The Beginning and End of Everything Read online

  The Beginning and end of everything

  Stevie J Cole

  Lauren Lovell

  To those we’ve loved that the darkness has captured.

  Chaos is an angel who fell in love with a demon.

  Christopher poindexter

  Contents

  1. Poppy

  Part 1

  2. Poppy

  3. Poppy

  4. Brandon

  5. Poppy

  6. Brandon

  7. Connor

  8. Poppy

  9. Poppy

  10. Brandon

  11. Connor

  12. Brandon

  13. Connor

  14. Poppy

  15. Brandon

  16. Brandon

  17. Poppy

  18. Brandon

  19. Poppy

  20. Brandon

  21. Poppy

  Part II

  22. Connor

  23. Brandon

  24. Brandon

  25. Poppy

  26. Brandon

  27. Poppy

  28. Brandon

  29. Poppy

  30. Brandon

  31. Poppy

  32. Brandon

  33. Poppy

  34. Brandon

  35. Poppy

  36. Brandon

  37. Poppy

  38. Brandon

  39. Poppy

  40. Brandon

  41. Poppy

  42. Brandon

  43. Poppy

  44. Brandon

  45. Brandon

  46. Poppy

  47. Poppy

  48. Brandon

  49. Poppy

  50. Poppy

  51. Brandon

  52. Poppy

  53. Brandon

  54. Brandon

  55. Poppy

  56. Brandon

  57. Poppy

  58. Brandon

  59. Poppy

  60. Brandon

  61. Poppy

  The Truth

  1

  Poppy

  April 2014

  There are some moments in life that threaten to rip away a person’s soul. Moments where, even years later, the magnitude of the grief is still palpable, and as I wipe my living room window clean, one of those moments is looming.

  The very second the black Mercedes pulls into our drive, I know. My heart goes into a pleading gallop, and I brace myself on the wooden frame, praying they have the wrong house.

  As the car door swings open, an army officer climbs out. He adjusts the sleeve of his uniform as he stares at my front door. The worried look etched into his features foreshadowed the news he’ll soon be sharing.

  Closing my eyes, I place a palm to my mouth to cover the sob, and I try to breathe, praying he’s come with news other than I’m now a widow. In. Out. But my chest goes tight, robbing my lungs of air when the chimes echo like church bells off the walls of my home, yet now it feels more like a tomb.

  I don’t recall moving from the window or turning the latch or even inviting the officer inside. He takes a rigid seat on the edge of the sofa, his spine straight as an arrow and stiff as a board. The host in me offers to put on tea, foolishly clinging to hope that this visit is cordial—that my heart is wrong.

  The officer clears his throat and croaks my married name when I’m halfway to the kitchen. The slow turn I make doesn’t stop the hands of time. And when I face him, he stands, gripping his hat in front of him. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” My name is scribbled in messy handwriting across the front of the envelope he hands me—a grave letter. The man forces himself to make eye contact to convey his painful message. “Your husband was a good soldier. He served his country well.”

  With a solemn expression, he places a gentle hand to my arm. That touch makes it all too real.

  I’ve lost him.

  And that was the beginning and end of everything.

  Part 1

  The Past. The Beginning

  2

  Poppy

  October 1999

  My mother passed away when I was nine. An age where I would always remember her, but where time would steal away most of the memories, no matter how hard I clung to them. At that point, I understood that death was final, and losing my mother took a chunk of my heart that I believed no one else would ever fill.

  That October marked a year since her passing and exactly one month since my father had moved us from America to Ireland for a job that would help cover the debt he owed the hospitals.

  He promised I’d make friends, that I would love Ireland just as much as I had loved Georgia, but over the last few weeks, I’d been laughed at more than spoken to. In fact, the only kid in the class who’d even said so much as hello to me was Connor Blaine, the chubby, blond-headed boy who sat beside me. He got picked on for being overweight just as much as I did for talking funny. Connor’s best friend, Brandon—at the very least—didn’t make fun of me, even if it was painfully obvious that he didn’t really like me.

  Miss Brown finished our cursive lesson then turned from the chalkboard, dusting her hands before taking heavy strides toward the corner where Brandon stood with his nose to the wall. In the few weeks I’d been there, he’d spent more time in the corner than he had at his seat.

  Exhaling, she took him by the shoulders, spun him around, and crouched eye level with him before pointing a stern finger in his face. “Next time you throw a toad at a girl, it’s to the head master’s office with ya.”

  “Yes, Miss.” Brandon straightened his back and gave a single curt nod like he meant to behave from then on. Even I knew that was far from the truth. A subtle smirk curled one corner of his lips before he sank into the seat on the other side of Connor.

  The day crept along, and when Miss Brown called on people to read James and the Giant Peach, I slouched in my chair, not wanting her to choose me. Two paragraphs in, she called my name with a sweet grin. I took a deep breath, placed both elbows onto the table, pushing myself up to hunch over my book, hoping my hair would hide my face from the rest of the class while I read.

