FIVE

 

Paul was really busy for the two days before they went to New York.

Emily didn’t see much of him at all on the Wednesday and Thursday after their skydiving expedition, since he was gone from the apartment for most of the day, working in his company office or having meetings or something, and then he didn’t leave his home office most of the evenings.

Emily didn’t complain or even mention his absence. She missed him a lot after spending so much time with him for the last couple of weeks, and she found herself quite lonely in the apartment by herself. But Paul had gone to incredible lengths to make wonderful things happen for her, and she could hardly begrudge him the need to spend his time working or having fun on his own.

She wasn’t going to be a silly, self-centered girl who whined that the man who had married her, taken her skydiving, and was flying her to Egypt on Sunday wasn’t spending enough time with her.

So the only time she interrupted him was to ask if he wanted to have dinner with her. On Wednesday he said he had too much to do, so he just ate a sandwich at his desk. He came out and had chicken stir-fry with her on Thursday, though.

He was quiet at dinner, and he’d reverted back to the perpetually gentle look, which bothered Emily more than it should have. On Tuesday evening, she’d had such a wonderful time eating with him on the terrace. He’d seemed relaxed, like he thought of her as a friend and not as a project or an object of pity. It hadn’t lasted past the night, though.

Emily refused to take it personally. He was probably stressed out by his difficult new job. His change in behavior surely couldn't be connected to her. She couldn’t think of anything she might have done to upset or offend him.

She was disappointed by his standoffish mood, however, and honestly a little bit hurt. She’d felt close to him on Tuesday, and then it seemed to disappear.

He still seemed quiet on the trip to New York on Friday. Once they were on the road, Emily started reading him passages of Henry IV Part 1 out loud, mostly so they weren’t sitting in silence. She hammed it up as much as she could and made Paul laugh with her exaggerated readings of Falstaff and Hotspur. Eventually Paul started reading scenes with her, and they had a great time going through the best parts of the play.

When Paul was his warm, dry self again as they arrived at their very fancy hotel in New York, Emily congratulated herself on a job well done.

* * *

Emily woke up at three o’clock on Saturday morning with her mouth so dry it hurt.

She sat up in the dark and drank the rest of the bottle of water she’d put on her nightstand before going to bed.

When it was gone and she was still thirsty, she got up to go to the bathroom and then fill up a glass with tap water. She took a few sips and decided she must be getting spoiled, since tap water wasn’t nearly as good as the expensive bottled water she’d grown accustomed to over the last weeks.

She and Paul were staying in a two-room suite on one of the top floors of the hotel. Emily had insisted that Paul have the larger room with the huge king-sized bed because she wanted the more feminine smaller room with pale blue walls and elegantly curved furniture. She peeked out the door to the bedroom and saw that the lights were off in the parlor, which meant Paul must have gone to bed.

She couldn’t believe how dedicated he was to his new job. He’d still been working on his laptop when she’d gone to bed at midnight.

She was only wearing a white tank-top and a pair of pink boy-shorts, and she didn't want to parade around Paul like that. Since he was in his room now, however, she didn't bother putting on more clothes.

She walked through the huge parlor—complete with a fireplace and chandelier—to the kitchen. When she bumped into the edge of the bar, she reached over and turned on a small lamp so she could see where she was going, and then she opened the refrigerator to grab another bottle of water.

Her mouth felt bone dry again, so she screwed off the top and took several cold gulps.

She put the water down so she could turn back off the lamp, which should have been a simple process, but somehow she managed to knock the bottle off the counter as she was bringing her hand back from the lamp.

The glass bottle landed on the tile floor with a loud clatter. It didn’t break, but it rolled across the kitchen, spilling out all the water onto the floor.

Emily cursed under her breath and snatched up the bottle, glancing over at Paul’s closed door. It was dead silent in the suite, and she hoped the clatter hadn’t woken him.

She couldn’t bring herself to leave spilled water on the floor—not in a place as nice as this—so she grabbed a hand towel and bent down to wipe it up as best she could.

“Emily?” Paul’s voice came from across the parlor. “What’s wrong? Emily?”  He sounded urgent, worried. Then the overhead lights came on.

“Nothing,” she groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m just clumsy.” She wiped hurriedly, trying to get it done before Paul came into the kitchen. She felt her cheeks grow warm. She really should have put on more clothes.

She wasn’t quick enough. Her back was to the entrance of the kitchen, but she could feel him standing there, assessing the situation, including the empty bottle of water, the wet floor, and Emily's hurried wiping.

And very likely her overexposed butt.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, finishing up the floor before she turned around to see his expression. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. You can go back to bed.”

“You should have turned the lights on. Why were you trying to grope around in the dark?”

“I had the lamp on. I’d just turned it off before I knocked over the water.” She finished wiping and straightened up, hanging the towel on the side of the sink. “Your sage advice is much appreciated, though,” she added sarcastically, deciding she wasn't going to be self-conscious about her sleepwear. He saw her in her pajamas all the time, and this wasn't that much worse.

She turned around then but froze when her eyes landed on Paul.

She’d always only seen him fully dressed, and it was somehow shocking to see him now, shirtless and wearing nothing but pajama pants. Her eyes automatically registered the sight of his smooth shoulders, strong arms, efficiently sculpted chest, and hard abdomen. His black pajama pants were made of a very soft, thin fabric, and they molded the powerful contours of his legs.

They were also riding low on hips, and there was something mesmerizing about the way his lean abdomen tapered down to the waistline of his pants, as if the rippling lines of his body were leading her eyes down on purpose.

Emily gulped and turned away, pretending to wipe her damp hands on a dry towel. She suddenly felt hot and jittery, and it was a highly unsettling feeling. She’d found men attractive before, of course, but she’d never felt so tense and heated just from the sight of a man’s bare chest.

“Are you feeling all right?” Paul asked, walking over to pick up the towel and wipe some water Emily hadn’t noticed off the counter.

“Yeah. Just needed some water. Sorry about all the ruckus.” She glanced over her shoulder to look at him again, and this time she got the profile view, highlighting his flat belly and the curve of his tight ass, since he'd turned slightly away from her too. Her eyes darted down, quite unconsciously, to his groin. He didn't have a hard-on or anything, of course, but the soft fabric didn’t leave anything to the imagination, and she definitely saw something there.

She flashed briefly to the idea that they were married. They could be having sex. They could have sex tonight, if both of them wanted to.

She wanted to have sex with him, a lot more now than she had when they’d first wed. She hadn’t known Paul as well before, so it was sex in general she was interested in. Now, however, she really liked him. And she really liked the idea of sex with him.

Seeing him like this made her body like the idea of sex with him.

But they’d taken sex off the table until her eighteenth birthday. It had been hard enough to bring the topic up the first time and mortifying when he'd rejected her, so there was no use to even think about it again until she turned eighteen. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to work up the courage even then.

“I thought you’d already got a bottle of water before bed,” Paul said with a frown.

She rolled her eyes, her unexpected physical response to him making her feel flustered and a little irritable. “I finished that one and needed another.”

She turned around to face him again, determined not to act like a trembling virgin just because Paul appeared without a shirt. He would probably be appalled if he knew the direction of her thoughts.

