This Is Not How It Ends(49)

His presence tugged at me, though I wished it wouldn’t. I denied noticing what he was wearing, how his hair fell in his eyes, how those same eyes were covering me, and I was bare. We never discussed that night or what might possibly be growing between us. Like a weed, it was weaving itself around us, and weeds were dangerous. They preyed on vital life, and though their flowers disguised their true intention, everyone knew they destroyed what was beautiful and worth keeping. Better to bury the feelings, better to build walls too high to climb. I admired my ring and what it signified, and the petty emotions for Ben seemed just that—petty. My mind was playing games with me. It wasn’t real. Not like Philip and me. We were real.

Ben was cordial, polite. Gone was vulnerable Ben who needed me, two people who needed each other. And perhaps that’s why we returned to our protective shells, playing this game, when emotions, big ones, filled the air. We were good at faking it. Pretending what happened hadn’t. And I convinced myself of that for some time.

When Philip returned home, our first kiss felt close to a betrayal, but soon his mouth was open and wanting, and I slipped inside, mind and body. I forgot that my lips had been somewhere else, that my emotions had driven me away.

Avoiding Ben would be admitting I’d sinned, that there was some tiny seedling planted within us that could’ve sprouted into something else. So I’d accompany Philip and Ben to dinner, because Philip and Ben were friends. There was no Ben and Charley. There never was. My brain had tricked me into feeling something that wasn’t there, and I tucked the hapless mistake away and kept it caged and forgotten. Perched at our table, we’d watch the sun set on the Gulf, while Ben brought out our favorite meals. The blip was behind us, and I’d learned to enjoy the way he prepared the food as though we were the only customers. He always knew what I was hungry for—lamb Bolognese, Caesar salad with extra anchovies, ahi tuna with seasoned vegetables. For Sunny, he kept a pot of fresh chicken and white rice. Our portions were generous, and our cups always full. Ben paid extra special attention no matter how busy the restaurant.

Over time, we transitioned from awkward to friendly, Philip the glue that kept us bound. He was the reminder of why we’d become friends, something that later became an excuse. Those nights, Jimmy would come and join us. He and Sunny would take off on the sand, hunting for shells, and then Jimmy and I would share vanilla ice cream smothered in Starburst and Skittles if it wasn’t a treatment day.

During that time, we were a family. Philip, Ben, Jimmy, and me. We did the things that families enjoyed doing together. We rented Jet Skis, visited Miami’s Seaquarium, and ate a hell of a lot of ice cream. And when Philip left again, I’d tag along with Jimmy and Ben. Theater of the Sea, kayaking, and more ice cream.

By then the tension had faded, and Ben and I were laughing over wine and sharing key lime Popsicles at the park. We talked for hours at a time about our childhoods, the losses we’d endured, and the parallels between running a kitchen and commanding a classroom.

“You miss your students,” he said.

“I do.”

“I’m not much of a classroom guy, but I bet you had a great impact on those kids’ lives.”

How I missed those days. “It was mutual.”

Liberty would tease me about Ben having a crush, and I’d shush her, letting the idea coil around me and fill me with what-ifs. I’d go home to our empty house and wonder if things might have been different had we met under different circumstances. And in the morning, I’d greet Philip’s face over FaceTime and forgive myself for wondering.

Sometimes he’d call on the mobile when we’d be at the table, and I could hear his happiness in knowing Ben was looking out for me. Liberty believed in intersecting circles when it came to relationships. “One person can never satisfy all your needs. You are the center and there’s a lot of overlap.” I fought her on this conclusion. I believed in love. One true love.



However innocent, and no matter the level of denial, I knew I should stay away from Ben. I knew that as clear as the moon that blazed in the sky. And here’s the part I was ashamed to admit: I didn’t know how.

He called that Saturday and invited me to the movies with him and Jimmy. The boy sat between us, and every so often I took my eyes off the actors and fixed them on Ben’s profile. It was one I’d memorized; there was a comfort in knowing he was close.

After the movie, Jimmy spotted a friend and asked if he could go to his house for the afternoon and a sleepover. The father insisted Jimmy would be fine. Ben’s eyes searched mine, and I told him it would be okay. “It’ll be good for him.”

I heard the other boy say to Jimmy, “Your mom’s so nice.” And I blushed. I blushed because Ben heard it, too. And neither of us corrected him.

The earlier gloom had lifted, and the afternoon gave way to bright skies and plenty of sunshine.

“I’ll take you home, Charlotte. I’m heading down to Little Palm Island for some meetings.”

“Where’s that?”

“About an hour away. You’ve never been?”

I hadn’t.

“The only way onto the island is by boat. It’s beautiful. No cell phones or TVs.”

I laughed. “That explains why Philip’s never taken me.”

He turned to me. “Why don’t you come?”

“I can’t.” But I knew my hesitation was something else.