks before he hooked me in close, before he did just that. He kissed me, hard enough I couldn’t do anything but be right there, with him. In that moment, in that little glimmer of life, I wrapped myself in him.

  “It scares me,” I admitted in a whisper. “I don’t know if I want to keep kissing you forever or hate you for making me forget him.”

  Brady’s lips twisted downward in sympathy as he fussed with my hair, brushing it back from my forehead. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. I just….” Huffing out a sigh, he kissed my forehead and wrapped his arms around me. “I don’t want you to forget him, babe. He was a part of you. He is a part of you. This isn’t you trying to replace him. It’s just where you are now, you know?”

  Face pressed into his chest, I nodded. It made sense. I knew it made sense. So why did I still feel sick with guilt just standing there with him?

  Eventually we pulled apart, hand in hand as we walked into the living room. There was flan and coffee, there was laughter and storytelling and conversation that went over my head. I sat in near silence, contributing a smile from time to time, a quiet laugh when it was needed. Mostly, I let myself float away on the feeling of not being alone. On the noise and the closeness that didn’t allow any ghosts at all in.

  “Let me walk you home.” Brady took my arm, wrinkling his nose at me in a smile as he tucked my scarf tighter around my neck.

  The moon was plump and full above us, hung in the crook of the buildings we passed, caught in tree branches and skylines. Our breath made smoky trails as we walked, footsteps crisp on the pavement. Brady was warm, solid next to me, hand never leaving mine.

  “I meant what I said,” he broke the silence, glancing over at me. “I’ll go slow. No matter how many times you grab me and kiss me.” He smiled, teasing, nudging my side with his elbow. “No matter how gorgeous you look tonight.”

  Worrying my lower lip, I tilted my head back, up toward the sky. Letting the night air surround us, I paused, taking deep breaths, eyes falling closed.

  “I’m confused,” I admitted.

  “I know.”

  IT WAS raining again. Fat drops beat against the window outside my store, sliding snakelike down the glass to join the rush of water along the sidewalk. No one had come into the store in hours. I’d sent Marty, my afternoon cashier, home early. Even with all the lights on, the world looked dim and half-asleep; there was no use in both of us spending our evening staring at the empty aisles.

  A sketchbook was open in front of me. White pages mocked me, smooth and open and meaningless. Every time I settled in to put pencil to it, to stroke life from the empty expanse, it was like I froze. Like any story I might coax up from lead and paper was already buried and forgotten.

  Irritated with myself, with my inability to do anything useful at all, I flipped the sketchbook closed. Shoving it in a drawer brought me only the smallest bit of satisfaction. Lighting it on fire, perhaps, would have been more fulfilling, but I didn’t think my
insurance guy would appreciate the sentiment.

  The bell above the door jangled merrily as someone took shelter from the storm. I barely glanced up; the downpour was a roar against the roof, a beast let loose on the deserted streets of the city. I doubted any true customers had braved the weather just to pick up the latest issue of crime fighting antics.

  “So, what would you recommend?” Two comics were laid on the counter in front of me as that silk-smooth voice wound its way around me, tugging my stomach into flip-flops. “Bug-bitten superheroes or the gritty antihero with a chip on his shoulder?”

  Brady was smiling at me, umbrella dripping on the floor, blond hair in messy waves from the wind. For all his knee-high boots and perfectly fitted leather jacket, he looked strangely at home in my store. Maybe it was just the way he was looking at me, corners of his eyes crinkled, whole expression open, like he’d come out in the sopping rain just for a chance at seeing me. Like that, somehow, would have been worth the trouble.