She saw him draw his eyebrows together. “Are you okay? Do you have a—”

“I don’t have a fever,” she snarled, “I’m just thirsty. Stop fussing.”

Paul blinked at her tone.

“Sorry,” she said, tempering her voice and feeling like an ungrateful ass. “I’m really fine. Sorry I woke you.”

He gave a half-shrug and walked over to the refrigerator himself, evidently deciding he wanted water too since he was up and they were talking about it.

Emily couldn’t help but check out his bare back, since she was offered the view. The strong lines of his shoulders and the planes of his back were graceful and powerful—nothing over-developed or ungainly about him. But Emily was immediately distracted by something else.

She gasped loudly and stepped toward him. “God, Paul, what happened?”

“What—” he began, glancing at her over his shoulder. Then he must have realized what had diverted her.

He stiffened. “It’s nothing.” He tried to turn around, but he was trapped by the open refrigerator door and by Emily, who had moved in closer.

“Nothing?” she repeated, overwhelmed by horror and outrage at the sight of the network of ragged scars all over Paul’s lean back. The lines were white, so they must have been old. The idea of his being hurt so badly made her sick. “This is horrible, Paul! Who did this to you?”

“Emily, I said it was—” Paul began, sounding awkward and uncomfortable.

As he spoke, without any conscious volition, Emily’s hand reached out, and her fingers traced one of the longest scar lines, just at his shoulder blade.

As soon as she touched him, Paul broke off his words and jerked away, his sudden motion causing the bottles in the refrigerator door to clatter. “It’s no big deal,” he gritted out, pushing her backward slightly so he could close the door. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Melodramatic?” she repeated in astonishment. Her heart throbbed and her vision almost blurred as she tried to process his being hurt so badly. This was so much different than the faint bruises he’d noticed on her arm a week ago. “Paul, please, what happened?”

Paul’s tight face softened slightly, but he stood with his back against the counter, evidently so she couldn’t see the scars. “It’s really not as bad as it looks. Several years ago, I…I fell.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Fell on what?”

“Against the doors of a china cabinet.” He swallowed, not meeting her eyes. “The glass panes shattered.”

Emily covered her mouth with her hand, the visual his words had evoked appalling. “How did you fall?”

Someone wouldn’t accidentally fall backward into a china cabinet.

When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Did he…did he push you?”

“He didn’t mean to. We were arguing, and I got in his face. He never hit me or anything.”

Her heart almost broke at the sight of his stiff, guarded face.

Emily had lost her father, but he had loved her.

Poor Paul hadn’t been so lucky.

She couldn’t believe she’d thought his life was easy—just a few weeks ago.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Paul said again, his eyes darting over to check her expression. “All the cuts were fairly superficial.”

“Superficial?” she breathed, stepping over to the counter and nudging him away so she could see again.

The scars crisscrossed his whole back, some thicker than others, and she’d never known his back was torn up this way.

“Do they hurt?” she asked softly, tracing the line of one of them gently with her fingers, even though he’d pulled away from her before. It was a stupid question, but her heart ached for him. Something tender and protective rose up inside her, stronger than anything she’d experienced before.

“Not anymore.” He stood very stiffly with his head lowered, but he didn’t jerk away this time.

She followed the line of another scar, brushing it with her fingertips. Then found another one, lower, near his waistband, that looked deeper and more jagged than the rest. His skin was warm and firm, even at the scars. She had no idea why she felt compelled to touch them—just wished her touch had the power to heal. “Oh, Paul,” she murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

She heard his breath hitch strangely, and he muttered, “Emily, please don’t.” He took a couple of awkward steps away from her. He opened the refrigerator again and stared inside, as if he remembered he’d never gotten his bottle of water.

Emily gazed at him, bewildered and disoriented. He’d sounded almost bad-tempered with her, and it hurt her feelings. She made herself think through it rationally, though, and she realized she’d pushed too hard, forced an emotional intimacy on him that he wasn’t comfortable with.

Just because stroking his scars made her feel like she was somehow helping him didn’t mean that was what Paul himself would want. She’d gone way beyond the bounds of their relationship. They didn't pour their hearts out to each other. They respected each other's privacy, and they didn't make each other uncomfortable.

She had no idea what she was thinking in trying to do all three just now.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

He shook his head, a little jerkily, still staring into the refrigerator. Only his head and shoulders were visible above the door, so she could no longer see most of his scars. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Can I have a bottle of water?” she asked, since that was her purpose in coming out here at all.

He handed her one without comment. Then told her goodnight. And he was still standing there staring into the refrigerator when Emily hurried into her room to hide.

* * *

Things returned to normal in the morning.

When Emily woke up, she lay in bed for a few minutes and reoriented herself.

Last night had been a stumble, but it was recoverable. She'd slipped into acting like she had a normal friendship with Paul, but that just wasn't the case. There were forced limits on her relationship with him. Those limits were set by her impending death.

Their friendship didn't have a future, so it had to be about keeping each other company in the present. That didn't mean she couldn’t care about him—she did, a lot more than she would have imagined she could—but there was no sense in pushing it deeper. That would be hard, for both of them, and there wasn't any point to it.

She was self-aware enough to know that, if she hadn't been dying, she would have been in danger of falling head-over-heels in love with Paul. It wasn't just that he was an incredibly attractive man. He was also funny and intelligent and generous and more considerate than she'd known him to be. But Emily's life now was all about moments—experiencing moments, enjoying moments, living moment by moment. And the nature of love assumed a future.

She had no future.

So, after assessing her emotional condition, she determined that things were going well with Paul. She was enjoying his company, and she thought he must be enjoying hers too, at least to a certain extent. They cared about each other, and the sacrifices Paul was making for her would be rewarded with the knowledge that he'd done something incredibly good, something worthwhile.

That would matter to him.

Hopefully, after she was gone, he could think back on her sometimes as a fond memory of a girl to whom he'd once given an incredible gift.

She emerged from her bedroom, fully dressed and ready to be cheerful and natural. She wasn't surprised that Paul was already up and dressed himself. They had a quick, pleasant breakfast in the room, with no hint of the awkwardness of the previous night, before they went to visit the Empire State Building.

Paul had made arrangements for them to get a private visit to the 103rd floor of the building, the very top usually available only to visiting dignitaries and celebrities.

Emily was quite sure she wasn’t either a dignitary or a celebrity, but she wasn’t about to complain. She had a great time gawking over the view. Paul was well-informed on almost everything, and he seemed to be in a light, charming mood. While she didn’t like this mood as much as the dry, fond humor that seemed somehow more genuine, she wasn’t about to complain about having a fun, intelligent companion to see New York City with.

It was much better than the awkward tension of the night before.

After they finished at the Empire State Building, they strolled through Central Park and ended up having brunch in a trendy little bistro on 5th Avenue that specialized in cheese. It was packed out, but Paul had made reservations and had predictably snared the best table in the restaurant.

Emily stuffed herself on scrumptious pancetta and gouda soufflé and hot beignets that melted in her mouth. Paul kept her giggling with stories about his trips to New York with friends in college and with every random detail he knew about cheese.

