The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  I stumble back, breaking away from the memories and focusing on what’s in front of me. "Sorry," I mumble.

  He folds his arms over his chest, watching me like a hawk. "You slept with her, didn't you?"

  "What? No!"

  "Only the guilty torture themselves."

  Pacing, I drag a hand through my hair. "I kissed her. I didn't mean to."

  "And now you feel bad?"

  My heavy hands fell to my sides as my shoulders slumped. What was left of my heart was as downtrodden as my thoughts. "I can't even explain to you how Connor was with her." I shake my head but not with much thought. "She was everything to him, and I betrayed that." Twice now.

  "Brandon." There’s something sad in his gaze when I meet his eyes. "He's dead." He says it as though it's justification, and Connor’s death eliminates my loyalty to him.

  I don't want justification or to be relieved of guilt. “He was my brother. Death doesn't change that."

  "No, but death can’t feel betrayal.” He turns back to his speed bag. “He’d want you to live."

  Live, not desecrate his memory.

  The last thing I expected when I got home was for Poppy to be dressed in a pair of tight jeans—she had no business wearing—and telling me, we were going out.

  She insisted it would be good for us to get out of the apartment and away from the bar, but I hate people. I never used to. Hell, there's a lot of things I never used to do or dislike. Now though, crowds are an issue.

  Poppy sits next to me, throwing nervous glances my way as the tube fires along the tracks. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to regulate my breathing. It feels like the walls of the train are pressing in on me, no doubt because it’s buried beneath the weight of an entire damn city.

  "You all right?" she asks.

  "Yep." My fists clench so hard that my knuckles ache.

  Poppy grabs my hand, prying my fingers apart. "It's all right." Slowly, she rubs her thumb over the crease of my sweat-slicked palm to ease away the stress and strain she clearly sees in my body language.

  This shouldn't even be an issue. People ride the tube every day, but I’m on high alert. Every instinct I have forces me to scan my surroundings for threats, needing an escape route at all times. The human drive to survive is all-consuming, and when you've been in the kind of places I have, that instinct goes into overdrive.

  The most normal situations pose the ability to become hostile in an instant. Only this isn't war. And it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself that, my mind can't over-ride primal drive. My body can't forget the trauma.

  The second the tube stops at Knightsbridge, I push to my feet, tearing my hand away from Poppy and shouldering through the crowd. People shout and curse, but I don't care. I don't stop until I reach the street. The smog of the city air has never felt so enticing.

  By the time Poppy catches up to me, she's out of breath.

  I don’t give her a second’s reprieve. "Okay, so you dragged me into the center of this shit-hole city. Now what?"

  "Don't know. Just thought it would be nice to get some fresh air." She says this just as a double-decker bus sputters past, the thick smell of exhaust filling the air—irony at its finest.

  "So fresh," I grumble. "Carbon monoxide poisoning, just what I always wanted."

  I plop my arse on a metal bench beside the railings down to the subway. "I'm just going to sit here until you make up your mind."

  A wry smile works over her lips. "You really want to leave that decision up to me?"

  "Tell you what, you make a decision and I'll tell you whether I'm coming with or going home."

  "Tower of London, then Madame Tussaud’s, and The London Eye."

  "I'm going home." I stand up, and Poppy grabs my arm with a laugh.

  "You can't leave me here." She pouts, and that always did get to me.

  "I'm not doing the tourist shit. Do I look like a small Japanese man?" I point at her while she laughs. "And I'm not carrying you around."

  "I didn't ask you to, now did I?" She takes my hand and tugs me down the congested sidewalk.

  "I've heard that shit before." I swear, I spent half my childhood carrying Poppy around. My feet hurt. My legs are tired… She was annoying, but damn, I could never tell her no, and I was always twice the size of Connor…and he was fat. Maybe I should have made him carry her; he'd have lost a few pounds. But then she wouldn’t be my possum.

