This Is Not How It Ends(32)

“I love that you’re curious, Charley. I love that you ask the tricky questions.”

“It’s not a tricky question.”

“This may sound a tad strange,” he’d replied, turning the phone away so I couldn’t see his face, pointing the camera on the city lights.

“Tell me.”

He’d returned to the screen looking boyish and shy. “I have basophobia.”

“Is this one of your jokes, Philip?”

Suddenly his eyes had looked serious and hurt. “No, Charley. It’s not a joke.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s the fear of falling.”

“The fear of falling? I don’t understand.”

“It’s serious. I’m afraid to fall.”

“I don’t get it. Like fall off a roof? A flight of stairs?”

He’d pouted through the phone and said he didn’t like to lose control, that he was afraid to slip, to have others watch.

“I’ve never heard of anything like that . . .”

“Roller coasters. I don’t like the way they drop. That nauseous feeling in your stomach . . . you know what that is, don’t you? It’s your organs moving.”

I didn’t know that. “Really, Philip? That’s your big fear?”

It had become one of our first arguments.

“You asked me what I feared, Charley. Don’t be so flippant. A fear is a fear precisely because of its irrationality.”

He lowered his head until he disappeared from the screen. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It seems odd, that’s all. Uncharacteristic of you, I guess.”

He returned to the phone, and I could tell I’d upset him. “You asked me a question, Charlotte. I gave you my answer. You have a lot of life yet to live.” It was one of the few times he’d referenced our age difference.

The queasiness found me again, rousing me from the memory, and I knew I’d require additional treatment when we returned. I asked Pete to turn the air down, crack the windows. Then I reached for my phone and tapped on the calendar, a strange foreboding coming over me. I mouthed the numbers to myself. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. I stopped at forty, not needing to count any further. I was over twelve days late. If I wasn’t already feeling sick, the realization would have been enough for me to break into a sweat.

Philip and I had touched on the subject of kids. It was an expectation of those in love, though we were satisfied being two. For a time, my students were my children, and our conversations on the subject were hypothetical, far-off plans we’d return to later. We were hardly traditional—our lives and lifestyle—but I stopped myself from continuing. These were the excuses I’d been rehearsing in my head, and taking them out and plucking their strings felt different this time. Maybe I wanted my own kids after all. Maybe before I wasn’t ready, not over my own father’s abandonment. And maybe, that is why Philip being gone so much was suddenly so upsetting.

We reached the hotel in a trail of heavy traffic. I was tired from a continuum of thoughts, what I suspected could be newly formed life. The suite was spacious, with a view of the bay, and I told myself it would be a short nap.

I didn’t hear him come in. I felt the silky bottom of my gown against my thigh. He was lifting it up, the soft fabric barely a tickle. His lips were climbing up my leg until I jostled awake.

The clock said it was close to nine. I’d been asleep an hour, though it felt a lot longer. “I’m hungry,” he said, nuzzling my neck and curling around me. His hands found my belly, the sensation quieting the clattering thoughts. Maybe this explained my recent moodiness, the weepiness that crept up and left me hungry for something I didn’t recognize. We sat like that, his warmth coating me, and I let go of the worry. I wanted him to touch me. I needed to feel close.

Turning toward him, I noticed his eyes were closed, and a gentle sleep had taken over. “Oh Philip,” I whispered. “You work too hard.” Gazing down at his peaceful face, I stroked his cheeks with my fingertips. His eyes fluttered open. “I’m starving,” he said again. I was hungry, too, though a different kind of hunger.

Miami didn’t come to life until well after dark, so we were right on time when we hopped in the car and headed to the Fontainebleau. Philip’s pants were baggy in the bottom, and I grabbed his bum in my palm. “Maybe we can go shopping for you tomorrow. Get you some pants that fit.” He laughed, proud of his trim figure.

Our table at Hakkasan was tucked in a back corner. The restaurant was noisy and dark, and the waiter greeted us warmly before offering us drinks.

“We need to talk,” I said.

“What is it, darling?”

Maybe this would change things. Maybe he’d understand the depth of my emotions, our commitment. There was a flicker in his eyes when I said, “I’m late,” but it faded quickly.

Pausing, he took a swig of his drink, and though he tried to disguise his reaction, I saw the way he refused to look at me, how his lips pursed. “What are you saying, Charley?”

“I’m not sure,” I stammered, trying my best to catch his eyes. “I’m late, and I’ve been feeling a little sick . . . I have to take a test.”

He should have grabbed me in his arms and flung me in the air. That’s what men do when the women they love announce they’re with child. This news stumped him. Finishing off his drink, he quickly ordered another one, and the moment dissolved inside the teak walls. The joy and jubilation that should have brought us closer wedged an unforgivable space between us.