“Did you want to do some shopping?” Paul asked, after they’d finished their meals and had drifted into a satiated quiet.

Shopping was exactly what she wanted to do, but she had almost no money of her own, and she was determined not to spend Paul’s money on a pointless splurge for herself. He’d already spent a small fortune on her.

She just gave a little shrug, “Since we’re right here, I wouldn’t mind doing some window shopping. Maybe look around at the stores you’re supposed to see when you come to New York.”

Paul gave a faint sneer. “I’ve never seen a woman who shops like you.”

Emily giggled at his expression, but she didn’t try to justify herself. She knew whatever she bought wouldn’t make a dent in Paul’s bank account, but that wasn’t really the point.

They strolled down 5th Avenue and stopped in some of the high-end designer stores, where Emily gaped at the ludicrously expensive, stylish clothes. Paul tried to talk her into buying some of them, but she managed to refrain from caving, much to her husband’s annoyance.

She sustained her resolve with admirable strength until she passed the small boutique of a designer Emily wasn't familiar with.  She saw the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen in the window display.

She stopped abruptly and stared at it, lusting for that dress more than any piece of clothing she’d ever laid eyes on.

It was a dark gray silk shirtdress with a knee-length pencil skirt, a wide collar, and a belt with a beautiful onyx buckle. The dressed looked both vintage and stylish, and Emily could vividly see herself in it.

She swallowed and forced her eyes away, starting to walk again, although leaving that dress in the window was almost painful.

With an impatient shake of his head, Paul took her arm and dragged her into the boutique.

He made her try it on, and the saleswoman found some shoes to try on with it. The outfit looked so good on her Emily couldn’t lie when she emerged from the dressing area and Paul asked if she wanted to buy it.

“How much is it?” she asked the saleswoman, in the futile hope that it wasn’t as expensive as she feared.

Paul had already pulled out his credit card. He handed it to the saleswoman with a murmured, “Don’t tell her.”

Emily gasped indignantly and glared at him.

He met her glare evenly as the saleswoman happily rang up the dress and shoes.

Emily was trying to hold on to her righteous indignation, but she saw Paul hiding a smile. Then, always unable to take herself too seriously, she relaxed into a little laugh. “Fine. Thank you very much for the dress you forced on me. You’re a shopping bully. You know that, don’t you?”

He chuckled, his eyes warm and fond the way they’d been on Tuesday evening when they were eating on the terrace. “Since you’ve given into me once, I’m guessing I can bully you into a few more purchases.”

“Don’t count on it.” Emily firmly believed she was right.

She was wrong, of course. He somehow convinced her to let him buy her a gorgeous tote, which she justified because she might need it on the trip to Egypt. Then, at Tiffany & Co., he insisted on getting her a pair of emerald earrings she was pretending not to stare at that would match her ring and necklace.

But that was all. It certainly could have been worse.

Paul was pretty pleased with himself as they returned to their suite to rest before dinner. The truth was—Emily was pleased with him too.

* * *

That evening, Emily gazed at herself in the mirror and was forced to conclude that she’d never looked more stylish and sexy in her life.

She was wearing her new dress, and the fitted shape and slippery fabric flattered her figure, hugging the curve of her breasts and sliding over the contour of her hips. She’d been worried about the pencil skirt, since she didn’t have the incredibly long legs of a model, but with her new snake-print pumps with very high heels, even her legs looked svelte.

She tried unbuttoning one more button at her neckline and decided the cleavage exposed was deep but not inappropriate. She liked the way the dress draped better that way, and her breasts had always been one of her better features.

She’d spent much more time on eye makeup than normal, and she’d put on dark lipstick, which she almost never wore. She liked the effect. She looked polished, almost like she could belong with Paul.

Her uncharacteristic sophistication was compounded by the addition of her wedding necklace and her new earrings, which both looked perfect with the dress.

Her only frustration was her hair. She’d been growing it out for a couple of months, and it was at a weird in-between length. When she pulled it up into the French twist she always wore to dress up, it was too bulky in the back.

She unpinned it again, letting it fall down on her shoulders, and took a breath before she raised her arms to twist it up again.

A knock on her bedroom door startled her, and she let her hair fall back down.

“Emily,” Paul called from the other side of the door. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” she said, wrapping her hair up with her hand one more time. “I’m ready.”

Paul must have taken her words for an invitation to come in. As he opened the door, he said, “I made reservations for six-thirty to give us plenty of time before the show starts, but I can move them if…”

His words trailed off as he processed her appearance. He wore all black—black trousers, black dress shirt, black jacket, and black shoes—and he looked scrumptious enough to eat.

Emily dropped her hair again and displayed her outfit, a little self-consciously. “What do you think?”

He just kept staring at her, his eyes moving up and down her body with unusual intensity.

“Does that mean it’s good?” she asked, blushing slightly as she turned back toward the mirror to verify that she still looked as pretty as she thought. “Hopefully, you’re not speechless in horror.”

“It’s good,” Paul said hoarsely, dragging his eyes up to her face.

She smiled at him in the mirror, feeling strangely shy. He was still frozen in place, and he looked astonished or something. He hadn't been particularly effusive in his compliments, but she was sure it was admiration in his eyes. She figured he must be surprised that she’d managed to look so sexy and sophisticated this evening.

“Just let me finish my hair,” she told him, feeling a ripple of pleasure as she looked again at her reflection in the glass.  She’d felt something similar when she'd dressed to go to the prom with Chris that spring, and she’d felt something similar on her wedding day. But the way Paul was looking at her now made her feel even prettier today. “I’m having trouble getting it up.”

She tried once more to twist it into place and ended up with an unattractive bump of hair on the top of her head. She dropped her hands once more, groaning in frustration.

“Just leave it down,” Paul murmured, still watching her in the mirror.

She looked at her loose, rumpled hair rather dubious. “It’s all messy now.”

“I like it like that.”

Emily felt a little thrill at his words, but she gave him an ironic look over her shoulder. “You just say that because you want to get out the door.”

Paul smiled, his expression taking on that light, charming look he'd had all morning. “Of course.”

She gave up on her hair. They had limited time before the play started anyway, and she was starting to get hungry.

As she turned around, she got a glimpse of her ass. The pencil skirt emphasized the full curve of it, and the fabric was so thin she’d had to go without underwear, since she didn’t have a thong with her and all of her other pairs created an obvious panty-line. She made a face as she saw herself from this angle. “The dress doesn’t make my ass look too big, does it?”

Paul made a brief choked sound as his eyes lowered to that particular feature. “Of course not. Your ass looks great.”

* * *

Paul took her to a place he said had the best steak in New York. It was a dimly lit restaurant with swanky décor, and it seemed to match Emily’s sexy, sophisticated outfit.

She felt eyes on her as she and Paul walked to their table, and she couldn’t help but wonder what people thought of them. Paul dominated any room he entered—with his looks, his money, his brilliance, his presence, the charisma that seeped from his pores.

She could see women watch him, watch her because of him, and she couldn’t help but notice some female eyes would stray to his left hand, in an automatic check of his marital status.

Something inside her bloomed at being that girl—the one with the most desirable man in the room. She’d never been that girl before. She’d always been second-best, gazing from the outskirts at the Lauras of the world, the luckier girls, the girls who always got the guy.

