This is what Poppy does, she comforts and soothes. She takes in little birds with broken wings and tries to fix them, and when she can't, she cries.
And I hate it when she cries, so for a moment, I'll pretend that she can fix me, that she can make me fly again, even though we both know she can't.
41
Poppy
May 2015
The warmth of Connor's fingers skims my waist, dancing underneath my shirt as real as if they were really there, caressing my skin. I smile. I've missed him. This touch. The way this feels. His warm lips kiss the crook of my neck, and his arm wraps around my waist, tugging my body flush with his. Halfway between awake and asleep, I recognize it’s a dream, but as my eyes flutter, I fight to remain asleep—to stay in the dream and his embrace. I don't want to let go when it feels so real, so right, so needed. I can still feel his hands on me, his lips…
But even as my eyes pop open, I still feel his hands on me, his lips—then Brandon groans against my throat. And I realize why it was so real. Brandon shifts in the bed, his hold on me tightening.
"Don't," he mumbles, his breathing deep and uneven with sleep. "Don't leave me," he whispers before his lips press against the top of my shoulders.
Nothing has happened between us since the day we kissed, although the tension has been unbearable. He and I both know what it's like to cross that line, and sometimes it's better to wonder what something would be like than to know.
But I long for that connection.
I’m starved of it. Sex and attraction and primal need. A heavy breath escapes Brandon's lips, the heat of it blowing across my skin, and sending chill bumps over my body while that undeniable urge settles between my thighs just before the guilt perches on my chest. Only, I don’t know who I am betraying more, Connor for lying in Brandon’s arms, or Brandon for dreaming of Connor while I’m in his bed.
I love them both—separately—I always have.
Despite the fact that I keep telling myself Connor is gone and he wants me to live, I can’t seem to convince myself that it somehow justifies my feelings for Brandon or alleviate the guilt. If anything, death simply immortalizes Connor’s place in my life. It took everything he was and preserved it in stone, leaving him untouchable and incomparable for eternity. But Brandon and I aren’t frozen in stone.
We're here, living, breathing.
We're what's left.
I bite at my lip and turn in the bed to face him, watching the way the streetlight plays across his face while he sleeps. His eyelids flutter. His chest peaks and dips unevenly. I can literally see him fighting those dreams that seem to haunt him more nights than not, and all I want to do is take that away from him.
Leaning over his face, I trail my fingertips over his warm arm and along his side, and I whisper, "I love you, Brandon.” And I touch my lips to his. One quick kiss, it’s all I need for fear to rise in my chest.
I go to pull away, but his hand flies to the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair, and his lips part beneath mine. One of his arms winds around my waist, then he pulls me flush against his solid body. My mind and body go to war, rationality battling against a basic primal need.
But Brandon doesn’t hesitate. His fingers slide beneath my shirt and splay across the small of my back, igniting something raw, something that has been glaringly absent since the last time he kissed me. Only Brandon can heal my broken soul with the splintered remnants of his. He kisses me until I don’t know where he starts and I begin, and just when I’m convinced he’ll never let me go, he does.
We’re both breathless, staring through the darkness at one another.
"Brandon—"
"Shush, poss." He doesn’t give me time to protest and instead drags me onto his chest, placing his palm against my cheek. His lips brush my hair, and his arm tightens around my waist before he relaxes beneath me. Minutes later, his breathing evens out. He's fallen asleep, leaving me very much awake—and on top of him.
I barely slept last night, which has made for a taxing day at work. But even though I’m exhausted, I'm glad to be working again, thankful for the sense of purpose. I finish making notes on Mr. Brighton’s chart before filing it away. So much of his story reminds me of Brandon. Mr. Brighton lost his best friend to a roadside bomb. He was the one survivor in the convoy, and he’s every bit as angry at life as Brandon. Today, he shouted at Doris, the charge nurse who looks like a true-life version of Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother because she "glared" at him.
Doris slaps a patient file on the counter before checking her watch. "Past time for you to go, dear.” She fluffs her graying hair, and a slow grin works over her lips. “Unless you want to go play Bingo with Mary and me tonight?"
I log off the computer and grab my purse from behind the desk. "I’ve got dinner plans with a friend.”
Her face lights up, and she wiggles her eyebrows. “Oh. A guy friend?”
“No, but I’ll take a raincheck."
“Raincheck. Pfft.” She waves me off. "You're young. You don’t want to play bingo with a lot of old birds. Although…" She grabs her handbag and rummages through it before pulling out a shiny, silver flask. "I do like to hit the bottle hard on a Friday night.”
Laughing, I push open the door. “I’ll see you later, Doris.”
I try to call Brandon on the way home to see if he wants to go to dinner with Hope and me—although I know he’ll say no—but he doesn’t answer.
The second I set foot in the apartment, I know why he didn’t answer.
The staple bottle of whiskey sits on the coffee table, and Brandon’s on the sofa, legs spread and elbows resting on his thighs while he stares at the ground. He doesn't spare me a glance, not when I close the door or when I drop my keys loudly on the counter. I clear my throat, and still nothing.
"Brandon."
