After the End

by Alex Kidwell

  I would have argued the romantic adjective, but I was being drawn along, meeting stall owners—Lawrence, Gerald, and Gerald’s three sons included. We were discussing peas and pasta and a rich, creamy parmesan sauce; I was holding the bag while Brady smiled at me and shared a taste of the pancetta. It was kind of perfect. The peas, too, the market and the people, but mostly just us. Just the way Brady’s hand fit with mine, warm against the chill in the air, how our shoulders bumped together and how his eyes would find me over and over again. Like no matter how many people he was talking to, laughing with, or seriously discussing the varied uses of kale beside, I mattered. He drew me in every time, an arm around my shoulders, a smile, the looks he gave me, and I felt like I belonged. In this hodgepodge little world, I belonged because he did, and I was with him.

  Aaron had done the same thing. With his dusty books, he’d never been so absorbed that I wasn’t given a smile or a small touch, a simple gesture to make me a part of whatever he was experiencing. We could be working side by side, both lost in our own thoughts, but Aaron’s shoulder had been against mine, his eyes had found my own from across the room, and I’d belonged. Just that simple, just that easy, I’d been his and he’d been utterly mine.

  Strangely, though, the memory didn’t make me pull away from Brady. Contrasting the two wasn’t an exercise in guilt or self-condemnation. It just made me feel warm. Like this part, the belonging, was simply the other side of that word. Care. If you cared for someone, however much, however little, this was what happened. You brought them into your circle. You held their hand and read about Charlemagne.

  Or you wrapped your arm around them while you discussed the merits of early fall peas.

  We left the market with more hugs from Maya and a bag fairly brimming with delicious fare. Brady hadn’t been lying—his apartment was only a short walk away, a large studio with lofty ceilings and a huge kitchen. His bed was in the corner, half-hidden behind wooden screens I suddenly itched to cover in paint. Maybe, someday, which was a thought that both terrified me and felt just as right as the rest of the day. Planning for something more than lunch, for other afternoons spent here, for Brady more solid in my life filled with ghosts: that was scary. It was bottom-of-your-gut-dropping-out horrifying, and yet as we unwound scarves, mine still-borrowed cashmere, his catching on his hair as we laughed, and as we hung up jackets, I held onto it. That terrifying, exhilarating, hopeful thought of more. I held it between chilly fingers, and I let it stay.

  THE sound of the knife slicing through the vegetables leant a comforting, steady beat to our conversation. “I don’t care,” Brady told me, one perfect eyebrow arching. “There’s no way you will ever convince me.”

  “You’re just being stubborn.” With a quick grin, I stole a taste of the cheese he’d grated. It was salty, rich, and absolutely wonderful.

  “No, I refuse to admit that getting a manicure is a waste of time for anyone.” With a mock-horrified look, Brady dumped the peas and garlic into the pan where the pancetta had been crisping. The apartment was immediately filled with the most glorious smell, and I took a deep, appreciative breath.

  Brady was kind of amazing as he worked. Every movement was graceful, like he’d planned every step in advance, none of them wasted. He chopped and stirred and tasted everything, adding a bit more of this, a little of that, all of it in the time it would have taken me to figure out how to open the bag of pasta. He was a bit messy, though, mostly because he kept rubbing his arm across his forehead without realizing he’d gotten sauce on his shirt. I’d now wiped off a smudge from his nose twice, laughing at him. It was a surprising dichotomy, the grace with the chaos. Then again, that was what I was coming to expect from Brady.

  “Here,” he said, leaning over with a steaming spoon holding a bit of the sauce, his hand cupped under it to catch any drips. “Taste this. Too much nutmeg?”

  “Nutmeg?” I repeated, all but wrinkling my nose. But on his expectant look, I did as I was told, swallowing dutifully. It was incredible. Though the spice had conjured up images of Christmas cookies—not exactly what you wanted from your creamy pasta dish—instead it was a light note in the back of the sharp salt of the cheese, the cream almost light despite its richness. I hummed lightly in appreciation as Brady grinned at me.

  “Don’t doubt me, grasshopper,” he teased, bopping my shoulder with a towel as he wiped down the countertop. “About cooking, nail care, or where to find the best coffee this side of 32nd.”