But Paul was with her tonight, and everyone seemed to recognize it. It was her ring on his left hand. Even though the rational part of her brain recognized it was somewhat artificial, Emily didn’t really care.

She felt special, and Paul was treating her like she was his date, smiling, giving her compliments, laughing at her jokes, and making sure she had everything she wanted. His eyes weren't roving around the room, searching for someone more attractive. Maybe he was just being nice, but he seemed to genuinely like her now, genuinely enjoy being with her.

It didn’t have to be love. It didn’t have to be a real marriage. It didn’t have to last longer than the evening.

For once, Emily felt like the girl she’d always wanted to be.

The girl men might actually want.

She’d finished her steak—which might have been the best piece of meat she’d ever eaten—and was starting on her dark chocolate mousse when she felt an inexplicable bubble of emotion rising in her throat.

Paul was being light and charming like he’d been most of the day, and his demeanor just strengthened the thrilling, surreal quality of the evening. He must have noticed something on her face, though, because he halted the story he was telling and peered at her closely. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, feeling silly for her emotional response to the evening and incapable of explaining it to him without feeling like an absolute idiot.

“Are you sick?” His eyes scanned her face, looking urgent in a way they hadn’t all day.

“No,” she replied, trying to suppress a flash of annoyance. She wasn’t going to ruin her fairy-tale evening by having an argument with Paul about his constant inquiries about her health. “I’m fine. I was just having a good time.”

He seemed like he wanted to question her more, but the manager came over then to ask them how their meal was. The manager was a young, attractive brunette—like Laura or the models Paul used to date—and she definitely seemed to have noticed his appeal.

She stayed for a while to chat, ostensibly with both of them, but her eyes rarely made their way over to the other side of the table. Emily definitely didn’t miss the way the woman checked out both Paul’s ring finger and Emily’s.

Emily felt a ridiculous vindication at the flicker of disappointment in the woman’s eyes at discovering Paul was married. It was such a petty feeling that Emily tried not to indulge it, but she’d never been someone other women were jealous of.

Paul was polite and friendly with the manager, but after a few minutes he said, “We better get going soon.  Are you ready, Emily?”

Then, when they stood up to leave, he put his hand on the small of her back as they walked out.

Emily decided she better go the bathroom at the restaurant, in case the theater restrooms were crowded. After she’d gone and then washed her hands, she stared at herself in the mirror, almost not recognizing the elegant, sensual woman she saw there. Even her ass didn't look too bad.

She knew Paul was waiting, so she didn’t linger to admire her gorgeousness more than a minute.

Paul wasn’t waiting right outside, so she walked toward the entrance of the restaurant. She paused as she turned a corner and saw him talking with the brunette manager again.

The woman was tall, slim, and darkly gorgeous—and she was now flirting big-time with Paul. Emily could see it immediately in the kinds of smiles, hair tosses, and slanted glances the woman was throwing at him.

Paul was smiling back, with his eyes as well as his mouth.

Emily stood frozen as she watched. First, she was flooded with a wave of furious possessiveness. Paul was her husband, and that bitch was making a play for him.

Her initial reaction didn’t last long, though. Emily wasn’t a fool. She knew Paul didn't belong to her. He cared about her—more now than he had a month ago—but he never would have married her under normal circumstances. He never would have even gone out with her.

He wasn't really hers.

Emily turned on her heel and hurried back to the restroom. Stared back into the mirror and made herself face the truth.

She wasn’t really that woman. She was just Emily, and she’d always known what it meant to be one of the Emilys of the world.

Paul was being incredibly generous in giving her a wonderful end to her life, but she had to keep the reality in perspective. She was allowed to enjoy the daydreams, as long as she didn’t believe they were real.

It would only lead to this kind of kick in the gut when the fuzziness finally cleared.

It always cleared eventually.

Emily had never been the girl that men wanted, and that wasn’t going to change now.

Her fairy-tale prom with Chris had ended without even a kiss. Her fairy-tale wedding had ended with her husband refusing to have sex with her. And her fairy-tale evening of being sexy and sophisticated would end with her husband flirting with the kind of woman he really liked.

Story of her life.

She just wasn’t destined for the happy ending.

Her shoulders shook with a few helpless sobs, but she stifled them almost immediately.

It didn’t matter. It didn't matter. She still had good things left to look forward to. She was going to see Henry V tonight. She was going to see the Pyramids tomorrow.

Ultimately it wouldn't matter since she only had a couple of months left to be anyone at all.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, feeling more like herself. She’d always been tough. She’d always taken care of herself. There was no reason that had to change.

She was about to leave the bathroom when the beautiful manager came in.

“Oh, hi,” the woman said, with a smile that looked a little fake. “I told him you were probably just redoing your makeup, but your husband was worried for some reason and wanted me to check on you.”

Emily blinked. “Oh. I’m fine. I’m coming.”

She followed the woman out of the restroom to find Paul pacing in the hall. When he saw her, he took three strides over and searched her face in concern. He must have been looking for signs of illness, but he evidently saw something else.

“You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied with a bright smile. “Sorry I took so long.”

“Emily,” Paul persisted, a warning note in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Emily forced out between clenched teeth, flushing hotly at having this conversation in front of the gorgeous woman who’d been flirting with him. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Paul looked like he would argue, but then he noticed the manager too. He took Emily’s arm, although his grip was tighter than civility called for, and walked them out of the restaurant.

Emily fought to keep her expression neutral, although her emotions were a confused, tumultuous jumble. As they were waiting on the sidewalk for the car to pull up, she noticed Paul searching her face again.

He was worried about her. She could see it in the urgency of his eyes, the tension in his features. He thought she was sick or grieving—not moping because no one had ever really thought she was pretty.

For some reason, that thought pushed her into tears again. She turned her face away from Paul so he wouldn’t see her contorting her features in an attempt to stifle the sobs.

Evidently, he saw it anyway. He sucked in a harsh breath, and his hand tightened on her arm. She could feel the intensity pulsing from him, but he waited until they’d gotten into the car to ask her again.

He didn’t really ask. He demanded, “Tell me what the hell is wrong.”

“Nothing,” she said over the painful lump in her throat. “I’m not sick. I’m really not.”

“Something is wrong. Stop lying to me.” He grabbed her face in one of his warm hands and turned it so it was facing him. “Tell me what upset you so much.”

She thought frantically, trying to come up with something, anything, to tell him. There was just no way she could tell him the truth.  “It’s…it’s nothing. I was just having a good evening. And…and I started to think about…about being sick.”  She improvised as she stumbled through an explanation and hoped it would be convincing.

The truth was she was doing her best to forget that she was sick at all. If she thought about it, she couldn’t fully enjoy her final months—so she kept forcing the bleak reality to the back of her mind.

Paul didn’t have to know that, though.

He dropped his hand from her face, and his intensity softened. His eyes were narrowed as he studied her, though, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced. He didn’t say anything. Just watched her.

She looked away, since his eyes were too penetrating. Gazing out the window at the crowded street, she stammered, “I’m sorry I took so long. But…but you looked occupied, so I figured it would…it would be all right if…”

“What?” Paul interrupted.

