This Is Not How It Ends(44)

“This doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Jimmy’s still in quite a bit of pain.” And then, “Do you happen to remember when the allergies started?”

He cocked his head. “I’m not really sure. A few years ago. Definitely after Sari died.”

“Sometimes, not always, allergies emerge when there’s serious trauma. I became allergic after my dad left.”

He considered what I was saying. “I didn’t think of that. Maybe you’re right. The symptoms seemed to worsen in the past year or so.”

“I’ve read the body holds our misfortunes, that sensitivities are a combination of the physical and the emotional. It could be Liberty nonsense, but who really knows? Pain may not have a cure—only time. I wish we could do more for Jimmy.”

“You’ve already done enough.”

The patio was quiet, with the moon guiding us down a path. His gratitude felt nice, and I steered the conversation in a different direction. “Tell me about meeting Philip.”

“It was New York. He used to come in all the time. Big shot equity guy and his partners.”

I smiled at the picture.

“He sort of took me under his wing. Said he saw ‘potential.’ God, his jokes were stupid, but he had us all laughing.

“One of his friends owned the Morada Bay property, and Philip brokered the deal right there at the bar . . . said it’s ripe for the picking . . . a great place to settle down with the family. Philip can be a little intense at times. Demanding.”

“You mean pushy?” I laughed.

“I never thought I’d leave the City. And the Keys, well, let’s just say, I had no interest.”

The day had morphed into night, and even though Ben was sitting directly in front of me, I couldn’t read his face. I knew he was fighting heartrending emotions because the pause was replete with an unspeakable ache. “Fate spoke on my behalf,” he breathed. “Here I am. Philip got his way. He always does.”

“That’s Philip.”

“Why didn’t you tell him we’d already met?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I think I was embarrassed, like I had said too much to you. And when you didn’t say anything, I left it alone.”

“I’ll admit I was surprised your fiancé was Philip. He always called you Charley, never Charlotte. And I didn’t want to embarrass you—better to start over. You didn’t know about Sari, and I liked it that way. You were one person who didn’t feel sorry for me . . .”

“But I did.”

Silence slithered between us, a prickly quiet that enveloped my heart. I cleared my throat, believing the right words would come, but they were lost. People were complicated. I was building a sensitivity to Ben. “How did you meet her?” I finally asked, proceeding with caution.

He thrust his feet up on the chair. “You don’t want me to talk about Sari, Charlotte. People don’t like to hear things that make them uncomfortable. Death is one of them.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

He took his time before answering. “Sari and I . . . we met in college and married right after graduation. We were that couple everybody noticed. Envied. Do you know how hard it is to satisfy those same people? Life was good. We were happy. We had the restaurant and Jimmy. And then . . .”

His voice cracked, and my hand came down near his.

He looked at me and continued. “I can’t tell you how we met without telling you how it ends. I can’t feel those early feelings and be back there again knowing what I know.”

“If it’s difficult . . .”

“Nobody asks.” His voice trailed off. “Everyone tiptoes around Ben. Poor Ben. The widower. Pathetic fucking word.”

Through the bleakness of night, I thought I saw a tear glisten down his cheek. How I wanted to reach across the space between us and wipe it away, but I stopped myself.

“I wish more people would ask,” he continued. “I’d tell them how beautiful she was that first day. How she wore a Wonder Woman costume to class. It was a dare, from her roommate.” He stopped to wipe his nose, and that’s when Sunny appeared, his golden tail wagging in the air. I swore that dog could sense pain. He stuck his face down in front of Ben and started to lick. Ben didn’t stop him. He sat there, letting Sunny wash away his sorrow like he once did mine.

Ben had no one to talk to. All the nights spent in his restaurants, busily masking his feelings, keeping those around him at bay. It was all superfluous and cordial. Delving into heavier conversation was forbidden, or worse, denied. The formality of it all kept him from disclosing how truly alone he felt. Best to keep things light like the Islamorada breezes. If we planted ourselves beneath a curtain of delusion, we would never have to face the heartache of what was right in front of us.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte,” he said, nudging Sunny away.

“Don’t. He knows what you need.”

Ben hesitated. Sunny took that as an opportunity to go full-on slobber mode. There was something natural about his comforting Ben. Devotion like that could mend whatever was broken.

Each of us felt loss, whether it was through a seed planted inside or one nearby that took root and grew. Loss didn’t discriminate, it was a game of chance. Like love. And sometimes even love led to isolation. Loneliness, by definition, is a solitary experience, but I learned painfully fast how loneliness travels through skin and body and binds you to those with similar hurt.