This Is Not How It Ends(41)

That morning we were enjoying breakfast on the deck. I was pretending to read the paper, but I was really observing how handsome he looked. He had his after-sex glow, his hair a ruffled mess, and he was on his laptop, talking loudly into the phone. I was partially listening in to his side of the conversation when I heard: “I can’t tonight. It’s Charley’s birthday. I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.”

What Philip hadn’t realized was what that day had come to mean to me. How his being there touched me in ways I could never explain.

The weather was pleasantly mild, and the sun lit up the ocean with a glittery sheen. We walked toward the water’s edge, the breeze sweeping strands of hair across my face. He stripped down to his boxers and urged me to do the same. The surf was flat, a crystal clear you could see through to the bottom.

His hands landed upon my shoulders, and the love that sprang from his eyes was a cushion I thought nothing of falling into.

I smiled up at him. “What do you have up your sleeve?”

His eyes flickered, and he pulled me closer. We kissed, and it was salty and familiar. Then he hugged me hard, before we raced across the dock, plowing into the water. I released all my wishes into the breeze, the wind carrying them across the sky.



Hours later, Philip had Joe’s Stone Crabs deliver a delicious meal outside by the water. There were men and women decorating our backyard with hundreds of candles and fresh-cut flowers. On our bed, there was a gift with my name scrawled across it. I tore open the paper, revealing a box from one of my favorite stores. In it, a simple ivory dress.

Philip was buoyant. I took my time getting ready, listening to him instruct the staff outside our bedroom door. When I stepped onto our patio, bright lights hit my eyes. Classical music piped through the speakers, and I was shocked to find Liberty, Meghan, and her partner, Myka.

“Philip!” I covered my mouth in surprise.

“Happy birthday!”

We were seated at a table set up by the water. Philip entertained with the usual round of outrageous stories about interesting people he had met through his travels. Meghan chimed in every so often to add a quirky detail of something Philip missed. Myka was beautiful, and her black skin contrasted against her low-cut lacy salmon dress, one from the clothing shop she owned on Newbury Street. The two appeared very much in love. Liberty explained her NAET therapy to Myka, who had a pollen allergy, and they exchanged cards and agreed to talk. Even Philip refrained from calling her a kook. There was laughter. There was togetherness. There was love.

I surveyed the scene, feeling alive and peaceful. Myka leaned over with her red wine in hand and said, “Philip, tell the story of how you and Charlotte met.”

Philip’s face brightened as he shared the details. “I fell in love with her the minute I saw her seated in 13F.”

I gazed up at him, a grin fixed to my face. “That’s not exactly true. You were too pissed to notice.”

He kissed the top of my head. “I noticed. You said telling someone they can’t have something makes them want it more. It’s an internal drive.”

“I did.” I nodded. “I said something like that.” I was beaming, basking in the glow of our history, trusting the fate that brought us together. The faces at the table admired us, too. We were so happy, Philip and me. All that mattered was this. Here. Now.

“I was going to wait . . . but now seems like the appropriate time . . .”





CHAPTER 19

August 2018, Present Day

Islamorada, Florida

There was a tightrope in front of me, and I was careful to time the first steps. “Jimmy, you must be having a tough day.”

He tapped his fingers on the table, and I wondered if they were so filled with emotion that they would explode off his tiny wrist. “It’s not fair,” he said. “I want to talk to her. I want to tell her stuff.”

The words were shards of glass sharpened by gloom and grief. They pricked my skin.

“Have you ever been to New York, Charlotte?” He was looking up at the sky.

“Once. With Philip.”

“It’s the same sky,” he said. “Right?”

“It is, Jimmy.”

“My mom told me we’d always share the same sky. Do you think she knows I’m here?”

I sucked in my breath as the weight of his words needled me.

“She knows, Jimmy. She absolutely knows.”

“She said that when we were living in New York. How do we know it works from here?”

I studied his profile. “She knows, Jimmy.” Then slowly my words fell into place, grounded by wisdom, arranged with love. “Moms are magicians. Did you know that? They’re always around us. Even when we can’t see them.”

He finally looked at me. The green of his eyes pooled with tears. He asked, “How do you know?”

“I know,” I said.

“But how?”

My heart was full, and the words poured out. “I know, Jimmy, because . . . because my mom died . . . like yours . . . and I know she’s everywhere and nowhere. I don’t see her, but I swear to you, she’s out there.”

We sat there like that, holding on to each other’s pain. If only I could take one of his hands in mine, but I wasn’t sure he’d let me. A noise interrupted the moment, and Ben was standing over us. I could tell at once he was upset.