  “I still think it’d be a waste,” I countered, going to his side to help him clean up. He tried to protest, but I just ducked under his waving arm and began loading the dishwasher with his cooking bowls and spoons. After a moment, he moved in alongside me, both of us fitting so well, moving together simply. “Artists can’t keep nice nails, we’re always chipping or getting paint thinner on them, or what have you. It wouldn’t last ten minutes.”

  Except I wasn’t really an artist anymore, was I? I was a washed-up comic book store owner who pretended he could doodle. Pausing, eyebrows beetling together, I tried to hide my sudden discomfort.

  Brady’s hip nudged against mine and I looked up to find him standing there, utterly still after his whirlwind of cooking, watching me. Leaning in very gently, he kissed me. It was barely more than a brush of a promise, our lips ghosting together and then separated with a longing exhale. But he followed it up with a slow smile, one that twisted heat into my gut and sent it soaring, a kite on a string.

  “You are an artist,” he assured me in a murmur, tucking a strand of hair back behind my ear. Reading my mind, perhaps, or just the expression on my face. Aaron had always said I was a book, easily read by anyone who cared enough to pay attention. “Paints and canvases don’t make you one. It’s how you see the world, and that hasn’t changed. You’re an artist.” His soft smile broadened and he playfully clucked his tongue at me. “An artist with horribly neglected nails. Seriously, it’s a tragedy. Anyone with hands as gorgeous as yours should be pampering them.”

  I hardly resisted rolling my eyes at the compliment, because seriously, who looked at hands? Instead I just prodded his shoulder with said neglected fingers and gave him a grateful little smile as I went hunting for the plates. Finding a nice-looking bottle of wine, I uncorked it to let it breathe while I bustled about, setting two places for us at the small table Brady had set against a window.

  With a few deft movements, Brady dumped the pasta into the sauce and stirred it all together. He plated it while I poured the wine, and we took our seats together. The first bite had my eyebrows winging upward in surprise, fingertips touching my lips. “Oh my God, this is fantastic,” I mumbled around another huge bite, far too concerned with eating to worry about manners. “Did you seriously just make this? I sat here and watched you and it looked so easy, but this is amazing.”

  Brady’s laugh was a low, throaty chuckle, and he nudged his foot against my ankle under the table. “See? Cooking isn’t hard. You could do this.”

  “I can make oddly shaped pancakes and scrambled eggs,” I told him, taking a sip of the wine. “That’s my entire repertoire.”

  His smile was slow and warm, slipping across his face like dawn. “I love breakfast foods,” he rumbled, and all at once heat touched my cheeks. I liked the idea of breakfast, of lazy mornings and coffee and lopsided pancakes. For a moment, I let myself try to picture him in my kitchen, sleep tousled and barefoot.

  It hurt. Just the idea of someone else there, in the space that’d been his. The ache of a muscle that hadn’t been stretched, the sharp twinge of something waking up that I’d left alone for far too long. Aaron had eaten my eggs, had put far too much syrup on my pancakes, had teased me into wakefulness, and now he wasn’t there. Instead my mind offered an image of Brady, of perfect golden curls mussed, of eyes dancing as he laughed, as we started the morning in the same space.

  It hurt, yes. But like growing pains, like shaking off the ghosts and daring to breathe again. I didn’t know if I could have an
y of this. If I should. If loving Aaron would leave me room for anything else. But the possibility was there, the still, small hope, and I couldn’t help but wonder at its warmth.

  Hesitating, I offered, eyes on my plate as my fork made meandering paths through the cream sauce, “Maybe I’ll have to return the favor. Though nothing I make is going to equal this.”

  Brady paused, taking a drink, stirring his pasta on his plate. Searching for words. I was beginning to know him, coming to be able to read the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, how he’d fidget with long fingers when he was deciding what to say. “I think perfectly round pancakes are highly overrated,” he murmured, deep brown depths flicking up to find me.

  There was a want in his gaze that scared me, but I didn’t look away. The quick clench in my stomach, the way my whole body shivered—I let it happen. I embraced the scary what if, because what happened after had so many possibilities.

