This Is Not How It Ends

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  “This is a first-class ticket,” he roared in a thick English accent at the slight figure who guided him to my row. The woman, with her coiffed brown hair and grayed roots, tried explaining that equipment changes were out of their control and this new plane was incidentally smaller. “Your row has dissolved into economy. I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do.”

  He waved his first-class ticket as if it could stretch the plane and magically create a row for him to slip through. I was tossing around variations of smug jerk, insults to describe the man who was about to land on the seat beside me. “This is outrageous . . . I can hardly fit my legs in front of me!”

  “Sir,” the woman continued, “we’re sorry for the inconvenience. I can assure you when we land in Kansas City our customer-service staff will reimburse you for the difference. For now, I need you to take a seat and buckle up.”

  “Reimburse me?” he hollered. “I can purchase this tiny plane!” The passengers witnessing the exchange winced with disapproval, but the woman in the navy blue jumper, hands on hips, was undeterred. Reluctantly, the man shimmied his way through the cramped space and took the seat to my left. The older woman he crushed along the way kindly offered up her seat. “Maybe you’ll have more if you sat here,” she said with a smile. And he smiled back. “You’d do that for me?” And all I kept thinking was, Yes, great idea. Please don’t make me sit next to this guy. And when he opened his mouth to speak, I was prepared to ask her to switch, but he surprised me, and 13D, with, “I’d never make a lovely woman move out of her seat for me.”

  Soon he was buying us drinks and gushing over Margaret’s grandchildren, whom she had left behind in Homestead. I wanted to dislike him. I wanted to recall the repugnant way in which he bemoaned the downgrade and his flamboyant flaunting of money, but there was something in his eyes that was too forgivable and too blue. I excused his earlier arrogance, chalking it up to petty airport drama that turned any of us into unrecognizable people. He apologized to Anne when she came by with her beverage cart, and even she found his charm enough to excuse the earlier insolence. His accent was less pervasive when he spoke in soft, gentle tones, and he bought the entire cabin a round of drinks to make up for his incorrigible behavior.

  The flight to Kansas City was scheduled for three hours and twenty minutes.

  On that day, the hailing Florida weather stretched it into an unsavory five. Flight 517 was at the very end of a lengthy line of planes scheduled to depart, and once it was our turn, we had to wait another fifty minutes for a band of lightning to pass.

  By the time we were airborne, Margaret was snoring in her chair—she never drank during the day—and I was engrossed in the movie I had downloaded on my iPad. Philip was a tall man, and his legs would accidentally knock against mine, our shoulders brushing over the armrest that divided us. But his nearness was far more than proximity. He was so close, I could feel his eyes running up and down my skin, assessing me, studying something I didn’t yet see.

  Every so often, I’d take my eyes off the screen to steal a glance in his direction. It was obvious from the man’s meticulous dress, the pink kerchief tucked in his navy blazer’s breast pocket, that he was refined and accustomed to getting his way. When he apologized for kicking my tray table, I noticed the lopsided grin and the paleness that drenched his cheeks. And what began with casual niceties, prompting me to pause the screen, turned into a gentle probing.

  “I’m from Kansas City,” I replied to the first of his many questions. “Flew in for a conference.”

  “I’ve never actually met someone from Kansas City,” he answered, before changing his mind. “Take that back. I’ve never met a woman from Kansas City as lovely as you.”

  I laughed, which seemed to disappoint him. “Lovely,” I repeated. “You said the same thing to Margaret.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Then he motioned to my tray table. “What’s that you’re watching?”

  Gabriella Wilde was splayed across the frozen screen in her waify blonde beauty, Alex Pettyfer nearby. “She’s attractive,” he said, and I liked the way the word sounded on his tongue. “You look like her,” he added, pointing at the blonde goddess on my screen. The alcohol and altitude had clearly affected him. I looked as though I had eaten Gabriella Wilde.

  “Well,” I said, scrutinizing her profile on the screen. “We have the same color hair . . . and color eyes . . .” But I stopped myself from pointing out the obvious, that my features weren’t nearly as chiseled as hers, that no one had ever called me beautiful, that lovely was as close as I’d get.

  Before, when I thought he was a creep, I didn’t care that I was watching the Endless Love remake. The film had found its way into my lesson plan at the high school. My students, today’s teenagers, spurned reading, so I regularly peppered the lengthy list of classics with contemporary reads and their visual counterparts. I was grading Stephanie Lippman’s theory on our latest assignment, where she tackled forbidden love—a study on class, religion, and why we are attracted to what we can’t have.

  “You have her lips,” he said, interrupting my internal thesis and pointing at the screen. “They’re lovely lips,” he added, rubbing his own with perfectly polished fingers.

  “Are you flirting with me?” I came right out and asked.

  “I am.” And then, “I apologize. You’re right. I’ve been entirely rude. I don’t even know your name. I should’ve introduced myself before making a pass at you. I’m Philip.” He extended a beautiful hand in my direction. “I’ll never compliment you again. At least not until we’re properly introduced. I promise. I never break my promises.”

  Our fingers met, and I told him I was Charlotte. He smiled a cheeky grin, honest and sincere, and the shield I’d constructed began to soften, until the plane jerked.

  “You don’t like turbulence?” he asked, referring to the way my hands clenched the armrests.

  “I don’t like flying.”

  “How on earth will you see the world without flying, my dear girl? Flying shouldn’t frighten you, not being able to fly is far worse.”

