This Is Not How It Ends

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.

  I waved him off, but he was quick. He grabbed my wrist, the one with the ring, and squeezed. “He could’ve died,” he finally said. The tremble in his voice swirled through my ear and made it hard to ignore the force of his hand. Sunny noticed it, too, and pressed his nose up against me.

  “It was nothing,” I said. “Really.”

  “It was everything,” he corrected me. “How did you know?”

  He released my hand, allowing me to fumble inside my bag for the EpiPen, the bright-yellow cylinder a tiny missile.

  “What’s your poison?” he asked.

  “Almonds.”

  “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along. I froze.”

  Recognizing his worry, I turned in his direction, taking him in. The sorrow in his face was bigger than this, deeper. I knew. Sadness colors people. The tones and hues say things that words cannot.

  “I work for Dr. Scott,” I began, reaching inside my bag again. “She’s famous around these parts.” When I’d found what I was looking for, I handed him the crumpled card.

  He looked confused.

  Maybe it wasn’t the right time. Not everyone was as open-minded or able to hear about alternative treatments for allergies, especially while in a hospital after a near-death experience. “It sounds crazy,” I said. “It is crazy. I fought the idea for months. But trust me, it worked. Go home. Talk to your wife about it . . . and when you have a clear mind, google NAET. It’s not easy to explain . . . not now. You have to be open to it. But don’t throw that card away. Talk to Jimmy’s mom, and then Dr. Scott . . . Liberty, that’s her name.”

  He seemed to be thinking about what I’d said. He started to speak, paused. And then, “You’re not allergic anymore?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not.”

  “Why the EpiPen?”

  “Old habit.”

  He answered, and I could tell his thoughts were somewhere else. “Do you have any idea what his life’s been like?”

  “I do.” I had watched my mother practice poking me in the leg with the pen. I’d overheard her on the phone talking to her friends, afraid to leave me to go to work, afraid I’d be alone and die.

  His eyes darted back and forth, something behind them trying to come out. “It’s terrible,” he said, slipping back into melancholy. “Watching your child suffer. Fearing for their life.”

  Undecided, he held the card in his hands while I stood up to leave. I could have easily texted Philip to come get me, but I settled on an Uber so I didn’t have to explain why I was at a hospital and not the grocery store.

  “Are you going to be all right?” I asked.

  He looked up at me. “Yeah, I’m good,” he answered, though he clearly wasn’t. “Thank you, Charlotte.”

  I waved him off. “Really, it’s no big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Ben.”

  CHAPTER 4

  May 2016, Back Then

  Kansas City, Missouri

  I held Philip’s card in my hands before instructing the driver to go south on I-29. I could’ve tossed it in my bag with the pile of numbers that I’d accumulated over the years, the vacuous hole that collected dust and forgotten dreams, but something about this card, and him, stayed with me. He was funny. And weird. Different from anyone I’d come across before.

  That night, I climbed into bed with my trusted remote and a stack of English papers. I had long since forgiven myself for my obsession with binging on Netflix, but I wasn’t in the mood for Hugh Laurie limping across my screen with his insensitive misogyny.

  Flipping through the channels, I stopped on the evening news while perusing Robert Baker’s comparative paper on A Clockwork Orange. The newscasters’ voices were a steady strum while I commented with my red pen. Until I heard his voice. The recognizable accent came alive in a way that made the hair on my arms stand up, and my gaze followed. Pointing the remote at the TV, I raised the volume.

  It was him. Philip Stafford. Splashed across the screen.

  Robert Baker and his critique on necessary evil landed on my nightstand, and I pulled the covers close.

  His eyes were brighter and bluer; his sandy-blond hair slicked back. A fitted gray suit accentuated his trim body. The caption beneath his white-collared shirt read: Stafford Group Buys Controlling Interest in TQV Air-Bag Systems.