  Davie Logan snickered. Miss Brown clapped her hands, and I kept reading until my turn was over. Then the next child stuttered through the first few lines.

  Brandon leaned in front of Connor, eyes narrowed. "Why do you talk so funny?" he whispered.

  I had already explained to Brandon that I wasn’t Irish, but for whatever reason, he thought being in Ireland meant I should talk in the same sing-song accent everyone else did.

  Connor punched him in the arm, and Brandon scowled before he redirected his attention to the notebook in front of him. He scribbled until his pencil ripped the paper. I blocked out the sound of the other kids reading passages, attuned to the incessant ticking of the clock. Finally, the bell rang, followed by the bustle of kids putting books away.

  Connor was almost to the door when he glanced over his shoulder at me, then knelt, pretending to tie an already knotted shoelace. Brandon stopped beside him. “You coming to my place?”

  “Yeah.” Connor pushed to his feet. "Want to come to the Gypo camp with us, Poppy?"

  "Gypo camp?” I asked on our way through the hallway. “What’s a Gypo camp?”

  “It’s a place with a bunch of caravans. Brandon lives there.”

  “Okay.”

  Brandon tossed his head back on a groan. He didn’t want me coming, but I didn’t care. I liked Connor.

  The gate into the campsite hung at an angle, chained on both sides. Brandon said it was to stop people from “nicking” their caravans while they slept. I nodded when he nimbly jumped the fence, even though I had no idea what it meant to nick something.

 
; Connor struggled to hoist himself over, then tumbled to the dry ground with an oomph. I slipped between the posts and gave him my hand to help him to his feet, his cheeks blushing.

  We followed Brandon across the field to where a messy collection of travel trailers sat, some silver, some white, and some with fabric awnings pitched over the entrance. I took in my surroundings, thinking about how much it reminded me of a traveling circus while the boys rounded a rusted truck a few feet ahead. Weeds and tall grass covered most of the fender, but I didn’t stop to linger. I followed them between the trailers—or caravans, as Connor had called them—until Brandon started up a set of steps.

  A white dog, covered in dirt and grease, shot out from the underpinning, yapping. He made it a few feet before the frayed piece of rope tethering him to the trailer caught, yanking him back.

  "Shut up, Sean!" Brandon said, reaching for the door, but Sean kept barking. When Brandon opened the door, it dropped on its hinges with a thump, and the dog howled.

  "Brandon?" a woman shouted.

  "Yeah, I'm here.” He stepped inside, then stopped, leaving Connor and me on the steps. “Where's Dad?"

  "At the pub."

  Brandon’s shoulders sagged—the same way they did when he was blamed for something in class—before he moved inside. Connor went straight to a plastic-covered, floral couch and flopped down, looking right at home. But I lingered in the doorway. A woman I assumed was Brandon’s mother stood in front of a tiny sink, her hands in dishwater. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun, and an apron was tied around her cinched waist. If I squinted just enough, she could have looked like my mom. I rubbed at the dull ache in my chest, hoping Brandon knew how lucky he was.

  "You and Connor want a snack?" She wiped her hands on her apron and grabbed a plate of cookies. The second she turned, her gaze landed on me, and her steps faltered. She smiled the kind of smile that I’d only seen my mother give. One that caused tiny dimples to pop in her cheeks. She held out the plate of cookies, and both boys snatched two. "Who's this?"

  Brandon shoved the treat into his mouth, then yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the sofa. "Poppy. Connor likes her, but I think she talks funny.”

  His mother’s eyes strayed from me to the crumpled shirt on the plastic-covered couch before she dug her fists into her hips and pointed across the small room. "Boy, that shirt was clean this morning! What did you do? Roll around in the mulch?” She swatted his head, then gave me a smile. "Don't mind him. Boy thinks he was raised in a barn."

  After our snack, his mom sent us outside to play. Brandon took off through the maze of caravans while Connor straggled behind, next to me. “His ma’s nice.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. As much as the jealousy that coursed through me made a knot of guilt settle in my stomach, I couldn’t help it.

  “I’m sure yours is, too,” he said. A simple, casual comment, but it hurt.

  The kind of pain that stops a child dead in their tracks. I swatted at the tears stinging my eyes, and Connor’s brow furrowed. Before he could say a word, I huffed.

  “Stupid gnat.”

  “Yeah. They’re bad this time of year.”

  I lied. I didn’t want Connor to feel sorry for me, but most importantly, I didn’t want to think about it.

  I forced my thoughts elsewhere and followed Connor around a white trailer. It had fallen off three of its wheels, which meant one end sat higher than the others. An old man sat in front of it, slumped over in a ratty lawn chair. A hat covered half of his face, and an empty bottle of whiskey laid propped in his lap.

