This Is Not How It Ends(5)

“Relationships!” He finished his drink and tossed an ice cube in his mouth. “The bane of my existence. According to your assignment, any good one turns sour rather quickly. I’m not very good at modern dating,” he added, the ice making a cracking sound. “Just ask my ex-wife. God bless that Natasha. The patience of a saint. Are all the chases doomed to fail? Do you believe that?”

“I didn’t say anything,” I reminded him. “You’re quoting Stephanie Lippman. A high schooler with a new boyfriend every week.”

“But do you believe it?” he asked again.

I paused. Images of my father crossing the driveway and getting into his car. This time for good. “I don’t know what I believe.”

“You have to believe in something.”

I turned to face him. “What do you believe?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Many things. Organized religion is the root of dissension. People can surprise you, though most of them won’t. Love is the precursor to hate.”

“A cynic. No doom and gloom there.”

“What about you?”

“Expectations,” I said. “Realistic ones. Nonconformity. The lure of a good story.”

“This would make a lovely story, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “Our meeting this way?”

“It might.”

“Real life disappoints,” he said. “It’s why you bury your head in those movies, yes?”

“The book is always better. Endless imagination. We get to choose what we see . . . the people and places.”

“Tell me about a place. Tell me about Kansas City,” he said.

“It’s very long north to south and very narrow east to west. Downtown KC is a mess of highways . . . It’s the City of Fountains, and other than the Royals win in the 2015 World Series, our teams have generally sucked. But, we’re the home of the first Happy Meal.”

He smiled. “Babbling. You’re a delightful one, Charlotte.”

It’s what I did when I was nervous.

“I want to hear about your Kansas City. What makes it lovely for you?”

He said lovely like the l sound was a feathery blanket.

“Steak and LaMar’s Donuts,” I said. “Ernest Hemingway started his career at the Kansas City Star. I’ve heard he slept in a bathtub at the Muehlebach Hotel, which is now part of the downtown Marriott.”

His face gave nothing away. I couldn’t tell if he was amused or bored.

“You’re deflecting, my dear. You can’t deflect a master deflector.”

“My mom lives there,” I finally said, leaving out the miserable part. “We’re very close. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.”

He stretched his neck back. “Home. Such a fluid term.” And when he brought his chin down, he caught my eyes in his. “They say home is in the heart, it’s being with the people you love.”

“I believe that.”

“So why is it the heart is always the first to break?”

His wisdom stopped my breath, and a fluttering in my chest had me wondering if we were more alike than either of us realized.



We were exiting the plane when he asked for my last name. I said, “Myers. Charlotte Myers.” I understood he would be in town a few days for business meetings and had a room at the Raphael, a mile from my apartment in Westport. I expected him to race ahead of me toward baggage claim, but he remained at my side while we carefully sized each other up. “That’s a pretty color on you,” he said. I had to look down to remind myself I was in pale blue. “It’s quite lovely how it matches your eyes. But you’d look exquisite in all black, Charlotte. Ravishing.”

His compliment flushed my skin. There was an allure to meeting someone on a plane, sharing a brief moment in time, knowing your paths may never cross again. Yet, when we parted ways at baggage claim, he to the gentleman with the sign that read “Philip Stafford,” and me to a yellow cab near the curb, he stopped me before closing the door.

“Here,” he said, dropping a card in my hand. “If you ever want to discuss more of your student’s theories.”





CHAPTER 3

July 2018, Present Day

Islamorada, Florida Mariners Hospital was up ahead, and the city unfolded around us. The Keys were a stretch of islands framed by the Gulf and the Atlantic, joined by a collection of bridges. An unspoiled habitat resided beyond the ambulance doors, warm seashores and magnificent views, though we were confined to artificial lighting and frigid air. Ben sat close to his son, his fingers stroking his hair. I was watching them like an intruder, unsure of where to put myself. Sunny panted, drops of saliva splattering the floor, and every so often he licked Jimmy’s fingers and the boy laughed. Ben eyed me cautiously while I enlisted him in banal small talk. The paramedic made up for the silence and filled in the gaps with questions. Jimmy was eleven. He felt okay. He had a little headache.

“You know you’re never supposed to take food without knowing what’s in it,” Ben said.

“The sign said vegan and gluten-free. I thought it was okay.”

“There were nuts,” I intervened. “They forgot to mention that.”

I recognized the father’s gratefulness. What if I hadn’t come along? Would he have been able to give the shot? Our eyes shifted back and forth from avoidance to agreement, but there were no words. He wasn’t much of a talker, this Ben.