His cold, flat gaze to lifts mine, and I notice a fresh cut on his face. “Hey, poss.” He takes the bottle from the table, cracks the seal on the lid, and brings it to his lips to swallow back several heavy gulps.
Some days Brandon's up, and I think maybe, maybe it will be the day he snaps out of it, but then he goes down. Hard. And this is down. Way down. Every time he comes back from a fight, he's angry and he drinks. When he gets like this, there is nothing that can shake that darkness and rage that hangs around his shoulders like a wool cloak. At times I believe he basks in it.
I've tiptoed around this topic as long as I can. Those fights do nothing but make his situation, whatever that is, worse.
I snag the bottle of whiskey from him on my way into the kitchen and toss the glass into the trash. When I return to the living room, his eyes narrow. "That's real fucking helpful," he says with a humorless laugh.
"Brandon, please tell me you realize you have a problem?”
"Jesus, Poppy." He throws his head back and drags a hand over his face. "All you do is bitch."
"No. It’s not bitching. It’s me caring about you, Brandon. And this—this has got to stop."
"This is a one-way road, possum." He pushes off the sofa, walking straight past me without as much as a backward glance.
From here, I can just make out the grin sneaking over his face when he opens the kitchen drawer—the one where he keeps his weed.
I storm into the kitchen, grab the collar of his shirt, and yank him away from the counter. Then slam my hip against the drawer, nearly closing his hand in it. "You don't need it."
There's a spark of anger in his eyes a second too late. He grabs me by the waist and slams me against the fridge with such force it rocks back, rattling everything inside before it settles on the floor again with a bang. I brace my palm against his chest, and his quickened heartbeats pound against my hand.
I can feel the tension ingraining itself into every one of his muscles.
"Brandon,” I whisper. “Let me go. Please." I swallow. There’s a dark voice muttering in the back of my mind that this is the part of Brandon I don’t know. The part of him I can't fully trust. A part
of him that scares me.
A wry smile touches his lips. For a split moment, he's almost the Brandon I recognize, but he's buried beneath so much anger and hatred that it's hard to see the boy I grew up with—the one I love.
His grip tightens when he inches toward me. My skin prickles when the warm air that escapes his mouth fans across my throat. In seconds, his lips brush my earlobe. "Isn't this what you want, Poppy?" There's a cruel edge to his words that I hate, and although I don't want to believe for a second that he would hurt me, he's making me nervous.
"You're scaring me, Brandon."
His gaze narrows and his eyes swirl with a storm of emotions just waiting to hit—one I have no idea of when or where it will strike. But as quickly as it came, the storm passes. Brandon huffs out a hard breath through his nose, lessens his grip, and then touches his forehead to mine. His palms capture my cheeks, and he breathes me in like oxygen he needs for survival. Then, he kisses me. But where I expect violence and anger, hate and fury to transfer with his lips, instead, all I find is reverence.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against my lips, his hands trembling as they stroke my cheeks and down the column of my throat.
I search his eyes for answers, for the whys of how life is such a mess. I want Brandon to make me forget everything that isn't this exact moment. Just him and me. And then he kisses me again, long and hard.
His fingers dig into my waist, and he lifts me, wrapping my legs around his hips before he moves me away from the fridge and down the hall. I land on his bed, and he comes after me, caging me in with solid arms. Before his lips meet mine again, I tug at his shirt while his hands roam my body, and then he stills.
"Not like this," he breathes against my mouth.
And those words are enough to snap me out of the moment, and I stare at him bewildered.
But Brandon barely budges when he closes his eyes and places his lips to mine again. "I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone in my life. But you deserve better. Not like this.”
A flicker of anger spikes in my chest. That has always been Brandon’s excuse, that I deserve better, and while that may be how he feels, I want better for him, too. I want to be his sanctuary, the place he goes when the demons get too close.
"I don’t want better, Brandon. I want this." I sweep a hand over his face. “I want you.”
There’s a slight tic in his jaw, and he grips the bottom of my shirt. "Say it again.”
"I want you."
And then the dam between us breaks.
With each passing second, with each touch, we slip farther. And when Brandon finally strips the last piece of clothing from my body, he draws in a deep breath. We’re right back here, on the front lines of the moral war that has waged between the two of us for as long as I can remember.
My eyes lock with his, and I let my legs fall open in invitation. It’s then that the incredible weight and warmth of his body covers mine—skin to skin. I'm desperate for this connection, and at the same time, I'm terrified.
The emotion, the raw need to belong to him, consumes us both, and the way we tumble and fall is heartbreakingly beautiful. Two people who shouldn't belong together but can’t belong to anyone else.
Each breath and touch and kiss ingrains itself within me until there is nothing more than Brandon and me, drowning in our own tragic bliss—expressing the inexpressible through the movements of our bodies.
I want to linger right here, immortalize us in the dark of night because right now, we're both whole, and I know it will never stay this way.
42
Brandon
I lie in the dark, listening to Poppy's soft breaths. Her cheek is pressed to my chest, her small body nestled against my side, every naked inch of her touching me. I have slept with countless women and drunk enough whiskey to drown a small town—all in a bid to forget. And the irony is, she is the only thing that shelters me from my own memories. Yet she's the very thing that should haunt me the most.