  "Come on,” she says. “We haven’t done this stuff since we were kids in school."

  We stop at a crosswalk, and I exhale a defeated breath. "Fine. But not the wax shit. No one needs to see a still life of Britney Spears."

  The light changes, and I go one way while she tries to tug me another.

  Her brows wrinkle, and she points to the opposite side of the street than I’m headed. "The Tower of London is that way."

  "I'm not going to the Tower of London and doing the scenic bullshit. I'll do the Natural History Museum."

  "You want to go to a museum."

  "I like the dinosaur," I grumble.

  She laughs and loops her arm through mine. "Okay. Dinosaurs it is."

  By the time we walk the mile or so to the museum, her cheeks have flushed a rosy red from the cold, autumn wind. I pay the admission to get in, and then we're standing in front of the massive Brontosaurus skeleton, its neck stretching toward the high ceiling.

  We once came here on a school trip, and another time, Connor's parents visited London for a long weekend and brought me along to keep him company. There was always something so grand about it. I can't really explain it, but when I’m standing in front of the remnants of a creature that is millions of years old and probably five times the size of an elephant, I suddenly feel small. So incredibly inconsequential.

  Poppy smiles as she watches a screaming child goes hurtling past me, a balloon trailing in his wake as a stressed-looking guy runs after him. The kid runs circles around the poor man, and I wonder what she’s thinking—if she’s thinking about the children she never had with Connor.

  "I miss being that little sometimes, you know?" Her gaze is still glued to the kid.

  "Yep. No responsibilities, free food, and you can even shit yourself and someone else will clean it up for you."

  She drags her attention from the child and scrunches her nose at me. "You’re such a boy."

  I cock a brow. "All man, sweetheart."

  "Oh my God, come on." She marches away from me, and I follow, laughing—and staring at her arse. I need to stop doing that.

  She wanders around the room, finally stopping in front of the butterfly display.

  "Kind of harsh," I say, looking at their lifeless bodies pinned to a board encased behind glass, hundreds of them all lined up in rows. All so people can admire their pretty wings.

  Poppy studies the insects behind the glass and then turns to meet me with sympathetic eyes. "It is, but then again, life is harsh, isn't it?"

  "Yeah, but it's not supposed to be for a butterfly. Damn.” I lean closer, studying the iridescent color of their wings. “Don't they only get a few months anyway?”

  "Maybe months are years to butterflies, who knows.” Poppy shrugs. “Quality of life, not quantity, right?”

  I stare at the butterflies for a moment longer, then tentatively thread my fingers through hers. It feels strange, and yet, the simple touch grounds me.

  The museum crowd seems a little less threatening, the noises quieter. Poppy brings me back to the here and now, physically forcing everything else from my mind. It seems impossible, and yet, here we are.

  39

  Poppy

  After dinner in a small pub, we take a cab back to Brandon’s house. It sputters to a stop, and I check the meter before pulling money from my purse, but Brandon grabs my shoulder and passes cash to the driver.

  "You know, we could have taken the tube," he says, climbing out and stopping to hold the door for me.

  He acts like it’s no big deal, but I wasn’t blind to how uncomfort
able the train made him. The smallest movement from someone beside him and his eyes went wild. His muscles remained tense the entire time we were out, and I could tell it took everything in him just to focus on me when I would speak. There was no way I'd force him back on that tube, but I also didn’t want him to think I knew how uneasy he was.

  "I wanted to take a cab," I say as we step inside.

  He falls onto the couch and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Want to watch a film?"

  "Sure." I sit beside him, ignoring the awkward tension that shouldn’t be there—the desire that wants nothing more than his lips on mine again. I subtly lean away, putting a little space between us.

  "Pick something.” He drops his phone onto my lap on his way to the kitchen, and I scroll through Netflix. Stardust, Pirates of the Caribbean, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and…

  "Hey, Brandon?"

  "Yeah."

  "How do you feel about a classic?"