Emily blinked over at him, trying to think through her broken rambles. “What what?”

“What do you mean I looked occupied?”

She suddenly realized her mistake. She never would have slipped so foolishly if she hadn’t still been fighting lingering tears. “Nothing. I meant nothing.”

“Emily,” he said, his voice thick and intimidating.

She could have held out. She was strong enough to put her foot down, even with Paul Marino. But, for some reason, she heard herself saying, “It’s nothing. I just meant you were talking to that woman, so I thought—”

“Damn it, Emily. Did you actually think I was hitting on her?”

“No. No. I mean, even if you were, that would be all right. I know we’re not—”

Paul was really angry now—angrier than she’d seen him since the night she’d tried to sneak out of the apartment. “What kind of man do you think I am?” he broke into her garbled explanation. “You really think I would hook up with another woman while my wife was in the bathroom?”

“No,” she mumbled, staring down at her twisting hands. “I didn’t mean that. I know you’re not the kind of guy who would cheat on his wife. But, since we’re not really married, I would understand if—”

Paul grabbed her left hand with his left hand and displayed the rings in a rough, frustrated gesture. “We are married. For whatever reason, we are married. I’m not going to cheat on you.”

Emily stared at their rings, the platinum band on his long, masculine finger and her rings on her much smaller hand.

The sight had pleased her earlier in the evening, feeding into the daydream she was indulging. But now it seemed more real, more strange, more inexplicable. It made her chest hurt.

“Didn’t you know that before?” Paul asked, his voice still gravelly. “Didn't you know I wasn't going to sleep around? What kind of man do you think I am?”

“I did know,” she said in a rush, feeling a wave of intense guilt because she’d never meant to insult him but somehow still had. “I know you aren't that kind of man.”

Just a couple of months ago, she would have said he was.

“But you were crying in the bathroom. You must have thought…” Paul trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

“No, no, no. I wasn’t crying because I thought you were making plans for a sleazy affair. I just…I mean, I was upset because…I was just enjoying feeling like…like someone else, and then I was kind of hit by the reminder that I’m…that I’m not.”

“You aren’t what?” The resentment and impatience had faded from his face during her halting attempt to explain, and he looked more thoughtful than anything else now.

She gave a long sigh and leaned back against the seat of the car, closing her eyes as she admitted the truth. “I’m not the girl who gets the guy that everyone wants.”

The silence following her words stretched on so long that Emily realized how Paul might have misinterpreted her words. Her eyes flew open, and she saw Paul staring at her blankly. She said, “Not that I was thinking it was romantic between us or anything.  I’m not crazy. I wasn’t ever thinking that. I was just having fun pretending I was the girl everyone envies because… because she’s got the best guy.”

She was so mortified by having told Paul the truth that she dropped her face into her hands and tried to breathe.

After a minute, she realized Paul still hadn’t answered. When she looked up, she saw he was still gazing at her with the strangest expression.

“Paul, I’m so sorry,” she said, the words cracking in her throat. She reached over and put her hand on his sleeve. “I really wasn’t thinking that you were going to cheat on me. I was just thinking that maybe you…you’d prefer to be with the kind of woman you really like. And that just got me going with some old issues.” She attempted a dry laugh, although it was more of a snuffle. “You’d think that dying would put your issues in perspective, but I can’t seem to shake some of them.”

When he still didn’t answer, she asked, “Are you really mad at me?”

“No,” Paul said at last. “I’m not mad. I think I…understand.”

Emily collapsed back against the seat, feeling like an absolute fool but relieved that she hadn’t ruined her friendship with Paul. To her surprise, he reached over and pulled her against his side, the weight of his arm around her warm and incredibly comforting. He smelled like Paul, so she breathed him in.

After a minute, he murmured, “Emily, half the men in the restaurant were jealous of me this evening.”

“What?” She didn’t pull away from him. Just twisted her neck so she could peer up at his face.

“You heard me. You may not have noticed, but I definitely did. Men were checking you out, sizing me up, concluding I must have money because otherwise I’d never be able to get a woman like you.”

Emily straightened up, one of her hands fisting in his jacket lapel. “That’s ridiculous. I appreciate your attempt to boost my ego, but you have to be somewhat realistic in the exaggeration for it to work.”

He ignored her light irony and shook his head. “It’s the truth. Everywhere I looked, some other guy was leering at my wife. Honestly, I found it rather obnoxious.”

If it hadn’t been for the faintly aggrieved tone of his last words, she wouldn’t have believed him, but he seemed to be telling the truth. She gave a little giggle, just an overflow of too much emotion, and nestled back under Paul’s arm.

They were almost to the theater when Paul murmured, without any segue, “Not even once have I wanted to cheat on you.”

A swell of relief and affection rose in her throat. She knew they weren’t in love and that the marriage was mostly a sham. She knew, after she died, he would go back to pursuing the women he really wanted. But she still would have hated for her husband to be having lecherous thoughts about other women while she was around.

All she said was, “Good. Me either.”

* * *

Paul dropped his light, charming demeanor like the façade it always was. When they went into the theater, he didn’t tell her any funny stories or give her any pretty compliments. He was quiet at first. Then he was annoyed because there was some sort of mix-up with their tickets and it took a couple of minutes to sort it out.

Then he started telling her about the English history leading up to the events of the play, and he got wrapped up in the explanation with an intensity that made otherwise boring details absolutely fascinating. Then, during the intermission, when Emily was feeling tired and kind of achy, he peered at her with concerned scrutiny and put a hand on her forehead to check her temperature.

All of it was Paul. And Emily liked all of it—the quietness, the grumpiness, the intensity, the concern—better than when he had been light and charming.

The play was amazing, and they got back to the hotel very late. Emily had to conclude, despite the minor emotional upheavals, it had been a very good day. Plus, they were flying to Egypt tomorrow.

She was absolutely exhausted, and she was feeling even more achy than before, probably because they'd done so much today. So she took a couple of Tylenol and went to bed.

***

Emily was so achy she could barely force herself out of bed the next morning.

She sat on the side of the mattress, trying to catch her breath and assess her condition. Her whole body hurt, and she felt hot and clammy at the same time. She drank several gulps of water from the bottle at her bedside. After a minute, she convinced herself that she was just tired and sore from the long day of shopping and sightseeing yesterday.

Today she was going to Egypt. She only had a very small window of time to do everything on her list, and she wasn’t going to miss one of the things she was most excited about.

So she managed to shower and dress, although she had to sit down for a few minutes to recover afterwards. Her head was throbbing now, and she had started to shiver a little, but she was finally able to rouse herself enough to leave her bedroom and head into the parlor of their suite.

Naturally, Paul was already up, looking cool and attractive. He was working at the desk on his laptop and had probably been up for a while.

The effort it took to get dressed and walk into the parlor had made Emily a little dizzy, but she gave him as cheerful a good-morning as she could manage.

Paul looked up and smiled at her in a way she liked—a quiet smile but one that felt real. “How are you?”

Consecutive waves of hot and cold prompted a sudden feeling of panic. She forced out, “Fine,” and walked over to the room service cart where she always got her coffee.

