“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.