  “What are you doing here?” God, I was an idiot. The words were out before I could catch them and haul them back. It was a valid question, sure, but I definitely hadn’t meant to sound so blunt. Wincing, I reached out, fingers snagging the cuff of his jacket. “Not that it’s, you know, entirely unfortunate you stopped by,” I said softly, studying his face. “I just wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I thought you needed soup.” He held out a brown paper bag, tightly rolled against the cold outside. “Actually, I needed soup. It’s my morning off, so I made up a huge pot of vegetable stew. Only thing to do, really, with it raining cats and oversized dogs out.” While he talked, he pulled out two containers, unscrewing the lids and fishing out spoons from the bag as well. Next followed bread, crusty and still steaming with warmth. My eyes must have gone huge because Brady’s grin turned absolutely smug.

  “Oh, yeah. I made bread too. Since I had a little time.”

  “You made all of this?” I took the offered spoon, leaning over the food to take in a deep breath. A happy little noise escaped me as I closed my eyes, drowning in the spice and the smoky undertone of tomatoes, the yeasty goodness of fresh bread. “This is amazing. You are amazing.”

  Brady waved his spoon, dismissing my praise, but he did look extremely satisfied. “After everything was done, I realized the only thing missing was good company. Hence”—he gestured at himself with a slight bow—“me. Here. With you.”

  Laughing, I returned the bow, head inclining as I strove to maintain my serious expression. “Well, then. So long as you brought soup, I guess that’s okay, then.”

  “And bread,” Brady pointed out. “And my fantastic company.”

  “That is quite a deal I’m getting. Good thing I didn’t have lunch plans already. I can’t think of anything better.” Picking up the soup, my smile just a little shy, I nodded toward the back room. “Come on. I’ve got just the spot.”

  Through the swinging door, through the stockroom, I led Brady back into what had been, once upon a time, my sanctuary. Huge skylights covered the ceiling, the rain here more like a bass drum that pounded an underscore to our movements. There were long wooden tables scored with chalk and paint, white sheets covering canvasses, sketchbooks laid around like scattered leaves. Setting down the soup on a low table, I tugged a dusty sheet off the couch.

  “Sorry,” I murmured, wincing a bit. “I, uh, I don’t come in here often.”

  The couch wasn’t so bad, though, and Brady sprawled out onto it, that beautiful, calm smile easing the tense knot in my stomach. “It’s perfect.” He wasn’t poking around, wasn’t asking me questions. His gaze had gone over everything, brilliant and quick, much more intelligent than he’d ever say. It wasn’t exactly the Orient Express or anything—the mystery was only as deep as two years’ worth of dust, as charcoal and paints lying abandoned. But he didn’t pry. He just arranged our food and dug around in the bag for more napkins.

  “Let me just lock up,” I told him, nervously pleating my T-shirt hem in my fingers. He was just so there, so gorgeous and unassuming while taking up far more room on that couch than I’d ever imagined him capable of. Aaron had watched me from there, had sat reading his books or grading papers, sprawled out, green eyes darting to me again and again with so much tenderness it still made me ache. After, in that terrible desert of after, the couch had sat empty, waiting.

  And now Brady was there.

  I bustled to the front of the store again and glanced out the windows at the river of water rushing along the sidewalk to the storm drain. I couldn’t see anyone else around. Brady’s car was parked on the street in front; for all it appeared, he might be the last man left in the city. The streets were nothing more than pounding rain and scattered, drowned spots of color from the leaves.

  After locking the door, I grabbed two bottles of water from the small fridge in the stockroom. “Sorry I don’t have anything stronger,” I apologized as I walked back into the studio. “For some reason, drinking on the job is frowned on.”

  Brady was standing next to a canvas. The sheet was off, and he was staring at it, head cocked to the side. For a moment, a cold, sour feeling flashed through me, making me quite sure I was going to be sick. In three steps I was at his side, shaking hands tugging the covering back over the paint, hiding it away again.

  “Sorry,” he murmured. “I was getting rags to wipe off the table, and I bumped it and….” He rubbed a hand through his hair, expression torn between apology and something I couldn’t quite identify. Said rags were in his hand, and the paintbrush that had been sitting on the easel was on the floor. I didn’t doubt him. It was just that no one had seen my work since Aaron.