  “I loved Aaron,” I said after a long moment.

  Brady’s expression softened, his hand coming over to cover mine. “I know,” he whispered. “I love how much you love him. I think it means something, that you and he had such a great relationship.”

  I laced my fingers with his, trying so hard to mirror his smile though my own felt shaky.

  “But….” He stopped himself, feeling out the words, so different from his usual confidence. “But I don’t think loving him and losing him means you should die too, Quinn. I’m not going to pretend I understand what that’s like, what you’re feeling, and I’m not going to give you some stupid shit about what he’d want. Truth is, I don’t know. All I can say—” He ducked his head a little, finding my gaze and holding it, so sweetly and intently I immediately wanted to look away again. “—is that I think you’re worth it. I think you’re worth lopsided pancakes and soup in the rain and borrowed scarves. Okay?”

  The table was in between us, plates of half-eaten pasta forgotten. I managed to get to him without knocking anything over, which was a slight miracle, and leaned in to kiss him. Our lips met softly at first, a gentle push and pull. But then, with a strangled little noise, I claimed his mouth, shoving myself into his lap so I could get closer.

  Brady’s hands slid up my arms to bury themselves in my hair, and I moaned deeply at the tug of him pulling me closer. We moved together, my fingers curled around his shoulders, our bodies pressing together so close there wasn’t any space at all between us.

  Tongue tangled urgently with his, I gasped when Brady bit my lip, then shivered as I returned the favor. He laughed into my mouth when I hauled him back in again, our breaths heaving into the pauses between. Electric heat stroked under my skin, racing through me, insistent and absolute.

  There were calluses on his fingertips, and they painted a trail up my spine as Brady’s hands pushed under my shirt. My own fingers shook as I tried to get his buttons undone. When I succeeded, I ducked my head to trace kisses along newly exposed skin. It was like I was on fire, like something had seized me with desperate need. I wanted Brady; I wanted that strength and the mischievous energy. I wanted his perfectly done hair to muss under my hands, those beautiful lips to go bee-stung wonderful with my kisses, the depths of cocoa-sweet eyes to darken with his own desire. I needed that: to feel alive, to feel Brady responding to every touch. So I reached out, smoothing his shirt off his shoulders, letting him tug mine away in return.

  Our next embrace was like thunder and lightning and swell, skin meeting skin. I gasped softly, and he caught the sound in a hard kiss, arms closing around me, hands spanning my back as Brady tugged me into him. Rocking down against him, sending friction-skittering pleasure in every motion, I twisted my fingers into his curls. I tugged his head back so I could suck darkening, wet kisses along his neck.

  “Bed,” he managed, throaty and low, the rumble of his voice setting off fireworks. “Yes? Quinn, babe, do you want to go to bed with me?”

  I met his eyes, seeing the want there, knowing mine mirrored the same.

  There was no Aaron here. No fire red, no deep forest green. When I reached out, it was Brady under my hand; when I kissed, it was only him I tasted on my tongue. Nodding, I slid off his lap and held out my hand. Brady took it, watching me, worry there until I drew him close.

  “Bed,” I agreed in a rumble, eyes sliding shut as Brady teased his lips along my throat, as he dropped to his knees to press hungry, sucking kisses to my chest, my stomach, down to bump his chin against my belt.

  We stumbled backward together, him with playful pushes, and I laughed as I sprawled back across his bed. Brady lost no time in undoing my belt, mouthing my cock through my jeans as he worked the zipper down. My eyes rolled back and I hissed in a breath, stunned as arousal slammed through me.

  I hadn’t been turned on since Aaron, since before the end. The idea of doing this alone seemed like a betrayal of sorts. Even now, the thought rose and I shoved it away, refusing to acknowledge the sour guilt that rounded out every jolt of pleasure. Aaron was gone. He was gone and Brady was here, Brady was kissing my hips, my thighs, slipping my jeans off of me and tossing them away. Not Aaron. And I wouldn’t think about the differences.

  Then again, it was hard to think about anything when Brady ghosted his tongue down the length of me. I cried out softly, arching my hips, panting little breaths.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he told me, moving up my body to kiss me again. “God, Quinn, you’re so beautiful.”

