This Is Not How It Ends(25)

If someone had told me a renowned chef would settle here in Islamorada, I’d question the motive, but sipping wine and watching the magical scene—the mystical sky unfolding and folding for the night—I understood. It was a feeling. When you walked onto the property, a sense of belonging emerged, as though you were absorbed by the natural beauty. The pull was something I couldn’t deny. And long after the sky erupted with color, after the sun slowly vanished in the sea, and long after the crowds thinned out and Philip and I were left bathed in candlelight, I fell deeper in love.

Tonight I wondered if we could recapture those earlier days.

Tonight I wondered why the safe, familiar aura that once felt like home eluded me.

Tonight I wondered if the table we once called ours would ever be ours again.

“I’ve missed this,” he said. We were walking along the sand, Sunny by our side, while my favorite music filled the air.

“Me too,” I said, though I was fairly certain we were referring to different things.

I’d taken extra care in dressing. Not because I needed to impress Philip’s friend, but because I wanted to impress Philip. I needed to figure out a way to bring him home—and not solely in the physical sense. We needed to connect. Loneliness had pervaded me, though it was far more than being alone. The dress was soft blush and fell down my legs. My hair was gathered in a loose bun at the nape of my neck. He liked it that way.

Arriving at the table, he pulled out a chair for me to sit. Sunny took his usual spot by my feet. He always enjoyed a good people watch. “You look lovely, Charley,” Philip said.

The pale button-down showed off his bare chest, and matching chinos accentuated his trim figure. He took the seat beside me overlooking the gorgeous view. “Where’s your friend?” I asked.

A whistling wind circled around my shoulders. “He’s on his way.”

The waitress dropped a bowl of water nearby for Sunny, and Philip ordered us a bottle of pinot noir. After my first sip, I broached a delicate subject. “What did Natasha want?”

“Oh, Charley, you know Natasha. There’s always some drama in her life tangling her knickers.”

I inwardly smiled at the memory of her calling Philip from London when the valet brought her car, though it wasn’t hers, and she decided to take the fancy sports car for a spin before being arrested. “It seemed . . . important.”

“Crazy,” he dismissed me. “She’s always slightly crazy, darling.”

His gaze traveled past me as though he were searching for someone in the distance. “Philip, look at me.”

I was serious, which made him uneasy, and he took a long sip.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

He chuckled. “For goodness’ sake, Charley. Of course not.” Then he gave me his hand, which I didn’t need. I needed answers. I needed understanding. Because he was holding back, the gesture a diversion.

“What are you in the mood for, darling?”

“Not this . . . not you trying to change the subject.” I flung his hand away, disliking the abruptness of my tone.

“Is this about the wedding again?”

“I’m not sure,” I relented, disappointment seeping out.

“It’s just this time of year, my lovely. A few more domestic trips and then Hong Kong. After that, things will slow down. I’ll be all yours.”

My glass dropped on the table at the announcement of another overseas trip, and it made a sharp sound.

“When’s that?” I asked.

“Beginning of September.”

It wasn’t that far away, but I already knew the tumult to expect. International trips meant weeks apart. There was a time when news like this wouldn’t have affected me. Our unconventional love provided a fluid space for joining together and coming apart. But when we moved down south, I had a different expectation. And when he slipped the ring on my finger, I thought, perhaps, we were ready for something more. Yet it turned into something less. Something far less than we had before.

Disguising disappointment was a challenge. “I didn’t know about the Hong Kong trip.” Nor did he ask me to come along.

But then his phone rang, and he slipped on his we’re done with this conversation face. He was on his feet, talking rather firmly, and I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Deflated, I sat, staring at the water and the birds frolicking. Their squawks sounded like cries. I ached for our old life, my old life.

And then Philip shouted, “Aye, mate!” and I refused to turn.

Sunny was on all fours, and a series of barks filled the tepid air.

I heard them hug and slap each other’s backs like grown men do. Sunny tugged, but I tugged harder, forcing him to sit. I didn’t want to meet Philip’s friend like this. I didn’t want to meet anyone like this. How could I sit beside them and pretend to be happy when inside I was beginning to feel that I was not?

“Charley, darling,” Philip’s voice strummed through the air. “Come meet Goose.” And then in this teasing voice that mocked me, “Any chance you’re a notary, my friend? This lovely is ready to tie the knot . . . Did I tell you I’m getting married? Trust me, lad, this one was worth the wait.”

Ever so slightly, I turned. Philip stopped talking, and his friend stared me in the eye.

“Charley, meet the man behind this delicious establishment. My dear, dear friend, Goose.”