The scent of coffee hit her nose and made her feel ill. Heat seemed to pulse out of the stainless steel carafe. Instead of coffee, she poured herself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice with shaking hands and went to sit on a chair by a window far away from Paul.

She could feel his eyes on her as she tried to sip her juice.

“Emily?” Paul prompted after a stretch of silence.

She made a wordless mumble of response, wishing her body didn’t hurt so much so she could think more clearly.

Then Paul—damn him—got out of his chair and walked over to where she sat. He scrutinized her in his usual way, looking for signs of her dying.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, her tone far sharper than was warranted. “I’m just tired after yesterday.”

Paul didn’t reply with words. He reached out and put a hand on her forehead.

Emily tried to jerk away, but there was nowhere she could go.

“Damn it, Emily,” Paul said curtly, putting his hand on her forehead again. “You’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She tried to glare at him with imposing indignation, but she felt so sick she was afraid she might cry.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice a little husky as he reached down to pull her to her feet. “You need to get back into bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed.” She tried to pull away from him, but she was too weak and unsteady on her feet. “We have to make our flight.”

“You can’t go with a fever.” Paul sounded mild now, gentle, but his arm at her back was strong as he guided her into her bedroom.

She felt like she was choking on the pain in her body, the oppressive heat, and the crushing disappointment. Her shoulders shook a few times—quite unwillingly—but she wasn’t going to let herself cry. As Paul helped her off with her cardigan and shoes, she mumbled, “Maybe it won’t last very long.”

Paul unlatched her watch and slid it from her wrist. “Maybe it won’t,” he agreed, easing her down so she was lying in her unmade bed.

She peered up at him fuzzily, trying to read the expression on his face. He didn’t look or sound tender or pitying. Just mild. At least he didn’t look annoyed at her for trying to act like she wasn’t sick.

“I’ll be right back,” he said before walking out of her room.

She was starting to shiver again, so she pulled the covers up until they were tucked under her chin. She felt absolutely miserable, but at least when she was lying down she didn’t feel quite so dizzy.

Paul returned in less than a minute, and he had in his hand a thermometer that took her temperature by being held against her head for just a few seconds.

“What is it?” Emily asked, her teeth chattering, when he pulled his arm back and read the display. She felt kind of like a child and didn’t like that feeling at all, but she couldn't seem to do anything about it.

“102⁰,” Paul muttered, his eyes shifting from the thermometer to her face. “No wonder you feel so bad.”

“Maybe it won’t last long,” she said again. “And we can still fly out later today.”

Paul’s eyes softened as they rested on her. “I’m sorry, Emily. You can’t go anywhere today.”

“But—” she began, before she cut herself off. There was no sense in arguing. Paul had made it clear that, about her health, he would dig in his heels. She just didn’t have the energy anyway. She curled up on her side. “I really wanted to cross it off my list.”

“I know, but we’ll go in a couple of days when you’re feeling better.”

Her eyes widened in sudden hope. “We can still go?”

“Of course. I’ll just reschedule everything.  Now get some rest. I’m going to call the doctor.”

Emily released a long sigh and closed her eyes, relieved that everything wasn’t completely ruined. The darkness throbbed behind her closed eyelids. Her attempt to cheer herself up by visualizing all she would see in Egypt ended up as a bizarre, vibrating picture of her and Paul hopping over the Pyramids.

It wasn’t long before the crazy image shifted into the blackness of sleep.

* * *

She was jarred awake by a gentle hand on her shoulder and a soft voice saying, “Emily? Can you wake up?”

She groaned as the world closed in around her with hot, achy heaviness.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, pushing her hair away from her face. “The doctor’s here.”

She tried to make herself focus on his familiar face. His gray eyes were soft like before as he straightened up. Then she shifted her gaze to another man standing beside her bed. He was middle-aged and balding and smiling at her.

“Hello,” she managed to croak. Her mouth was painfully dry, and she fumbled for her water until Paul moved the bottle into her hand.

“Sorry you’re feeling poorly, Mrs. Marino,” the doctor said, reaching over to take her temperature with a thermometer similar to Paul’s. “I talked to Dr. Franklin, and he updated me on your case. This will only take a few minutes, and then I’ll let you rest again.”

Emily nodded, deciding that would do for a response, since her throat was aching and she didn’t feel like talking.

“102.9⁰,” the doctor said, reading the thermometer.

“It’s gone up almost a whole degree since I called you,” Paul said. He was speaking softly and to the doctor.

“It may keep going up.” The doctor smiled pleasantly as he took Emily’s blood pressure, listened to her chest, and checked her throat. “Everything looks fine,” he told her. “You’re going to feel sick for a while, but it’s early yet and it shouldn’t last very long.”

She nodded mutely again, her teeth starting to chatter as her body shifted suddenly from hot to cold. Her neck hurt, her thighs hurt, her fingers hurt, her eyes hurt. She heard herself making a helpless sound through her shivering.

“Find her another blanket,” the doctor said. He’d turned his back to her now and was talking to Paul. “Don’t let her shiver like that—it increases the core body temperature and could raise her fever.”

Since her part of the ordeal seemed to be over, Emily closed her eyes and huddled under the covers. Someone walked over and put another blanket over her—it smelled like Paul but it would hurt too much to open her eyes, so she didn’t actually see him drape it over her. The extra blanket helped. She stopped shivering almost immediately.

A minute later, she heard voices again. They were farther away now. Outside her room. She could hear them, though.

“Keep checking her temperature regularly,” the doctor said. “Every half hour. If it gets above 105⁰, give me a call and we’ll decide if we need to take her to the hospital. But, if she follows the same course as her aunt, then I don’t think the fever will spike that high this time.”

“What can I do for her?” That voice was obviously Paul’s.

“Stagger the dosages of acetaminophen and ibuprofen, so she can take something as often as possible. Try to keep her comfortable—with cool rags or maybe a tepid bath. Don’t let her shiver. Keep her hydrated. She can eat if she wants to, but don’t make her.”

“Okay.”

“I know you’re worried about your wife, Mr. Marino, but I don’t think this fever should last very long. The early ones her aunt had didn't. Give me a call if you have any questions today, and I’ll check in with you tomorrow regardless.”

The voice disappeared then. Emily was curled in a tight ball and thought she was still listening. She couldn’t quite figure out what happened to the disembodied voices.

She was concentrating so hard on listening that she jumped when Paul’s voice sounded from just above her. “Emily?”

She opened one eye and glared at him malevolently out of it.

“I’m sorry. Can you sit up and take these pills? Then you can go to sleep, and no one will bother you.”

Paul didn’t really give her a choice, since he pulled her up gently into a sitting position and put what looked like Advil pills in her hand. She swallowed them obediently with the water he handed her, although they hurt as they went down her throat.

“I’m going to sleep now,” she told him, rather raspily but with what she thought was appropriate authority.

“An excellent plan.” He walked over and pulled the room-darkening curtains closed, and it didn’t seem so terrible to keep her eyes open.

But she didn’t need to keep her eyes open now, so she closed them.

* * *

The next time conscious awareness pushed its painful way into her mind, her body hurt even worse. She was so hot that, for a moment, it felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She pushed the covers off frantically and took several ragged gasps.