  “That’s Old Man McGinty,” Connor leaned in to whisper, thumbing back at the sleeping man. “My ma says he’s a drunk.”

  Eventually, the caravans opened to a field where, unlike most of Ireland, the grass was brown and dead. A black pony stood tied to a metal post, munching on what little green was left. The horse lifted its head, snorting when we approached.

  “Hey, Shegar.” Brandon patted the pony’s mane, then unfastened the harness from the rope before glancing at me. "Wanna ride him?”

  The only pony I had ever ridden had been one at the Georgia State Fair. The kind someone led around in a circle. My gaze shifted from the pony to Brandon

  “Come on.” He jerked his chin toward the horse and smiled.

  My gut instinct was not to trust Brandon.

  On a huff, he rolled his eyes. “What’s the matter? You scared?”

  “No.” I was terrified I might fall off, but I would never admit it. For whatever reason, I wanted Brandon to like me. Which was why I stepped beside the pony with my racing heart and swatted the gnats buzzing by his face.

  “Grab him like this.” He fisted Shegar’s mane. “Then lift up your leg."

  I hesitated before threading my fingers through the horse’s coarse hair.

  "On three—One. Two.” Brandon grabbed my leg and pushed me up. “Three.”

  The horse lifted its head with a snort when I sprawled out on its back. I shifted, sitting upright and gripping the mane for dear life. "Now, what do I do?"

  Brandon tossed his head back, swiping a hand down his face on a groan. "How do you not know how to ride a horse?"

  "I don't think they have horses in America," Connor whispered.

  "We do, too!"

  "Well, riding a pony is kinda like swimming.” Brandon fiddled with the collar around the pony’s neck, and a smirk danced over his lips just as his eyes locked on mine. “You just jump in and figure it out."

  "What?” I panicked. “No, you don't. You drown!"

  "Bran,” Connor started. “Don't…"

  The collar dropped to the dry grass. Brandon smacked the horse on its hindquarter, and he trotted off with another snort, all while I flopped from side to side like a ragdoll. It jumped a small ditch, and I toppled to the hard ground, a cloud of dust billowing around me. My butt throbbed, and my palms ached from where I’d tried to brace my fall. Brandon was bent over at the waist, cackling.

  “Bran, you’re an arse.” Connor took off across the field but stopped halfway to lean over his knees and gasp for breath.

  I stood, dusted the dirt from my knees, and stomped across the dead field—right past Connor and right up to Brandon. He wiped tears from his eyes, still laughing.

  My cheeks heated. I wasn’t sure what hurt more my fall or my pride.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping I came off as angry and not hurt. “What’s so funny?”

  “You should’ve seen yourself.” He imitated a terrorized scream before chuckling some more.

  I gritted my teeth. “You’re a meany butt!”

  His laughter fell silent. He folded his arms over his chest, and I almost wanted to shrink away from him. "That isn't a bad word, Poppy."

  “Bran,” Connor ran up beside me, winded. “Leave her alone.”

  “Fine.” I inched closer. "Butthole."

  There was a pause, a slight tic to his jaw. A moment where I thought maybe I’d won. Then Brandon narrowed his eyes. "Bitch."

  I’d never heard that word used outside of the movies, and, at the tender age of ten, having it directed at me from a boy I wished would accept me, it felt like a hot poker driving right through my heart. I fought the quiver in my lip. I tried to keep my nostrils from flaring, but all that did was force the tears out faster than I’d wanted.

  Connor’s arm came around my shoulders. "You’re an arse, Bran!"

  Brandon’s hardened gaze moved from me to Connor, then back. I shrugged out of Connor’s hold, wiped my face with my sleeve, then kicked Brandon right in the shin.

  3

  Poppy

  November 1999

  Most days after school, I went to Connor’s house until Daddy’s shift at the factory ended. And of course, Brandon came, too, because he went wherever Connor did.

  As soon as we walked in, Connor’s mom checked that we didn’t have any unfinished homework. She placed a plate full of fresh-from-the-oven cookies on the table, followed by thre
e small glasses of milk. Connor’s mom was nice, like the moms on every sitcom TV show. All smiley, with a sweet, soothing voice.

  The warm chocolate chips melted on my tongue when I took a bite. I stuffed the rest of the first cookie into my mouth as I plopped down onto the floor and dumped my Barbies from my backpack. They scattered the carpet, limbs twisted at awkward angles and hair tangled.

  I chose one from the pile, fixing her pink tutu while looking at Connor. "Wanna play with me?"

  He shrugged and grabbed the lone Ken doll. "Sure."

  As expected, Brandon groaned. He was always throwing his head back and groaning when it came to me. "Can't we play video games?” he asked around a mouthful of cookie. “Barbies suck."

  "Video games rot your brain." I combed through my doll's hair while Connor busied himself by cramming Ken’s foot into a plastic loafer.

  “Says who?” Brandon flopped down onto the sofa, swatting one of the throw pillows to the floor.