  I met his gaze, touching his cheek and sliding my fingers up to explore the arc of it. “I wish I could paint you,” I murmured and he smiled. I meant it. If I had paints right then to capture the way his hair fell across his forehead, golden waves framing expressive eyes, a jaw strong enough to hold every kiss, every murmured word, lips that drew me to them again and again, the way he moved with such elegance, how his skin shone, dappled with sun, I would have stopped everything. I would have drowned myself in his beauty, over and over, until my hands bled with the colors of him.

  Laughing, soft and sweet, Brady sprawled between my legs. He spent time kissing my thighs, the dents of my hips, wicked tongue chasing sighs and moans from me. Restless, I ran my hands along his arms, through his hair, anywhere I could reach him. As he lowered those intoxicating lips down to purse around my cock, his fingers found mine and we clasped them together as I groaned his name to the heavens.

  Slowly he dragged his mouth up to the tip, teasing against my slit until I was sure I’d come apart from wanting. Down, then, again, Brady’s eyes sparking in satisfaction as he watched me, my legs akimbo around him, his lips cherry bright against the flushed length of my dick. He swallowed around me, pressure and beautiful friction dragging me up. The heat of him, the wet tightness of his mouth, was like touching God, too much glory and too much pleasure, almost painful in how much I needed him. How I wanted more.

  “Please,” I begged as he moved on me, as he ducked down again, twisting his tongue and sending my toes curling. “God, Brady, you’re perfect. Just like that, please.”

  And God, did he. Like all he’d wanted to do, like what he’d been born to do, was take me deeper, was suck and twist and stroke until I was incoherent. It’d been so long, and it was like Brady knew that. Not just the number of days, but the length of them, the weary aloneness of them he was now attempting to remedy, every second, one touch at a time.

  When I came, it was with a panted warning, my heels digging into the mattress as if to spread myself further for him, like in those last moments I was nothing except my pleasure, insensate to anything except Brady. It hit me like a wave, white shocking ecstasy, spinning me up until I was so tight I couldn’t breathe, until every movement of Brady’s mouth was like brilliant torment.

  Sagging back down, heaving in breaths around stunned moans, I reached out for him. For Brady, for the only person who was there for me to touch. I reached for him and found him and drew him up to me. We kissed, words lost inside of it, my arms and legs wrapping around him until we were all but one.

&
nbsp; “Hey,” he whispered and I smiled, rubbing our noses together gently, resting my forehead against his.

  “Hey,” I returned, trying, still, not to think. To simply exist there, with him, in rumpled sheets and soft skin.

  I turned us, straddling him, considering all that beautifully bared skin. There was a faint trail of freckles down his side and I followed them with my tongue, experimentally scraping my teeth along his skin. I was rewarded with a shiver and a moan, and I smiled to myself, repeating the movement until the skin was pink under my attentions, until Brady was reduced to begging little whimpers.

  His body wasn’t what I was expecting. In the haze of need, in the soft space under sheets, between kisses, my mind was reaching out for what I’d known, what didn’t exist any longer. So I hesitated, I fumbled, but in the end Brady’s skin was sweet, the noises he was making drove heat right through me, and I managed to get his pants off with a murmur of appreciation.

  It was definitely a sight worthy of driving any other thoughts out of my head. Brady was thick and long, the soft nestle of deep golden curls between his legs mirroring the messy waves on his head. He watched me as I touched, as I explored, as I bowed my head to taste him with soft flicks of my tongue.

  “Quinn.” His hand moved along my shoulder, strong fingers slipping along my skin, restless and needy. Brady was hot and full on my tongue, velvet smooth, and I moaned around him. Christ, it’d been so long, and I’d truly forgotten how much I liked doing this.

  Sinking down until I couldn’t take him any deeper, I wrapped my fingers around the base of his cock, stroking him as I feathered my tongue along the underside of it. My cheeks hollowed, eyes flicking up to Brady’s face. God, he was beautiful. A jolt of pounding need hit me, twisting around my gut and sinking straight south. I had no idea I could get hard again this fast, not anymore, but Brady’s legs were wrapping around me, hitched up over my shoulders, little moans and pleas getting lost in every breath, and how could I not?