This Is Not How It Ends(20)

“Did you get shots?” he asked.

“A few.”

“Me too,” he said.

“Well, you must be a very brave boy.”

He rinsed the soap from his fingers, drying them on the paper towel I held out to him. “Thank you,” he said, this time meeting my eyes.

The walk down the narrow hall was quiet. I heard Ben’s voice through Liberty’s door. It was part concern, part doubt. Liberty ushered him to the waiting room while Jimmy took his place, ready to begin his tests, which left me and Ben to sit in silence.



Behind my desk, the clock made a loud ticking sound, and I was trying to concentrate on the paperwork for the next patient, an older woman with an allergy to jet fuel. Giving up, I came around the divider and took the seat beside him. He was flipping through an old copy of Island Life, but when I sat down, he dropped the magazine on the table, and his face fell into his hands. The black ink around a certain finger—symbolizing eternity—revealed a piece of him I hadn’t noticed before.

“You all right?” I asked, chalking his quiet up to the earlier stress coupled with Liberty’s elaborate instructions. It had been a long day—the hospital felt like a lifetime ago—and I could read the strain on his face, in the wrinkles in his shirt, and in the way his hair was left unkempt. “It’s a lot to take in . . . Maybe it’s too soon . . .”

He sat upright. “No. Jimmy’s suffered long enough. This is a godsend.” He turned to me when he added, “You’ve been a godsend.”

He didn’t argue with me like all the naysayers. “Next time you should bring your wife,” I said. “It helps to have an extra set of ears to take it all in.”

“His mom’s away.”

She must be beautiful, I thought to myself. I could already tell. The way he longed for her. It was there in his face. I imagined a business executive, much like Philip, a sophisticated woman with an important job.

“She must have been terrified when she heard . . .”

He nodded.

“It’s a lot to deal with,” I said. “For anyone.”

He played with the leather band around his wrist. “You get used to it.”

I wasn’t imagining a certain solitude that stitched us together. It was there in the dim cloud that fell over him. How he probably missed her, the way I had grown to miss the many shades of Philip, the many people in my life.

He glanced at my finger, and the ring, in all its conspicuousness, glared between us. “He travels a ton for work, too. This wasn’t really how I imagined our engagement.” I twisted the band, the bright sparkle always brilliant and blinding. “We’ll never have a wedding if he keeps this schedule.” And then, “I’m not sure he cares.”

He sounded as though he was about to say something else, but he stopped himself, and I realized my mistake. I said too much, and I apologized.

He pretended I hadn’t overstepped and thanked me for insisting he come in. “Your friend seems to know what she’s doing. I think. I’m about ready to try anything at this point.” We focused on the wall before us. My embarrassment folded away. “How can I thank you?” he asked.

“Seeing Jimmy allergy-free is plenty.”

My phone dinged, and it was Philip. The text sprawling across the screen reminded me in his absence that he was ever present. It started with I love you. And ended with Forgive me. Holding the phone in my hand, I pored over each word, almost missing Liberty motion for Ben to join her for the results. When they were out of sight, I returned to my desk and reread the text.

Philip loving me was never the problem. He loved me wholly, completely, though it was mostly on Philip’s terms—when he was in town for a quick weekend, when he was by himself in a foreign hotel and FaceTimed, when business and responsibilities didn’t steal him away. It worked for quite some time, but now it didn’t.

I would answer, but not yet.

Ben and Jimmy soon departed with a plan in place just as jet-fuel Amy slipped into Liberty’s office. Amy complained of severe headaches when she flew, and I was initially doubtful of Liberty’s ability to treat an environmental allergy. To do so, she would have to expose the patient to the allergen. “How do you plan on getting jet fuel?” I had asked.

“I can’t, but your fancy boyfriend can.” All it took was one phone call to his aviation buddies, and a vial of jet fuel arrived at our office. I was thrilled Philip could assist, but the access to jet fuel was early evidence of a growing problem.

Turning to my computer screen, the words insurance and deductible blended into one. I missed the days of Shakespeare and Austen, casualties in the war for love. My old principal, Priscilla, had recently called, and hearing of my former students left me yearning for the days when I’d lose myself in a persuasive paper, the dissection of related themes, and deconstructing Jane Eyre. I treasured what Liberty and I had accomplished, but my creative expression had been crippled.

I dialed Philip, knowing the call would go straight to voice mail as he’d set it to do throughout the business day. It didn’t matter. I liked to listen to his accent, the cheery baritone pulling him through the phone and into my waiting ears.

“Darling.” But when Philip said it, there was a lovely lilting quality to his voice: “Dahling.”

“You weren’t supposed to pick up.”