This Is Not How It Ends(73)

Our eyes met. “He’s upset.”

“You’re all melodramatic.”

Philip’s cynicism scratched at my skin. It spread wider later that night when we were lying in bed. He was shivering, and I was covering him with warm blankets, and my hands. “We all die, Charley.”

I understood that, but I didn’t like how cavalier he was about it. “If you don’t have some semblance of fear, it’s as though there’s nothing worth living for. Fear makes you fight, and fighting means you care.”

“No, Charley, fighting is futile.”

“It doesn’t feel good,” I said, dropping my head on his shoulder. “You giving up.”

“I haven’t been given much of a choice, darling. Besides, I haven’t entirely given up. I’m taking all the fancy vitamins and supplements from Liberty.”

He was, but we both knew it was only to appease me.

Tired of talking about cancer, I broached another subject. “I spoke to my father, Philip.” The conversation felt like ages ago, and the anger at Philip for finding him had subsided.

“I’m glad, Charley. People surprise us.”

“It’s sad he felt that leaving was his only option.”

“Decisions show us who we truly are, my dear. I believe your father had to leave to find himself.”

If what he was saying was correct, then I was an evil person. I could have waited those extra hours until morning, but I didn’t. I chose someone else. And conveniently, I blocked it out. “He was my father. He had a responsibility to us.”

“Mortality’s an interesting thing, Charley. When faced with it, our decisions hold far more weight.”

Everywhere I looked there were repercussions from our collective decisions.

“Give your father a chance. It won’t change what happened, but it might change what’s ahead.”

The conversation moved to Philip parenting me, which was one of the reasons I’d fallen in love with him in the first place. “You should be out enjoying your life. The righteousness is admirable . . .”

“Stop.” I placed my fingers on his lips and told him as kindly as I could to shut up. “Don’t tell me how to live my life, Philip. You’re my fiancée, I love you, and I’m going to take care of you.”

“You’re not getting any younger, Charley. You should be popping out kids.”

I slapped him playfully. “You’re not even funny anymore.”

“But you’re laughing.”

And the laughs turned to tears. And the memories of our brief life together came at me like the forgotten words to a favorite love song—bittersweet and broken. “Don’t cry, Charley.” He turned to face me and held on to my eyes.

“I can’t imagine a world without you.”

He lowered his head, the scar from his stitches marring the thin line of hair along his scalp. One of his hands came around my waist and tickled my stomach. “I don’t have any regrets,” he finally said. “Not one. Other than not meeting you ten years earlier.”

He slid on top of me, and his knees wedged my legs apart. I didn’t know what was more shocking, his weightlessness or desire. His hands ran up and down my back, and soon he was inside of me. “I’ve missed you, Charley.” I closed my eyes and tried to shake the image of the last time I had sex.

Have you ever loved somebody? Really loved somebody? You know their curves and their scent and the way they move their lips across your skin. You know what each breath means and the accompanying sounds. This new Philip was barely reminiscent of the man I used to know. Kansas City Philip came to me in waves. Strong, vibrant Philip, who could drop me to my knees with a glance in my direction. This Philip smelled nothing like him. He tasted different, too. He was so fragile, I was afraid he might break in two. I could barely hold on to his body. There was skin and a collection of bones.

He grappled, and I tried to give him what he wanted. I spread my legs to let him in, to let him know how much he meant to me.

But he stopped.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He slid off me, upset. “This isn’t working.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not the same.” He turned his back to me. “You don’t feel the same.”

I drew the covers over my exposed chest. “Philip, that’s ridiculous.” But he was right. I was different, but he was different, too. I fought the urge to cry, to blame, and reached for him, but he pulled away.

“It’s normal, Philip. You can’t be expected . . .”

His eyes were bloodshot when he turned around. “Don’t pacify me, Charlotte. It’s unbecoming. A man should be able to make love to his woman.”

I reached for him, and he pushed me away.

“I’d really like for you to go.”

“Don’t do this, Philip.”

“Please go. I want to be alone.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do, Charlotte. More than I care to admit.”

The doctors had warned us. Philip had been able to bypass everything else, I thought he’d bury the difficult emotions, too. “I can’t expect you to want me anymore . . . not like this . . .”

“Don’t you dare say that.”