  He was discussing new management, projected profits, and R & D issues, matters which were lost on me, though it could’ve been the earlier drinks. And then he smiled at the pretty reporter asking all the questions. “Splendid question, Ms. Johnson. I think it’s quite simple really. Humans want what they can’t have. I’m nothing if not human. It explains quite a lot of transactions. Don’t you agree? How we sell our souls to someone or an idea when it makes no logical sense.”

  His statement, the answer to a question I hadn’t heard, sent a rush through my veins. He wasn’t talking to me, but he may as well have been, and his words filled the holes that had followed me to bed.

  His lips were moving, and Ashley Johnson, Channel 5’s even-keeled reporter, was tripping on her words, her bronzed cheeks hiding what must feel like a royal flush. I pressed the volume on the remote as he continued talking with Ashley, while staring into the camera at me.

  “No, I disagree,” he said, shaking his head to whatever it was she argued. “My reason for being here, for the purchase of TQV . . . is not to satisfy . . . well . . . to some degree, yes, I want the company, I’ve wanted it for years . . . but I’m going to do something brilliant with it, make it better than it was before. I’ll protect and nurture it even after the excitement has worn off. It won’t be a mere conquest for me. Not this piece. She’s too precious.”

  I closed my eyes.

  Things like this didn’t happen to people like me. I was practical. Wary of anyone who shone too brightly. I’d seen how feelings could destroy, take unwitting victims captive and rob them of life. When I opened my eyes, he was still there, his presence so grand it confused me to think he might be standing at the foot of my bed about to dive in. And I’d let him.

  The camera panned away from Philip’s face, and the prospect dwindled. A lone woman was standing off to the side, smiling at him smiling at her. A beautiful blonde, the kind who reminded you why there are rules to love—and contrary to well-known platitudes, you can’t always get what you want. Embarrassed at where my mind went, I swatted the sheet for an imaginary speck of dust, though I was really flinging him, the silly fantasy, away. Philip desired someone else. Feeling hopeless, I shut off the TV and slipped into sleep.

  The following night, I did something I knew I shouldn’t.

  It was Mom’s birthday, and I was taking her to Capital Grille. “Bring that adorable Daniel,” she begged. “You two make such a sweet couple.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her we’d broken up. Conversations centered on my love life led to deeper probing and a litany of questions. You’re not getting any younger, Charlotte. Don’t be so picky.

  And as I often did with my mother, I caved, and seeing Philip on the TV ogling a beautiful woman gave me the extra push. Daniel met us at the restaurant looking confident and desperate all at once. “I knew you’d come to your senses.” He grinned, handing each of us a bouquet of roses. Daniel was on a tight budget, so I knew he was making his big play. This was what happened when one watched The Bachelor too many times.

  Mom was radiant. Her short blonde bob of curls bounced, and her blue eyes gleamed. “Such a gentleman,” she cooed.

  We settled into a booth in the back corner, and I let the satiny black of my favorite jumpsuit brush away my doubts. Mom chattered aimlessly with Daniel, and it was wonderful to see her so happy. Having her nearby smoothed away any number of my growing reservations.

  Daniel filled me in on his job managing the most profitable Home Depot in the state of Missouri, and I watched as the corners of his lips turn
ed up when he mouthed the words Garden Sale. Once, I had found Daniel’s gentle disposition and appreciation for domestic life endearing. Tonight, it felt all wrong. Tonight, feelings were warring within me. Safe and idle comfort was replaced with a mysterious ocean, one I could plunge headfirst into—but with feelings, rather than water—and I’d swim to the surface satisfied and refreshed. Reaching for my glass of water, I took a sip.

  “How are your classes?” he asked. “What are the kids reading now?”

  The feeling crept up on me, impossible to contain. I didn’t want to have this conversation with Daniel. He was ill-equipped. Inviting him had been a mistake. Short answers were best, leaving no room for discussion. My mother kicked me under the table, her starry eyes bearing down on mine. Daniel was oblivious. He quickly moved on to the Royals and the upcoming X-Men movie, as only someone so emotionally barren knew how. After the waiter brought our drinks and we toasted to her birthday, my mother slipped off to the bathroom.