“Emily?”

The voice grated on her nerves so she ignored it. She wasn’t even sure where it came from. She tossed on the bed, kicking at the covers and trying to find a cool spot on the sheet.

She was sweating, and her clothes were oppressive and confining. The ponytail was poking into the back of her head, and her bra was wretchedly tight.

Her eyes were tightly closed, but she jerked when something touched her head. She opened her eyes to discover what had touched her and gave a little sob because the dim room seemed to blind her.

She saw Paul, still looking cool and handsome in his blue shirt, checking the thermometer.

She sucked in more air and closed her eyes, wanting everything to just go away. Her ponytail poked her so horribly that she reached up and yanked the elastic out of her hair and threw the band blindly across the room.

Then she felt something deliciously cold and wet on her forehead. It moved slowly to her cheeks and her neck. She sighed in relief as her face started to cool a little.

When she opened her eyes again, it wasn’t quite so unbearable.

“Do you think you can get up and change clothes?” Paul asked, still wiping her face with the cool, wet washcloth. “I think you’d feel better. I should have had you change earlier.”

Emily wanted desperately to get out of her bra, and that was enough incentive to heave herself into a sitting position.

The room whirled sickening at the change of position. For some reason, it made her realize something else.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she mumbled. She was horrified at the idea of walking all the way across the room.

Paul nodded and put down the wet washcloth.  “Okay. I’ll help you get there.”

Emily hauled her legs over the side of the bed and sat for a minute, breathing deeply and getting her balance. Then she let Paul help her up with an arm around her waist, and she leaned on him as she hobbled across the room.

His body was so warm that it made her feel even hotter, but at least he was strong and hard—good for leaning on. Her legs were working better by the time she got to the bathroom, and she told him, “I’ll be all right in here. Can you find me something cool to wear?” She gestured toward the packed luggage she’d intended to take to Egypt.

Paul looked a little dubious about leaving her to her own devices, but she found enough energy to close the door in his face.

She just wasn’t going to pee in front of Paul.

After she’d gone to the bathroom, she leaned on the sink as another wave of heat flooded her body. She was sweating again, so she splashed cold water on her face. It felt good, but she got her loose hair wet, and it clung to her skin in an irritating way.

Since the ponytail in the back of her head had driven her crazy, she fumbled in her makeup bag for two elastic bands and pulled her hair into two low, loose ponytails, which would hopefully keep it off her neck but not poke her so painfully in the head.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and realized she looked like an eight-year-old, but she felt too bad to even care.

There was a tap on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was croaking again, and the effort she’d exerted caught up with her. She closed the toilet and sat on it, afraid she might fall over.

Paul came in with her change of clothes—a white tank-top and pale blue cotton sleep shorts. “Do you need help?”

She shook her head and groped for the clothes, wanting to give him some sort of thanks but not having the energy.

He only shut the bathroom door partway on his way out, but she barely noticed. She dragged off her top and pants and was finally able to take off her damned bra. After she dropped the clothes on the floor in a heap, she pulled on the much cooler tank and shorts.

She rallied herself enough to stand and then limped out to the bedroom.

Paul was waiting, and he put his arm around her again to support her on her way back to the bed.

He was hot—way too hot—and his arm at her waist was way too tight. She didn’t like it. She wanted it off her. But some vague awareness that he was trying to help made her bite her lip instead of snap at him to get away from her.

“Try to drink some water,” Paul said gently, handing her a fresh, cool bottle after she’d sat down on the edge of the bed.

She obediently took several cold swigs, although she choked on the last one and the coughing hurt her entire body.

“And you can take some Tylenol now,” he said, handing her the pills. “It should help.”

She didn’t want to swallow anything else, and she couldn’t seem to focus enough to coordinate her hand. One of the pills fell onto the floor, and she almost yelled at Paul since it felt like his fault for giving them to her.

He leaned down to pick the pill up so at least she didn’t have to do that.

She was flushed and perspiring from new waves of heat by the time she’d swallowed the pills and was able to lie down.

Paul tried to cover her up, but she yanked the covers out of his hand and kicked them down to the bottom of the bed.

She thought she’d made him mad—which was, for some reason, a satisfying thought—when he walked away from the bed. But he returned in just a moment and put a wonderfully cool washcloth on her forehead.

Emily released a raspy sigh as he wiped at her hot face. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, thinking if she was perfectly still maybe everything wouldn’t hurt so much.

It wasn’t long before the coolness became too cool. She mumbled out a wordless complaint as she felt the cold cloth on her neck, and her skin broke out in goose bumps. The wet cloth went away, and she groped blindly for the covers, but they were too far down the bed for her to reach. She writhed restlessly, her bare skin exposed to the cool of the room.

Then Paul pulled up the blankets and she was warm again. She tried to thank him—not because she felt grateful but because she was fuzzily aware that it was something civilized people were supposed to do—but all she heard was a hoarse mumble come out of her mouth.

Then he wasn’t standing next to the bed anymore, and it was a relief. She hoped he’d gone away.

She peeked out from under her lashes and saw that he hadn’t left the room after all. He was sitting on a chair, not far from the bed, with a book opened on his lap.

But he wasn’t reading the book. He was just watching her.

He was full of heat. He was making it hot in the room. Even his eyes were making her hotter. She grumbled under her breath and turned over on her other side, with her back to him so she wouldn’t get the full-force of his heat.

This was her room. He shouldn’t be sitting here. The chair must be uncomfortable, and he didn’t have anything to do but stare at her. He should go into another room where he could work or watch television.

She didn’t want him here. He was making her hot.

* * *

Emily was smothering. She was smothering. She couldn’t breathe through the heat bearing down on her.

She couldn’t breathe. She needed help. She needed help.

“Help!” she gasped through parched lips. Her body arched up with the panic of awareness.  It was dark. She was alone. And she was dying.

“Paul, help!”

“I’m here,” she heard. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Then something was cool on her forehead. On her cheeks. On her neck.  And she could almost breathe.

She heard drips of water, loud and grating, but then it was cool and wet again on her skin. She opened her mouth but it was dust dry, and she didn’t have breath enough to speak.

Then something cool and wet was in her mouth, dribbling down her chin. She swallowed instinctively and felt the water as it made its way down her aching throat.

She wanted more so she groped for it, but someone else’s hand was on the bottle, someone else’s hand was on the back of her head, tilting it up so she could drink.

When she’d had as much as she could, she pushed the water away. Then the hand lowered her head back down, and she tossed her head frantically on the pillow because it was just too hot.

Then she felt that coolness on her skin again. And fingers were pushing loose strands of hair off her face, making it cooler at her hairline too.

And she could breathe.

The world was a whirl of heat and pain, but at least she could breathe again.

* * *

She was on fire.

She was surrounded by fire. Her house was on fire, and she was inside it.

She wasn’t supposed to be inside it.

The fire was hot, scorching her, killing her.

Panic overwhelmed her—she wasn’t supposed to be in the house when it burned down—and she jerked up into a sitting position, trying to explain that the house burning down was just a warning. Vincent Marino had purposefully waited until there was no one home.

