This Is Not How It Ends(15)

“You can be my office manager,” she had said one afternoon at the beach when we were walking toward our cars, the evening sky dusted with stars. “Just until a teaching job opens. I’m good at what I do, Charlotte, but I’m highly unorganized. I bet you could whip my office into shape, am I right? It’ll be fun!” She used her fingers and hands when she talked. “Charlotte, you’ll love it!”

Though I missed teaching—the students and the interaction—Liberty Scott was not someone I could resist.



It was Friday and we didn’t see patients until two. Normally, I arrived at one, but today was an exception. The clinic was not solely for the treatment of allergies. Liberty practiced acupuncture and claimed to treat weight imbalances, infertility, anxiety, and pain. She also professed not to profess. NAET was a “personal decision” and Eastern and Western medicine, “combined, could be very effective.”

Settling myself behind the desk, I powered up the computer and turned on NPR. My fingers had just reached the keyboard, when Liberty’s shrill voice called out, “Some guy Ben is coming in with his son later this afternoon. Said you referred him?”





CHAPTER 8

May 2016, Back Then

Kansas City, Missouri

My mother once told me that you should never marry someone if you’ve slept with them on the first date. She said, to be precise, “Don’t be that kind of girl. If he slept with you that easily, he’s probably doing it with a lot of others.”

I was an adult with my own set of limits—and I’d hardly call it a first date—but, admittedly, I had slept with Philip on our first date. The operative word being slept.

He showed up at my door, eyes bloodshot and clouded over with a sultry mist. The sun was beginning to rise, and with its gentle rays came longing. A longing to be touched. A longing to fit our pieces together so they could never break apart.

His phone dropped on my tiled floor with a loud crash. I was sure I could see my reflection splintered in the cracked glass, each sliver calling out, “Protect yourself.”



He stepped over the shattered device and took my hand. He wasn’t dressed to get on a plane. He was in faded blue jeans and a thin gunmetal sweater. It was nearing June in Missouri. Temperatures were climbing well out of normal range. His palms were sweaty, his breath that of someone in a rush. I turned around thinking I’d see his suitcase on the floor. This was a goodbye. He’d come to say goodbye before heading to the airport.

But there was no suitcase.

“Your flight?” I asked nervously as he guided me the few short steps toward my bed.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

I was out of breath, too. His question threw me. A bright-red embarrassment crawled up my neck.

“I haven’t seen a Murphy bed in years.” He turned around, aghast. “Oh, Charley, I shouldn’t be here.”

I was too surprised to speak. Philip was in my apartment.

“It’s not proper for a gentleman to be in a lady’s bedroom.” He turned to leave.

My voice rose. “It’s the other way around.” I shifted nervously. The air conditioner kicked on, and a loud noise mingled with desire. “The lady shouldn’t be in the man’s bedroom.”

He eyed the bed and then me. A thin white tank top accentuated parts I wasn’t yet ready for him to see. He took his time, noticing how I tugged on the fabric, pulling it down to cover my stomach. A hand came down on mine, the other grabbed the back of my neck. His lips were on mine as I whispered, “Maybe I’m not a lady.”

The kiss was slow and deliberate, a canvas of blank sky spread out for miles. I was trapped in a silky tunnel I couldn’t escape. Didn’t want to escape. I don’t know what I thought in that moment. I had an idea of where the kiss would take us and the allure of an unmade bed. A dozen images swirled around my mind, though nothing measured up to what occurred that morning.

Philip pulled away first. He gathered me in his arms and led me toward the bed.

The clock beside my bed read 7:17. He caught me gazing at the numbers, and in one swoop, he pulled the clock from the wall and flung it aside.

“I’ll replace that,” he said through pressed lips when I heard it smash against the floor.

“You’re supposed to be getting on a plane . . .”

He dropped me on the bed while the early sun cast a beam of light across his face.

“Change of plans.”

Seems I didn’t need to worry about physical imperfections, because Philip wasn’t going to undress me, he wasn’t going to make us that couple. He held me in his arms, fully clothed. And we talked.

“You’ve done something to me, Charley Miles.”

I lightly jabbed him with my fist. “Myers.”

He pretended not to notice and adjusted his body comfortably beneath my blanket. Our bodies were in sync, and I rested my head against his sweater, fingering the delicate fabric.

“You don’t like when I call you Miles?”

“I don’t.”

“Everyone calls you Myers. I’m not like everyone.”

“It’s my name, Mr. Stafford.”

“Names—those can be changed.” He smiled.

That would become one of my earliest memories of Philip. His strange sense of humor. A man who intrigued me intellectually. Someone, I suppose, who mirrored my suffering and knew how to hide the hardest feelings. We held each other, paying no mind to the time or Philip’s immediate travel plans.