  He inquired of my limited travels as though I’d only half lived. “I’ve been everywhere I need to go,” I answered. “Places you’ve never been . . . would never understand . . .” I was referring to my books, the stories that kept me alive and took me all over the world—their destinations only rivaled by the depth of what I’d come to understand about living . . . about life. “You don’t always have to physically go somewhere to experience something magical.”

  His expression changed as though he were seeing me for the first time.

  “You’re intriguing, Charlotte. What is it you do when you’re not captivating old men on airplanes?”

  He wasn’t old, but he was older. His damp hair had begun to dry, and a faint dusting of gray spread through the golden strands. I had just turned thirty. He had to be forty, maybe more.

  “I hope I’m captivating high schoolers in their Honors English classes,” I said. “The film’s based on a book we’re reading. One of my students brilliantly exposed the theory of wanting what you can’t have.”

  Instead of losing interest, he challenged me with more questions.

  “Why do you think that is?” he asked.

  “Forbidden fruit,” I replied. “Human nature. When we’re told we can’t have something, our desire for it grows.”

  “Is that a terrible thing?” he asked, calling out for Anne to bring us another round of drinks. “I’ve made some very sound business decisions when I’ve been told I can’t have something. I imagine for some it has favorable results, but for others, it might be dreadful. I doubt my wife would like to hear that your keen attention toward me on this plane was because you knew you couldn’t have me.”

  Guys like Philip were predictable. I’d known my share of them—confident to the point of cocky, charming and well spoken, and I wasn’t altogether numb. His finger was bare, though that never proved anything. He was staring at me, through me, and there was
a small part of me that felt let down.

  “It’s all right,” he said, his lips finding my ear, his voice a consoling whisper. “I was merely testing your hypothesis. I’m unspoken for at the moment. Did it work?”

  Amusing. I found this Philip downright amusing.

  Anne approached with wine for me, bourbon for him, and packets of mixed nuts. I told her I’m allergic to the nuts, and handed them back. I knew I shouldn’t drink anymore. I was already enjoying his company too much, but I clinked cups with him anyway.

  “Tell me how this bitty film hypothesizes the forbidden love theory,” he said.

  I faced the screen and the beautiful couple. The star-crossed lovers. “Rich girl–poor boy syndrome. Mom and Dad don’t approve. Expect drama. Pushback. By the time they get together, there’s so much romantic tension and dopamine buildup . . . it’s like a drug . . . a euphoric finish . . . and a hell of a lot more satisfying than boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, and live happily ever after. The struggle, the conflict, it’s real, and it’s what makes a satisfying finish.”

  “Are you telling me their love’s not real, but a mere dopamine overdose? These two lovely creatures”—and he’s pointing at my screen again—“they finally get to be together and it’s doomed?”

  His curiosity flattered me. Most men found these theories childish and boring. “Not always,” I said. “Besides, happily ever after is overrated. It’s all very complicated.”

  He glanced at his watch. “We have plenty of time.”

  “I think the point is,” and I corrected myself, “I think the point my student was trying to make is that a certain beginning induces exaggerated, confusing feelings, and sometimes, not always, when a couple finally gets together, they forget why they were chasing each other in the first place.” He was watching me closely. “Desire like that can leave you very lonely and unsatisfied.”

  “Are you lonely and unsatisfied, Charlotte?”

  I turned toward the sea of clouds outside my window, but his fingers found my chin, and soon I was staring into eyes that spoke without saying a word.

  “If you’re asking if I’m in a relationship,” I said, his touch pressing into me, “I avoid those kinds of commitments. Six classes of teenagers five days a week is plenty.” He let go, and my gaze fell to the plastic cup, my fingertips tracing its rim. “You should know that being alone doesn’t make a person lonely. It’s being around the wrong people.”

  “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.

  My phone buzzed, and it was a text from Philip. Landed.

  Ben watched me type into the keypad: Meet you home. Soon. Walking Sunny. Then grocery store. I told myself explaining the current situation in a text was too c
omplicated.

  He replied: I’ll be waiting for you.

  A rush of blood slid up my neck.

  We were whisked inside the hospital—Sunny, too—and I offered to hold Jimmy’s backpack in the ER waiting room. Ben thanked me, and I answered the question he hadn’t asked. “We’ll be right here.”

  His hair was flattened by the cap he lost somewhere between the ambulance and the hospital doors. Redness rimmed his tired eyes, and when he finally spoke, he talked to the linoleum floor. “Thank you. I don’t even know your name.”

  The urge to comfort him took root. The weight of what we’d just endured tugged his lips down, and his shoulders sagged, though he was tall.

  “I’m Charlotte.”

  Another hour ticked by and Philip texted, asking me why he was home and I wasn’t. I didn’t respond, tucking the phone inside my bag. After last night’s conversation, I wasn’t sure I owed him a response. Satisfied, I rested my head against the freshly painted pale-pink walls, eyes closed, Sunny resting by my feet. Most everything about the Keys was bright and cheerful—the seashells with their silky coats, the golden-purple sunsets, the turquoise-blue waters. Their shine masked the barnacles and seaweed, the muck that crept along the shore.

  “Charlotte.”

  Hearing my name didn’t immediately register. As I straightened up, the man, Ben, stared down at me. I shifted in the seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs. Sunny rose to a sit.

  “You saved his life,” he said, taking the empty chair beside me. “They said he’ll be fine,” he continued, all the emotions he’d tucked away lacing through his words. “You’d never know how close he came—”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Really great.”

  His eyes were on mine, but I didn’t dare turn toward him. Relief seeped through, though I knew not everyone was as lucky, and the void pricked my skin. I focused on the sweet Indian couple huddled in the corner. The elderly man snoring. The young girl watching House Hunters.