  “I am sorry, Quinn.” Brady was right there, hands on my shoulders, thumbs rubbing against my arms. I realized I’d gone utterly still, gaze caught on the white sheet draped over the picture. “It was beautiful, though. I’m sorry I saw something you weren’t ready for me to, but I have to say, it was amazing.”

  Dragging in a breath, I huffed out a sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh. I rubbed my hand across my face and jerked my chin in a nod, eyes still distant. I looked up at him after another beat and nodded once more, surer this time. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just a painting.”

  It was. It was just my work, just a part of me that had been frozen and forgotten for so long it hurt to acknowledge it. Like pins and needles when your arm fell asleep. Slowly, heart thundering louder than the rain, I reached out to tug the sheet away again.

  The painting was nothing special, I thought. A knight, standing on the roof of a modern building, armor tarnished and bloodstained, sword in hand as the lights of the city winked out around him. It was a piece I’d been preparing for a gallery show, before Aaron had taken a turn for the worse. Before my days had become the sterile, antiseptic scent of the hospital, before my nights had been clinging to his hand, paper-thin skin almost translucent under my touch.

  “What is it?” Brady asked, standing next to me, his shoulder warm and solid beside my own.

  Sighing, I put the bottles of water down and wrapped my arms around myself. “It’s a panel from one of my graphic novels. I had this character. The Knight. He was displaced from his own time, dropped into modern-day New York, and he became a crime fighter of a sort. The cynicism and horrors he saw gradually wore him down, all the idealism and innocence and purity he’d had before.”

  I moved to another canvas, this one propped against a wall. Turning it around, I revealed the Knight with another man, curly haired and bright eyed, their hands clasped, standing trembling on the edge of a kiss. “This was his partner, a mortician named Stuart. They fell in love. Stuart was the Knight’s humanity.”

  “What happened to them?” Brady was beside me, crouching down to examine the painting.

  “I couldn’t draw them anymore.” I shrugged, eyes dropping. The Knight was red haired and so alive, so achingly real. It wasn’t Aaron’s face, no, but he’d been my muse. In all things, but especially in this, he wa
s my muse. “The Knight lost his last flicker of hope and there was nothing more to tell.”

  Brady was silent for a moment. He stood, holding the painting up to the light. Strong hands clasped the edges of the canvas so gently. His gaze was intent as he studied my work. “Is this what Annabeth wanted you to show? This series?”

  “The Knight’s Heart,” I murmured, lips twisting wryly. “I suppose so. It’s what I was working on, before.”

  “And you don’t want to put it up.” He nodded, carefully laying the painting down on one of the long worktables.

  “It’s not finished.” I found another one, placing it next to the other two. The Knight fighting, his sword a blur of motion, blood and dirt clinging to him. Stuart was beside him, glory and love. “The series. It’s not done. And I can’t….” I shook my head, hands in my pockets, staring down at the paintings. “I don’t know the person who painted these. I can’t feel the story anymore. Every time I try to draw, it ends up as nothing. Meaningless.”

  After a moment, Brady reached out, drawing me into his embrace. I hadn’t realized how tensely I was holding myself until his arms circled me, until I sagged into him. “Then you need to find a new story to tell,” he murmured, rubbing his hand gently up and down my back.

  I tried to laugh because he made it sound so easy. Instead I just wound up tucking my head in under his chin, reaching slowly, so achingly slowly, up to cling to his jacket. “Maybe,” I agreed, softly. It wasn’t easy. I knew that. But somehow, the gentle faith he seemed to have in me made it sound possible.

  After a few moments, Brady tutted over the dust on my shirt. He fussed with my hair and led me back to the couch. We sat, knees pressed together, and Brady handed me my soup.

  It was utterly delicious. Just enough tang and bite to chase away the chill, rich with vegetables and little pops of soft pasta. “Brady,” I murmured, surprised, spoon dipping in again and again. “This is incredible. I can’t believe you made this.”