After the End (9 page)

“Brady!” A woman in a vivid blue skirt, like she’d wrapped the sky around her hips to fall gently to her ankles, was grabbing Brady in a huge hug. Her head barely reached his chin, dark hair in a loose braid. A grin that lit up the whole city beamed over to me next. “And you brought a friend? Look at you, getting out there. It’s about time.”

Brady rolled his eyes, flushing a bit, but his arm was wrapped around the woman’s shoulders as he introduced us. “Maya, this is Quinn, a friend of mine. Quinn, Maya runs the place.”

“You sell the produce here?” I asked, impressed. The stall next to us was overflowing with fall root vegetables, vivid oranges and purples and browns, a checkered quilt of them spread out over the rough wooden table. “It’s really beautiful-looking. I’m not much of a cook, but even I can tell it’s amazing.”

Maya laughed lightly, and Brady just grinned wider. “I meant
the place
. As in all of it. Maya organizes the entire Farmer’s Market.”

Oh. Well, that was something quite a bit bigger than turnips. “Then
you’re
kind of amazing,” I told her honestly, and she squeezed my arm, eyes dancing as she looked up at Brady.

“Oh, I like him. You should keep him around. Smart ones are always worth a little extra effort.” She gave Brady another hug before turning to me, kissing both of my cheeks in welcome. She smelled like growing things, like oranges and dirt and sunshine. I liked her. She was solid and warm and had freckles across dark skin. I thought Annabeth and Tracy would love her and her market, the way she had of laughing.

“Brady is making me lunch,” I informed her with a slight smile, one that only grew when I felt Brady’s hand finding mine, our fingers tangling together once more. “I think that’s more than enough effort. I’m not that smart.”

“Romantic lunch, eh?” Maya took my arm and led us through the bustle of the market. “Brady, have you seen Lawrence’s peas? And Gerald’s sons brought in the most beautiful pancetta with their sausages this morning.”

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.

T
HE
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 any 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.