After the End(109)
fifty-one
Max
2019
Blair is dozing in her seat. She’s pulled her sweater over her like a blanket, and her head is inches from mine, her eyelashes resting on her cheeks. Ten days in Florida has made her tan, and the color suits her.
“Stop watching me,” she says, without opening her eyes.
I drop a kiss on the end of her nose, and she smiles. In seats across the aisle, Brianna and Logan are watching movies—The Rosie Project and Hobbs & Shaw respectively. They lack their mom’s sixth sense, and don’t feel me watching them. Logan is still wearing the Black Panther hat we bought on our first day in Disney World, the peak pulled so low I’m amazed he can see the TV screen. For ten days Brianna has worn a glittery rose-gold Alice band complete with Minnie Mouse ears, but as we reached the airport she pulled it off and shoved it into her case. It’s a tricky age, on the cusp between childhood and adulthood, and she and I are still working out where we stand.
They bicker at the airport, the postholiday comedown exacerbated by delayed baggage. When the belt finally creaks into action it produces Logan’s small case, and the larger one I shared with Blair, but no pink carryall with Brianna Arnold on the luggage label.
“It’s caused a security scare,” Logan says.
“Shut up.”
“They’ll have to search it.”
“Shut up!”
“They’re probably going through your underwear right now.” Logan holds up an imaginary bra to his scrawny chest. He assumes the deep voice of a fictitious security guard. “Gentlemen, there’s no room for explosives in here—we can move on.”
“Mom!” Brianna swipes at Logan’s head, knocking his cap to the floor.
“Ow! Mom!”
“Cut it out, you two! You’re worse than toddlers.”
“Shall we order in tonight?” I say to Blair. “Give real life a miss till tomorrow?” She nods gratefully, and I spot Brianna’s pink bag finally emerging onto the conveyor belt.
We’re walking to the parking lot when I see Pip and her colleagues. They’re walking in formation, like flightless tropical birds—ten cabin crew, in their red coats, and two pilots, rings of gold around their sleeves. They pull their wheeled cases behind them, and I have a sudden memory of taking Pip’s case out of the boot of her car, of carrying it upstairs and putting it on the bed.
“Can I catch you up?” I give Blair the car keys. “I just want to—”
But she’s seen, too. She smiles. “Go. I’ll take the suitcase.”
Pip’s talking to a tall black girl who walks like a model. They’ll be discussing last night, I guess. The bar they went to, the meal they had. The shopping, the sightseeing, the socializing.
“Pip!”
She turns instantly, a smile on her face as though she half-expected me. “Two minutes,” she tells her colleague. She hugs me, squeezing me hard. “Where have you been?”
“Disney World.”
“With Blair and the children? Did you have a good time?”
“It was great.” I hesitate. “It’s good to see you. I wanted . . . I wanted to tell you in person.” There’s a flicker of alarm in Pip’s face—the legacy of a time when all news was bad news—and I don’t leave her hanging. “Blair and I are getting married.” Her mouth opens slightly but she doesn’t say anything right away, and I search her face for disapproval, regret, concern . . . anything. “You think it’s too soon. You think we’re rushing things.”
And then her eyes widen, and she breaks into a smile. “No, I think it’s wonderful. I’m so glad for you, Max. I’m so glad you’re happy again.”
“We’d like you to be there—if that’s not too weird.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Her eyes are shining. Behind her, a hundred yards away, the formation of red and blue has stopped. They are waiting for her. Pip follows my gaze. A male pilot stands slightly apart from the rest.
“Is that Lars?”
She nods. Flushes slightly, the way you do when you hear the name of someone you’re in love with. We lock eyes for a second. “I could—”
“Introduce us?” When you’ve finished someone’s sentences—and they’ve finished yours—for so many years, it’s a hard habit to break. “Sure.”
Lars is tall, with blond hair and blue eyes. He’s older than me—it is pitiful of me to care, or even notice, but there you go—and he shakes my hand with just the right grip. Not weak, but not aggressive—no unnecessary marking of territory.
“Pip talks about you all the time,” he says, right off the bat. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“And you.” They look good together. Is that a strange thing to think about your ex-wife? They look right. Happy. Pip looks happy. And that’s all I want for her.
I watch them rejoin the others, slotting into place like they were never away. I see the girl with the model walk look back at me—So that’s your ex-husband?—and I smile to myself as I turn, and head for the car park.
It is a curious thing, when you fall in love for a second time. I would do anything to be able to turn back time to that summer before Dylan went into hospital. Before we knew he was sick, before we were asked to choose, before Pip and I slowly fell apart.