At times, she's the only thing that keeps me grounded, the only thing that makes sense. But she's also my biggest source of conflict. The second I step back, the second I get some perspective, I remember that fact.
I crave the calm that she brings, even when I have no right to. I close my eyes, and the image of her and Connor on their wedding day flashes through my mind. They were so happy, and she looked at him like he was her entire world. He was, to both of us, and now we're living in some post-apocalyptic replica of a time when Connor made everything seamlessly better.
I wake up to sunlight pouring through the cream curtains. It's morning. I slept through the whole night. No nightmares. No sweating. I can't remember the last time I made it through the night without a serious dose of whiskey or weed.
Poppy is lying next to me on her side, the duvet skimming her hips and exposing her naked back. And in the cold light of day, it’s all too real. This is Poppy, my possum, Connor’s wife. It feels…wrong to see her like this.
The guilt is warring with my basic instinct to survive because I'm no longer deluded enough to think that I can do this without her. It's too dark, too bottomless. She is my only source of hope, my light at the end of the tunnel. And as awful as I feel about betraying Connor, as much as I loved him, I can't quite make myself let go of that light.
I silently climb out of bed and go to the bathroom. Perspective; that’s all I need, just a moment.
My battered and bruised reflection stares back at me from the bathroom mirror. I can barely look at myself, and it has nothing to do with my exterior injuries.
I climb into the shower and allow the hot water to soothe my aching muscles. Bracing my forearms against the tile, I drop my head forward and rest it against the cold surface. This is a mess of epic proportions. I don't even know what I think or feel anymore, but the ever-present band of panic is tightening around my chest, squeezing me. The thought of facing Poppy is too much.
I need air.
I finish my shower and dry off before grabbing some gym clothes from the bathroom floor. Praying Poppy doesn't wake up, I head to the living room, shove on my shoes, and walk straight out the front door like my arse is on fire.
43
Poppy
When I woke this morning, Brandon was gone. And he’s never awake before midday. When I left to meet Hope for lunch, he still hadn’t come home or returned my call.
I’ve barely touched my sandwich, and every few minutes, I check my phone, which is enough to tip Hope off that something is going on.
"Was it any good?" she asks.
I finish my text to Brandon, asking if he’s okay before I look up. “What? Was what any good?"
She stares at me from across the table, clasping her coffee cup while a smirk settles on her lips. "Don't lie to me. I know you slept with the pikey. It’s all over your face.”
My cheeks sting with heat. Feigning a laugh, I reach for a packet of sugar, then dump it into my coffee. "Don't be ridiculous, Hope."
"Liar!" She points at me. "You are lying. I know you, and you slept with him." One eyebrow arches. "Stand up then."
"What?"
"Stand up. If you didn't sleep with him, stand up." A wry smile works its way across her lips when I don’t budge. "Just what I thought."
"Hope,” I sigh. “What are you talking about?"
"Just stand up, and I'll drop it."
"Fine!" I push my cup to the side and get to my feet, tossing my hands in the air as I glare at her. "I'm standing."
Shrugging, she lifts her cup to her mouth and takes a sip. "Fine."
But when I sit back down, I can’t bite back the wince.
"Guilty!" she shouts, slamming her palm on the table like a judge with a gavel before she leans over, closing the space separating us. "The wince. You screwed him."
I prop my elbows on the table and cover my face with my hands.
My phone dings with a text, and I glance through the slit between my fingers, reading Brandon’s one-word response: Yep.
>
"Look at it this way, it's not like you're a first-time offender." She reaches across the table and yanks my hand away from my face. "Shit happens."
Shit happens. It sure does, I think, while I send another text.
Me: We need to talk.
Brandon: Yep.
Brandon hates when people send him one-word responses, so the fact that all he can manage is yep is not a good sign.
I stare into my coffee cup, unable to shake the tingling in my stomach when I think of how it felt when he touched me; of how much he is something I need and crave.
Another ding from my phone. Brandon: It was a mistake. And the reality of it all comes crashing down.
Later that evening, I sit on the patio of Hope’s apartment, staring across at the rows of identical, white townhomes.
I never texted to tell him I wasn’t coming back tonight, and although I should, he hasn’t sent another text after he said last night was a mistake. And what happens if I go back?
We fight. Maybe kiss, maybe end up in bed together again?
It’s as though all rationale disappears, and I’m unable to weed through my emotions. But most of all, I’m hurt and disappointed. In myself. In him…
Hope bustles onto the patio and takes a seat on the lounge beside me. "You like the flat?"
"Yeah, it's nice."
It’s extravagantly nice. A three-bedroom flat in a neighborhood most people only dream of living and Hope's father signed it over to her simply because she’d wanted it. That's how her life has always gone. Whatever Hope wants, if money can possibly buy it, it's hers.
I gaze off, watching a man across the street jog up to a door, roses in hand. He knocks, and when a woman answers the door, he wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her the way I only see in movies—the way Brandon kisses. A knot forms in the pit of my stomach, slipping like a snake coiled around itself, and I reach for the wine but stop.
The Beginning and End of Everything Page 18
