This Is Not How It Ends(71)

“I had the best intentions, darling.”

We huddled close, our bodies pressed together. His phone, which had been charging nearby, started buzzing. At once, I saw it was Ben, and I handed him the phone.

“Benjamin. I’ve gotten my knickers in a knot here.”

I couldn’t hear Ben’s response, but I knew he was wrecked.

“Yeah, mate. It’s my turn.”

Philip listened, and I could tell by the way his body tensed that whatever Ben was saying hurt.

“I appreciate that, mate. Don’t get any ideas about that ring Charley left in your house. The lady’s gotten me to agree to a wedding.”

They laughed together, though his words had to prick Ben’s heart.

“Ben, there is one more thing. If I must do this whole wedding bit, you’re going to have to be my best man. Think you can handle that?”

Philip smiled, and my eyes misted with tears.

They hung up, and Philip told me what a good friend Ben was to him. “He was crying, Charley. My dear Goose was crying.”





CHAPTER 33

October 2018

Home isn’t home when the person you love is dying.

After a week in Miami, Philip and I took our seats in the back of Pete’s Navigator. Everything was the same and everything was changed. We didn’t talk about the stage of the cancer or the amount of time remaining, numbers that numbed brains and made little sense. We simply slipped into a rhythm that meant one day at a time. A stent was put in to alleviate the obstruction and remedy the jaundice and itching. His stomach was a constant source of pain and embarrassment. He would be out of breath after a short walk, and I’d find him napping throughout the day.

One of our first unpleasant tasks was informing the Stafford Group of Philip’s immediate resignation. I had worried about the effect this would have on him and his psyche—the grim finality narrowing in.

“I have plenty of money, Charley. I’ve run my course. Meghan can take over.”

The irony of all this was that I’d become used to Philip’s absences. He had trained me to live without him. Having him home 24-7 took its toll on him and us, and those first few weeks we bickered quite a bit. Liberty said it was expected. “Imagine the stress he’s under.”

“I do.”

“You can’t. There’s no worse feeling in the world than knowing you’re going to die.”

For my own piece of mind, Philip agreed to visit the hospital biweekly for scans and blood tests. There were medications to combat the nausea and prescriptions to be filled. The doctors eyed him sympathetically, but it was me who reaped the real compassion. They all knew Philip was forgoing treatment. He viewed it as admirable; I saw it as an affront to me. I did my best to grin through it. I’d make excuses for Philip. I’d argue this was what we both wanted. But we both knew that was a lie.

One course of treatment Philip did agree to was Liberty’s voodoo. In some ways, I think he complied because it got him out of the house and gave him an excuse to see me at work. Liberty performed all sorts of magic on him. Acupuncture alleviated the pain and inflammation in his belly, making it easier for him to digest certain foods. On the days he wasn’t feeling up to getting out of bed, Liberty would come to the house with her supplies and provide treatments at his bedside. She had put him on a gut-friendly diet that promised to aid in reducing the bloating, and our kitchen had become a series of Chopped episodes replete with food processors and shakes, proteins and powders, vegetables and fruits. There was constant motion and whirring, as though the sounds could bring him back to life.

Tonight Philip and I were resting on the couch, watching a movie, something we’d been doing a lot more of lately. He was cursing Liberty and her latest concoction of papaya, mango, turmeric, and some enzyme that she swore was keeping him alive and which he swore was killing him. Cotillard and Pitt were dancing across the scene in Allied, and I was searching for the signs of an affair. There were none.

A knock at the door sprang Sunny to life. I’d felt terrible abandoning him at Ben’s that first week while Philip was in the hospital. Ben said he’d been distraught without us. It pained Ben to pass him along to Liberty, but Liberty had insisted she had more time to devote to the large, homesick animal. When we’d returned home that first day, the only thing that felt familiar was Sunny slathering me in wet kisses. He hadn’t even growled at Philip this time. He’d sniffed him as though he knew what was coming, eyeing him with a bowed head that I swore looked like an apology.

“It’s Ben,” Philip said.

I didn’t question how he knew before I did. It was the first indication that our axis had changed.

My heart raced, and it wasn’t because Pitt and Cotillard had completed a sexy back seat love scene. Ben and I hadn’t seen each other since that morning. Since Hurricane Kelsie. It was reported she took five lives with her that day, but it was really seven. Because she took Philip’s and mine. Eight, if we included Ben.

“He has your ring,” Philip explained, gagging with every swallow of the yellow liquid. I stood up and made my way to the door, imagining Ben holding it in his fingers, absorbing its brilliance.

I turned the handle expecting to feel nothing, and when the door opened, I felt everything at once. Ben was bright and virile. Large and alive. He dwarfed Philip in presence and pride. I had grown so accustomed to the grayish pallor of Philip’s face that the mere sight of Ben and his handsomeness hurt my eyes, awakened me from sleep.