  He comes back with two sodas, handing me one before he takes his seat again, leaving no space between us as he kicks up his heels onto the edge of the coffee table. "Yeah, sure."

  With a smirk, I press play and drop the phone to the cushion. The soft notes of "My Heart Will Go On" hums from the TV before the sepia-colored picture of the boat flashes on the screen.

  "Oh. Hell, no. Anything but this.”

  "Oh, come on, Brandon. You never would watch this when we were younger."

  "Yeah, because I'd rather spend intimate time with a ghost pepper on my ball sack than watch this.”

  "Really?" I scowl at him. "It's an epic love story; who doesn't love an epic love story? And it's this or The Notebook because I am not watching Die Hard. Ever. Again." I watched that more times than I want to admit when I was younger—all just to be around Brandon.

  "Leonardo-fucking-Dicaprio or Bruce Willis. No comparison."

  "You told me I could pick," I argue.

  "You picked this because you know I hate it."

  "I went to see the dinosaurs for you."

  Dragging a hand down his face, he groans. “Fine, but if I fall asleep halfway through, it's because you want to watch an entire film about a boat sinking. A. Boat. Sinking. It's not even like it gets blown up. Some guy just drives into an iceberg." He shakes his head. “So stupid.”

  I smile as I pat him on the knee. "It's a tragic part of history."

  "Tragic waste of my time," he grumbles, slurping back his cola.

  And here we sit, watching a movie I've seen fifty times. It’s not unlike anything we've done before, but it is different because everything has changed.

  Every so often, Brandon’s hand brushes my thigh, and I inch a little closer than I should. There's a mixture of excitement and fear and guilt. As a kid, I’d spent countless nights watching movies wrapped up in Connor’s platonic embrace and never thought anything of it. Somehow I’d missed how truly special that was until now. And I only recognize it now because I miss it—that easiness of just being with someone, of being held and touched. Brandon makes me want that—crave that—just like he always has. The heat of his body bleeds into mine while I try to focus on the movie when Jack and Rose wade through the rising waters.

  "She says his name too much," I say.

  "We can watch Die Hard."

  "Nope. I consider forcing you to watch this an accomplishment," I whisper, my eyes locked on the screen.

  "Fine." He grabs me beneath my arms and yanks me across the couch like I’m nothing but a child, and settles me between his thighs, resting his chin on my head. For a moment, I remain tense, but he's so warm and safe and just, Brandon. Then I relax against his solid chest, and even though I'm looking at the TV, my entire focus is on him. Every breath. Each steady beat of his heart against my back. I give in until it feels like nothing outside of this can touch me. Brandon is my personal cocoon from the hurt and the grief, and I want him to turn me into something beautiful and free.

  By the end of the movie, I'm sobbing.

  He leans into my line of vision with a smirk. "You’re actually crying over that?"

  I sniffle and swipe at my cheeks to clear the tears. "It's sad."

  "And yet, you wanted to watch it?" That smirks morphs into a grin. "She could have given him half of that door, you know. Kinda dumb if you ask me." Brandon moves me away and stands from the couch to stretch.

  "It would have been too much weight and sunk them both."

  "He dies."

  I glare at him. "He sacrificed his life for her." Leave it to Brandon to try and degrade my favorite movie. "Someone always dies in epic love stories, Brandon. Don't question it."

  He holds up his hands in surrender. "Fine, poss. Whatever you want to believe." Then he starts toward the bathroom.

  I go into the bedroom, leaving the door open while I change into a T-shirt. I listen for the sounds of Brandon’s progress as the toilet flushes and the taps turn. Before he opens the door, I climb into the bed, nerves twisting my gut. My palms grow sweaty when the hinges to the bathroom door creak and Brandon’s shadow stretches across the wall of the hallway.

  My mouth goes dry, and I barely eke out his name. "Brandon?"

  The light silhouettes his frame when he steps to the doorway. "Yeah?"