  Daniel sipped his beer while I gulped from my martini. “I’m trying, Charlotte,” he said. “I want us to work.”

  Remorse pulsed through me. What was I trying to prove? Daniel didn’t deserve this, and the piece that was missing before glared brighter than ever. Could Philip Stafford, a stranger on a plane, have this effect on me? Daniel saw that I was mulling this over, and he tried to give me what I needed. “Do you want to tell me about it?” His eyes were serious, probing. “I want to understand.”

  Everywhere I looked there were reasons he couldn’t understand. Theories and hypotheses never fit into our conversations.

  He was power tools and plumbing.

  I was literature and linguistics.

  There couldn’t have been a worse fit.

  I’d only agreed to go out with him because he’d asked so many times, and I didn’t have the heart to say no. Grading papers and tutoring had kept me busy during the week, and we’d meet up on Saturday nights. It had lasted six months. Six more than I should’ve allowed.

  Connecting was never easy for me. Trust was a factor, and I’d already decided early on that marriage probably wasn’t in the cards. Teaching fulfilled me in ways that a relationship could not. Blooming young minds were far more satisfying than the back-and-forth of a tedious push and pull, one that would surely end in regret. When I was asked why I chose English, the reasons stemmed from a muddy past. Words had power. They carried weight and, when strung together, invited you inside their world. One that didn’t hurt. I felt their pain and sorrow, their highs and happiness, but my own heart was tightly guarded.

  Yet, I was thirty, the worst age, I’ve been told, to be alone.

  “Forget it, Daniel. Really. It’s not important.”

  “It is, though. It is to you.”

  Daniel was talking, but it was someone else’s voice I was hearing.

  Mom was scooting beside me, her familiar smell tickling my nose, when I caught him walking into the restaurant with the gorgeous blonde, the one from his earlier interview. Philip. My first instinct was to take cover. Or, at the very least, hide Daniel somewhere. I watched the casual way in which he instructed the blonde to sit, and the way the waitstaff knew he was someone important in their midst. They crowded his table, and he, true to form, was oblivious to the attention.

  My mouth gaped open, and I turned my attention back to Daniel, but failed. My entire body was shouting: Can you feel me here?

  Mom and Daniel were deep in conversation about a vacuum cleaner she was considering buying.

  “How come you’re so quiet, Charlotte?” Mom asked, wrapping an arm around me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just tired.”

  “Are you sure, honey?”

  I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

  “You two look so much alike,” Daniel commented.

  We moved closer together, and he snapped a picture with his phone.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” he said. “It’s nice to be here celebrating with you.”

  I took a final swig of my martini and glanced in Philip’s direction. He was enthralled by the blonde, hanging on to every word, and she with him.

  “Thank him, Charlotte,” my mother said, giving me a little nudge. Next thing I know, I’m leaning across the table and giving him my mouth.

  I lingered longer than I should’ve. Daniel’s lips were soft; they tasted like beer and a host of mostly pleasant memories, but I wished to feel something more, something inexplicable that would wind my heart with pulsing beats. I pulled away first. Daniel tried to rein me in, but I was already gone, across the room, locking eyes with Philip.

  “You two,” she gushed, “you’re giving me the happiest birthday ever.”

  Philip stared so long the blonde turned. It was the kind of hair that bounced when it moved, while every strand remained in place. I reached for my messy light waves. I had been going for the sexy beach look, but compared to her, I felt windblown and sloppy.

  As I fixated on my appearance, Philip made his way toward our table. The blonde glimpsed at her reflection in a compact, refreshing her lips. I slunk farther down in my seat.

  “Charlotte! What are the chances?” His English accent turned the heads at the table.

  A crimson sheen flooded my face. I tried not to compare Daniel’s boyish features to Philip’s polished charm. Daniel, in his tightly buttoned orange dress shirt and brown corduroy jeans. Philip, clad in a gray tailored shirt with form-fitting slacks. They couldn’t be more opposite. Homegrown simplicity set against European chic.

