This Is Not How It Ends(39)

We took our seats at our table. It was a balmy, cloudless night, a cornflower blue spanning for miles. A light breeze rustled the nearby palms, and Brett’s guitar filtered through the air. Ben stopped by to greet us. He joked with Philip about my almost burning the house down, and I was beginning to understand their closeness. Jimmy was nearby, his shyness giving way to a quiet deference. I took the time to study his pale freckles, counting the tracks his mother once kissed, each stain a kiss from an angel. Now that she was the angel, the marks had to confuse him.

Jimmy lingered, petting Sunny with his nimble fingers, letting him lick his hands and face, and I took the time to chat with him about his upcoming treatment. “No shots. A pain-free session.” I jabbed at his arm. “You’re strong. You’re going to do great.” His features softened, or I was seeing him with new eyes, this young boy. He reminded me of my students, but with far more innocence and far less cynicism. “I’ll be right there with you, cheering you on.” He smiled, and I felt Philip and Ben watching me. Sunny was furiously wagging his tail, and his affection for Jimmy gave me pleasure. Little boys needed love, especially those who had grieved as he had. Soon the pair took off down the sand, playing fetch.

Ben ordered a round of beers, searching my eyes.

I nodded sadly, he hesitated, and I knew it was an apology.

It was the kind of summer evening that etched itself into memory. Brett was singing Bob Seger’s “Fire Lake,” and I was mouthing along with the words. The guys joined in, and I let the happiness soak through, sending the restless waves out to sea, while a warm breeze coated me in hope. It felt good to be alive. Three beers landed in front of us. And that’s when it clicked.

Philip whispered in my ear. “Should you be drinking?”

“About that,” I said. “False alarm.”

“Oh, Charley,” he began, “we’ll just have to keep practicing.” Which in itself would have lessened the disappointment if we were actually having copious amounts of sex, which we were not. He patted my shoulder while sadness and relief settled inside me. Then he reached for the beer and uncapped it, breaking into song. Philip and his godawful, terrible voice. Even though it was a love song, and even though he sang the words to me, it didn’t quench the uncertainty I felt, the Philip I was beginning to misunderstand. Ben did his best to hide his sympathy, but I saw it all over his face. I quickly finished the first beer and moved on to the next.

Several rounds later, Philip thanked Ben for dropping off dinner, and the conversation centered on a well-known client of Philip’s who frequented Ben’s Dallas restaurant. They were the trivial things that kept the conversation safe. And when Philip stood to take a call, leaving me alone with Ben, it was hard to maintain.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“Charlotte—”

“It’s fine, really.”

He backed away from the table as though I’d swiped at him. “That’s Philip’s way. He likes to lighten any situation,” he said.

I sat up straighter, feeling the effects of the beer. Tears pushed through the back of my eyes, and I turned so he wouldn’t see.

“It’ll happen,” Ben said. “You’ll see. And he’ll make jokes about your cravings and your mood swings and you’ll welcome it.”

His kindness felt good, but I didn’t want it. I didn’t want Ben to comfort me, not when it shined a light on Philip’s inability. Philip, who was buried in a phone call paying no mind to what this loss meant to me.

We remained in silence until Sunny and Jimmy bounded up the beach. Jimmy took a seat beside his father while Brett played more of our favorites. I watched the way Ben patted his back until he buried his face in the boy’s hair, whispering something I couldn’t hear. Maybe he was thinking about his wife. Maybe he was remembering her singing to little Jimmy. Maybe it was around this time, before bedtime, or when they were in the car, crooning at the top of their lungs on the drive home from school. Was he jerked awake in the middle of the night missing the sound of her voice?

It was hard to imagine the days following her death. Did he and Jimmy huddle under the covers, hoping to wake up from a horrible dream?



Philip took the vacant seat beside me, and I tossed my head and threw my sadness aside.

“Who was that?” I asked, suddenly curious about Philip’s private conversations.

“Nothing to worry yourself about, Charley. Bloody lawyers.”

He took a swallow of his drink and found my palm. His felt icy cold. “I worry,” I said, treading lightly. “Especially when it affects me. You can’t always keep everything inside, Philip.”

He looked uncomfortable, like I’d made a tiny crack.

But when he spoke, there was no room for discussion. “When it comes to protecting you, Charley, I’ll do whatever I have to do.”



Philip left, this time for a ten-day stint from Vegas to Phoenix and Denver. The days leading up to his departure were tense. I caught him a few times taking calls in the other room, so I couldn’t hear, and when I did what I swore I would never do—searched his phone—there was only one number that seemed to stand out: Natasha’s home in London. Calculating the date and time, it was her who he abruptly rose from the table at Morada Bay to speak with. And when I pressed him about it, he dismissed me, excuses piling up like discarded trash.