She said that she and her aunt had already left the house. They’d gone to a movie that evening. The theater would be dark and cool.

He lied to her. Paul must have lied to her. She was angry because she trusted him. He’d told her he would protect her, and then he’d let her and her aunt die.

She tried to move, tried to get out of the fire by herself, without anyone's help. But now something was holding her back. There were hands on her, and she couldn’t get away. She couldn’t move. She screamed at them to let her go.

Paul had lied to her. She had trusted him. And he’d let her down.

Her aunt was lost in the fire. And now the fire had her too.

She told them this—anyone who was listening. She yelled it at them so they would hear. And she struggled to get out of the strong, imprisoning hands.

But she couldn’t get them off her. And then it was worse.

The hands were picking her up, carrying her deeper into the fire, away from the movie theater where she wanted to go. Whoever had her was just as hot as the fire, just as strong, just as unrelenting.

She screamed and writhed to get away, but she couldn’t.

And then something happened. Something changed. She was surrounded, submerged in something cool. It covered her body, up to her neck, and it washed the fire away.

The hands were still there. They were still strong and unrelenting. And they were still in control of her body.

But it was okay. She told them it was okay.

Because at least the fire was gone.

* * *

Emily’s body was one overwhelming ache, but it felt like her mind had pierced through a thick fog. Each thought pained her, but there was something significant about being able to think at all.

She tossed restlessly under the sheets because she was so hot and uncomfortable. In the process, she became aware of something strange.

She was naked for some reason.

Her hair was wet, and it was sticking to her neck and face. She didn’t like it. Even her pillow seemed hotly damp.

She heard a muffled voice, coming from outside the room.

She didn’t immediately know who it was or what it meant.

“There’s got to be something more I can do for her,” the voice said. It was rough in a way she didn’t understand. “The last time I checked it was 104.7⁰. She was delirious—I could barely control her.”

She kicked her legs and punched her pillow, hoping it would cool things down. The voice was grating on her, and she wished it would stop. The thickness in the tone made something inside her hurt even more.

“I did that. I did everything. I put her in a tepid bath, like you’d suggested, and it seemed to help settle her down for now. But it’s just a temporary fix. What if she becomes delirious again? I can’t believe we don’t have medication that can better bring a fever down.”

The voice stopped again, and she thought maybe it was gone for good.

But it wasn’t. “Okay. Okay. I’ll call you if her fever spikes again.”

Then something clicked in Emily’s mind.

Paul. His name was Paul.

It was Paul’s voice she heard.

Poor Paul. She wished he wasn’t so upset.

* * *

It was dark in the room when Emily opened her eyes.

And her body—blessedly—didn’t hurt.

She wasn’t hot. She was actually a little chilly, and she felt sore and exhausted. But she realized her fever must be gone because she felt so incredibly better.

She dared to move her head to the side, and her eyes landed on the clock. It said 3:47. It was dark in the room, so it must be the middle of the night.

She had no idea what day it was. She was so hungry it felt like her stomach was trying to gnaw its way out of her body.

Feeling even more daring, she rolled onto her side, and she realized for the first time that she wasn’t alone in the room.

Paul was slouched in the chair—that same chair where he’d been sitting the last time she’d been aware of seeing him. Except this time he wasn’t watching her.

He was asleep.

He was slumped down in the seat, his legs stretched out in front of him. He wore the same black trousers he’d been wearing before, but now he had on a gray t-shirt. His head was tilted to the side, resting against the back of the chair, and his chest rose and fell slowly with his breathing.

She wondered how long he’d been sitting there. It was so strange to see him asleep.

In addition to the hunger, Emily became aware of another major discomfort in her body.

She needed to get to the bathroom right away.

She tried to sit up and was thrilled when her head didn’t spin. She felt incredibly weak, but no hot flashes or bone-deep aches.

She drank a quick gulp of water because her mouth was so dry. Then she started to stand up.

She gasped when she realized she was naked.

She seemed to know vaguely that Paul had been forced to give her a bath, which must explain what happened to her clothes, but she was still horribly self-conscious about the idea of his seeing her naked, especially under such conditions, when she’d been so sick and so entirely helpless.

She pushed the self-consciousness aside, however. Peeing was more important. She found her tank, panties, and shorts on the floor near the bed, and she managed to grab them and pull them on.

She swayed a little when she first stood up, but it was from weakness, not from dizziness. After a moment, she was stable enough to walk to the bathroom.

She felt much better after she’d gone, and then she felt even better when she splashed water on her face.

Her hair was a wreck—the two ponytails were lopsided and half undone with tangles lining the sides of her face.

She pulled out the elastics and brushed her hair, and it felt incredibly good. She pulled it back into little low ponytails again, since her hair was kinked in horrible ways from water and perspiration.

Feeling almost revived, she started to leave the bathroom. Gave a gasp of shock when she collided with Paul.

“Are you all right?” he demanded, taking her shoulders gently in his hands to stabilize her.

She managed to smile at him. “Yeah. I’m better.”

Something tense in his expression relaxed in a rush of relief, and the sight of that relief touched Emily deeply.

So deeply she raised a hand to her chest, since it hurt so much.

“What day is it?” she asked, to distract herself and because she really wanted to know.

“It’s just early Monday morning. You were sick for about twenty hours. You really feel all right now?” He put a hand on her forehead to check.

She couldn’t begrudge the gesture. She couldn’t resent it like she normally did. And she returned his smile when he realized she was no longer feverish.

“I know it’s a bad time,” she said, “but I’m about to starve to death.”

He gave a huff of amusement and put an arm around her waist to help her back to the bed. She didn’t need his support, but she didn’t pull away. “Get back in bed, and I’ll go find you something. I actually haven’t had much to eat either.”

She wondered if he'd had anything to eat at all.

She crawled back into bed, and lying down actually felt really good. So did the soup, evidently warmed up in the microwave, and the sandwich Paul brought into the room for her.

He ate in his chair, and she ate propped on her bed. They didn’t talk much, but Emily enjoyed it.

As Paul was collecting the dishes, Emily said, “Now I’m going back to sleep. Please go take a shower and get some sleep yourself. You look terrible.”

He did look terrible. He was pale, his hair stuck out in all directions, and there were shadows under his eyes. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw, and he smelled like he could really use a shower.

He promised he would, and he reached over one more time to feel her forehead.

“I’m really fine now, Paul. Thanks….” Her voice cracked on the word. She was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude and mortification both.

She hated to be helpless. And she particularly hated that it was Paul who had witnessed her so helpless.

But he must have been with her the whole time, trying so hard to take care of her.

“Thank you so much,” she managed to say, taking a breath and babbling a little from her weakness and self-consciousness. “I really appreciate all you did for me. I never expected it. I mean, it wasn’t something I would have thought of as your responsibility. I knew, when I got sicker, that I would need a nurse or something. But I never expected that you would do all of it yourself. So it means a lot. I mean, I didn’t know you would be…be here the whole time.”

She finally broke herself off, realizing with a flush of heat what an absolute ditz she’d sounded. Maybe she could blame it on the fever.

Paul had just been watching her quietly. She couldn’t really read his expression. Before he turned to leave the room, he said, “Where else would I be?”