  “You look splendid, Charlotte. That color suits you.” Philip winked. “And who’s this lovely young lady?” he asked, reaching for my mother’s hand and bringing it to his lips. My mother was normally a chatterbox, but Philip left her mute.

  “Philip, meet my mother, Katherine.”

  They exchanged a nauseating amount of admiration for one another before my mom elbowed me. “Charlotte, aren’t you going to introduce your friend to Daniel?” She eyed Philip with a wink of her own. There was a lot of winking going on. “Daniel’s her beau.”

  Philip extended his hand to Daniel, sizing up the clunky man with the oversize paw. “Charlotte told me all about you, mate,” he said, convincing no one. “You all right, Charlotte?” Philip’s eyes were dancing.

  “I’m fine.”

  My mom was smiling, but I could tell she was confused.

  “Daniel, Charlotte’s Mum,” he insisted, “please join me at my table. I know how much Charlotte enjoys a good wine. Let me treat you all to a bottle.”

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed while Philip surveyed his half-empty bottle of beer.

  “Is this some birthday surprise?” my mother asked, to which Philip insisted she didn’t look a day over forty-nine, that her mole put him in mind of Cindy Crawford, and I literally watched my mother sink, as if into quicksand, at Philip’s feet.

  “Come,” he said, signaling the waiter over.

  Before I knew it, we were sharing a booth with Prince Philip and a real-life princess. I’d never felt more unsophisticated and out of place in my life.

  Meghan, which I learned was the blonde’s name, was as enchanting as she was lovely. I didn’t usually refer to other women as lovely, but the whole English influence had me transformed into somebody new. Meghan spoke in the same proper accent as Philip, and I imagined their history bound them in the faraway castles of London or Scotland. The image caused a laugh to escape, and Philip’s eyes questioned me while Daniel’s palm rested against my shoulder.

  “You didn’t tell me it was your mum’s birthday,” Philip said.

  Meghan was warm and jovial, with glittery blue eyes that appraised me in a way that didn’t feel intrusive. She ensnared my mother in a conversation about her broach, a family heirloom, and when Daniel asked how Philip and I knew each other, Meghan blurted out, “They met on United.”

  Daniel took his arm back. “Is that a dating site?”

  I felt sorry for Daniel, but not nearly as sorry for
what I was about to do. The relationship wasn’t working. It would never work. Not with men like Philip around, emphasizing what I needed most. But why didn’t Meghan seem to notice? And had my mother had too much to drink?

  Philip seemed genuinely concerned about Daniel. “It was the airlines, my dear boy. United Airlines. We met on the tarmac, in Miami.” Daniel’s arm came around me again, though I felt my body shifting away.

  Meghan raised a glass of wine to her lips and slowly sipped.

  “I heard my brother almost got kicked off the flight.”

  This got my attention. “Philip’s your brother?”

  She tossed her hair. “Who else would he be?”

  Philip laughed. “Americans like their competition, Meghan. Something about wanting what they can’t have.”

  “What’s that?” my mother asked.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, dropping my hand on hers.

  His reminder of our conversation pricked my skin and bathed it in heat. There was no mistaking the pull between us. You read about it in books—the intangible rush of emotion that makes eye contact feel like fingertips, a subtle word a palm against your skin. Philip touched me even though there was a table between us.

  Flustered, I rose from my seat and moved toward the bathroom. The restaurant was dark, and I stumbled.

  “Charlotte?” my mother’s voice called from behind me.

  I must’ve appeared shaky, because several patrons in the crowded restaurant turned to me with concern. When the door closed, I backed up against it and waited. I waited for my heart to start beating at a steady pace. I waited for my body to stop trembling.

  Minutes later, Philip pushed through the door, and I didn’t stop him; his woodsy aroma filled the air.

  We stared at each other as though our meeting here were the most natural thing in the world.

  “You can’t be in here, Mr. Stafford.”

  “Men’s room, women’s room. What’s the difference?” Then he turned serious. “I don’t understand why I’ve been thinking about you all day, Charlotte Miles.”