This Is Not How It Ends(10)

I shook my head and averted my eyes.

“Ah, I misstep.” He inched backward. “Shall I go?”

I was ashamed to say no. I wanted to stay there, with him, in that dimly lit bathroom that smelled of persimmon and copal soap. I wanted Daniel to suddenly remember he’d left a power tool running at Home Depot, and excuse himself to leave. I wanted to rewrite Stephanie Lippman’s thesis because maybe it was wrong. The heart knew what it wanted. It wasn’t complicated. It was pure and simple. This was simple.

I moved in closer.

He pressed the lock, and his eyes traced the black fabric along my shoulder. “Was this for him? Or were you thinking of me?”

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, and he came around, catching my eyes. “You’re lovely, Charlotte.” He was lovely, too, but I couldn’t say that. He was something else. He wasn’t real. He was make-believe spinning wildly out of control. He was a presence that left me wordless—mute—something that rarely occurred. I felt dizzy. Unstable.

An urgent knocking broke the silence. “Charlotte!” It was Daniel. “Are you okay in there?”

Philip caressed my ear with his lips. “Tell him you’re all right, Charlotte.”

His blue eyes held mine. I couldn’t turn away. My voice quavered. I didn’t recognize the pitch. “Just a minute, Daniel. I’m fine.”

Then Philip kissed me again. He kissed me long and hard as if he might never see me again. He kissed me as though we hadn’t flown thousands of miles to reach this moment. He kissed me so deeply it began to hurt, but I didn’t stop him. Before long, he would slip away.

“We’re not done,” he said with a playful smile. “This. This is only the beginning.”





CHAPTER 5

July 2018, Present Day

Islamorada, Florida

It was late morning when I entered the lemon-colored clapboard beach house, shaking off the gravity of the last few hours. The frightened faces of the man and his son haunted me. They were in the bay windows that framed the deep-blue ocean; in the acid-washed concrete floors. The juxtaposition of old world against new—nature among the garish tones of the house—hurt my eyes. Philip prided himself on creating an eclectic home.

Sunny turned around, which he did when he wanted to be sure I was following. He obediently waited for his treat by the breezy white cabinet, his tail wagging against the matching island. I didn’t have to instruct him to sit, he was already on his hind legs with hopeful eyes.

The plastic bag crinkled in my hands, and Sunny’s mouth came down on my outstretched palm. I plopped down beside him, scooting against the cabinetry, and watched him gnaw the bone in his paws. Every so often he glanced in my direction. The chomping sounds of his jaws lured me to stay; worried eyes wondered if I was okay. He sensed these things. Most dogs did. He’d already watched me grieve for someone I loved, knowing to lick away my tears and bathe me in his love. What he didn’t know, and neither did Philip, was that the hole had been there long before we’d met. I bit back the memories and dropped my head against the cabinet.

Footsteps meant Philip was close, and Sunny growled. I sat up and surveyed the room. When Philip had picked out the electric-blue backsplash, I had fought him. “It’s really busy,” I had said, “and loud,” but who was I to argue when Philip had decorated multiple homes? I’d grown to love the differences. The loud colors against the smooth steel finishes; the wood beams that stretched across the ceiling.

“What on earth are you doing on the floor, Charley?” Philip chimed.

I patted Sunny’s head to assure him for the hundredth time that Philip was harmless. Then I gathered myself and stood to meet him. He was still handsome, in his self-assured, yet utterly boyish way. Women took note of his towering frame and fine clothing. Wherever we’d go, I’d get a sense that I could be easily replaced. I was hardly the kind of woman who stood out. I wasn’t the tallest, or the slimmest, or close to the prettiest. Philip’s admirers often reminded me of our differences. Their enthusiasm for his British pedigree bubbled over, and the flicker in his eyes had them believing they were the only ones in the room. Having paid careful attention to these virtues of his, I noticed his accent was less pronounced since we met, as was his waistline. Philip, with all his traveling, believed in a strict, healthy diet, often quoting a recent Mediterranean fad with precise guidelines for a man of his size. Today, freshly sprouted gray trickled through his dirty blond hair, and his pale face seemed drawn. His cologne enveloped me, a musky scent that had lined our history.

“I’m just hanging with Sunny,” I said, letting him wrap his arms around me.

His soft lips grazed my cheek. “I’ve been waiting for you.” It came out as a murmur, a gentle kiss, and I felt my body come to life, while the images of the little boy and his dad slowly drifted away.

“Are you still upset?”

I was, but I blinked back the disappointment as I’d been doing for weeks. I fingered the ring, remembering when I thought it would make a difference. “I’m fine.”

“Morada tonight?” he asked.

I pulled back. “Let’s try something new.”

“You love it there,” he said.

I did. Once. Morada Bay’s beach housed the upscale Pierre’s restaurant and the Morada Bay Beach Café, where we spent countless nights. When we’d first moved here, we’d crowd her shores while the guitarist crooned Taylor and Buffett beneath a canopy of stars. There we’d drop ourselves against the knotted webs of the old hammocks, admiring the expansive palms, while our feet brushed the sand, and I’d laze in his arms sipping colorful drinks. We talked of a future, dreams fastened together with sunlight and laughter. Our table by the water was where we watched the sunsets against the Gulf, some of the most spectacular I’d ever seen. Just imagining the crisp surf lapping against the jutting rocks sent the smell of sea through my memory. I remembered how our love had sprouted and grown, and it left me lonelier than ever.