  "Can you… " I hesitate. It’s not wrong, I tell myself. I have to live. "Come lay in here for a little while?"

  He inhales—hard—like he’s contemplating, then he tilts his head back. I expect a groan to follow, but it never does. Just silence.

  His head lowers. "What are we doing, Poppy?"

  I wish I had an answer for that. "I don't know.” My words are barely a whisper and more like a plea.

  He props his arms against the frame, and the movement pulls his shirt tight across his thick chest. Despite how hard I try, I can’t seem to drag my eyes away from him.

  "You don't want me sleeping with you, poss.”

  "Please?"

  There's a beat of silence before he steps into the room. A fissure of unease crawls through my stomach when he strips out of his shirt, the lies on top of the comforter. Spreading his arms wide, he pulls me against his chest, and I go willingly, breathing in everything that is Brandon.

  "Just for a little while," he whispers into my hair.

  "Just for a little while."

  This isn't complicated. It's simple need—the need to have someone. To be loved, even in the most complicated of ways.

  40

  Brandon

  All I can hear around me is the thunder of gunfire, the snap of bullets cracking through the air and a hoarse cry beside me. I glance to my left just as another soldier hits the ground, clutching his thigh. Blood wells around the soldier’s fingers as he grits his teeth, throwing his head back against the mound of mud we're using for cover. I drop my weapon and try to quiet my pounding heart as I struggle to breathe. As my focus returns, I hear someone nearby radioing for air support, and I manage to tie a tourniquet around the top of Serg's thigh. Once it's secure, I pop up with my gun in tow, staring down the sights of my rifle. A small cluster of buildings sits about a hundred yards away, and it's there that the enemy is taking cover. We're firing blind and hoping something hits.

  The rumble of the jet on the horizon can be heard long before I see it. And it's then that I see a woman dart out of a house, a child clutched in her arms. She ducks behind a building, but I already know it's too late for her.

  The sound of the pilot's voice crackles over the radio, and then the jet splits the air overhead at the exact time as the entire area erupts into a ball of fire. I drop down beside Serg just as the heatwave ripples overhead. And then there's nothing—just the sound of fire and destruction…and the screaming inside my own mind.

  I gasp awake, sitting bolt upright as I drag air into my lungs. It takes me a second to focus my vision, but when I do, I find Poppy, sitting up, huddled on the edge of the mattress, staring at me. My pulse clangs against my eardrums, my muscles tremble under false stress, and a shiver works over my da
mp skin.

  "You okay?"

  I give a jerky nod, then swipe a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. And I wait, terrified to ask, "Did I hurt you?" I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper. All I can think about is the first night she found me when I woke up with my arm across her throat.

  "No." She pauses. "But, you scared me." A stray piece of hair falls in front of her face when her head tips forward, and I catch myself wanting to push the strand behind her ear.

  We sit in silence, and I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to shake away the last remnants of the dream.

  "Brandon." Her fingertips brush my jaw, and I open my eyes to find her in front of me on her knees. The street light outside streams through the window, casting an orange glow over her face. A small line sinks between her brows as her eyes search mine. "Come here.”

  She lies back on the bed, taking me with her until my head is resting on her stomach. "It's okay," she whispers, and the softness of her voice makes me want to believe her.

  I want to believe that there will be an end to this, that eventually, I will be able to stop reliving the same thing every night.

  "Do you remember that time when we went shrimping in the harbor and I fell in?"

  I laugh. "Yeah."

  She fell off the old jetty because the wood was rotted. Honestly, it was past midnight and dangerous as hell, but we were fourteen. We didn't care. The water was pitch black, and Jesus, she screamed when she went in. I thought she was hurt until she started shrieking that the shrimp were going to get her. Connor and I laughed so hard we couldn't even help her out of the water, and my God was she savage.

  "You always rescued me when I needed it." Her fingers rake through my hair, that familiar touch so soothing it forces my eyes closed.