AN: Love to happymelt, who tirelessly betas this story, and to faireyfan and midsouthmama, who preread—I'm so lucky. Thanks for reading, everyone!

Playlist: Slow Show by the National

Chapter 20: Woods Lovely Dark and Deep

By the middle of December, winter had taken root in Clearwater. From my classroom window I could see the groomed sidewalks crisscrossing the small snow-filled clearing between the library and the student activities building. Students scurried in and out, holding their arms tight against their coats, keeping their hands tucked inside pockets. They rushed to meet friends, to retrieve packages mailed from home, to buy tea and ramen noodles for those very cold days when even the promise of social interaction couldn't tempt them out of their residence halls. A relatively sunny day earlier in the week had brought the students out to play, and they had left behind clusters of snowmen and a rudimentary igloo in the town square.

Now that Thanksgiving had passed, everyone was fixated on the end of the semester. Students would be leaving town in either one or two more weeks, depending on whether they were sitting for exams. The campus would empty out and partially shut down for the long break.

I was counting the days—not because I was escaping to warmer weather, but because I was staying. To hear the Cullens talk, the atmosphere in Clearwater changed dramatically during long breaks when the majority of the students were gone. Townspeople would flock to restaurants that were normally too crowded with rowdy young people. Faculty who stayed in town would congregate at one another's homes for leisurely dinners.

While my students worked in pairs on their final project outlines, I mapped out my calendar for the next few weeks. Phil planned a celebration—not a memorial, everyone insisted—on Renee's birthday in late January, and I'd be going to Phoenix for that. Since I'd just been back to Chicago, that added up to a lot of travel, so I'd decided to spend the holidays here. And anyway, I wanted to be with Edward.

His installation would be opening soon after New Year's. Emily had passed along rumors that Clearwater's two small inns were already booked solid with art enthusiasts and critics from as far away as New York and Los Angeles.

I sometimes entertained myself with imagining what Edward was making out at the installation site day in and day out. He would come over to my house for lunch, his clothes spattered with red translucent lacquer and blobs of paraffin or smelling like metal from the welding torch. It was on a welding day that I pulled him into me in the pantry and wrapped my body around his, coaxing him to fuck me standing up against the doorjamb, our half-eaten sandwiches abandoned next to glasses of milk beading with condensation in the warm room. I could smell the peanut butter on his breath.

His body was changing, his lean muscles turning bulkier. Whatever he was working on, it was heavy, hard labor—particularly since coming home from Thanksgiving. He asked Jasper's advice about some stretching and strengthening exercises he could do every night to lessen the risk of injury. I liked massaging his fingers and hands. I liked the gentle, humming sighs it brought out of him.

"Professor Swan?"

"Hmm—yes, Eric?" My attention snapped back to the class in front of me.

"Do you prefer MLA style for citations?"

"Oh, yes. It's a good habit if you plan to go on to grad school, you know." Daydreaming time over, I had the students hand in their project outlines and launched into our group discussion of the assigned readings.

~.~.~.~.~.~.

As soon as class was over, I bundled up for my short walk home. The snow was crusty and wet today; it was different every day of the week. I especially loved the feeling of coming in from outside—and greeting visitors as they came in. There was the ritual stomping of snowy boots at the threshold; the shedding of coats, mittens, hats, and scarves; the airing out of damp clothing above the radiators.

Edward's glasses would fog up—he didn't wear his contacts on days he was welding—and I would take them from him and set them on the mantle, and he would bring his face closer to mine first to see me, then to kiss me, and I'd press my warm skin against his cool pink cheeks.

We would heat up apple cider and huddle together on the couch and read, or do the crossword together, or laugh at dumb videos on YouTube. We'd fallen into a routine of spending weeknights at my cozy little place, close to town and the family. Alice would bake and bring pies and cookies over, or Edward and I would bring whiskey over to her place for hot toddies, or we'd all head over to Carlisle and Esme's for soup and scrabble. Every few nights Emmett would bake fresh bread. Weekends we spent at Edward's, hiding away from the world and stretching our limbs in the wide-open, light-filled space. Winter was just as I'd hoped.

I felt that way until Sunday, at least…or maybe I should say Friday, when the sequence of events that led to my predicament was set in motion.

We were at Edward's, winding down after an early stir-fry dinner. I paged through poetry collections online looking for something to read at Renee's celebration get-together. I kept coming back to Robert Frost, but I wasn't convinced yet. It didn't quite feel right.

Edward, meanwhile, read the galleys of my book, which was being published by an academic press. It wasn't a big deal—I'd be happy if a few dozen college libraries ordered copies—but it was the type of publishing that made it more likely that I'd be offered a permanent position. I knew by now that was what I wanted.

The working title was still Privacy and the Construction of Intimacy, but I had the option to change it. Edward amused himself and me by proposing alternative titles, most of them playing up the link I made between privacy, candor, and healthy psychosexuality.

"I'm leaning toward The Secret Garden: How to Cultivate and Harvest a Lifetime Supply of Kink. What do you think?"

"Maybe. That sure would look nice on the shelf next to Foucault's Discipline and Punish." Joking about postmodern theory never got old.

"Maybe something more along the lines of Your Sacred Treasure—and BTW, I Don't Mean your Cooch." That made me giggle. He never used the word cooch.

He set the book down and reached to pull my legs onto his lap. One of his wrists was wrapped in an ace bandage, bracing muscles he'd twisted awkwardly while working with heavy materials on a ladder. "I'm just finishing your chapter on teenagers and diaries."

I closed my laptop and shifted to face him on the couch. This was what he and I had talked about in my kitchen that fateful night months ago: the observation that, in cultures where young people were allowed a secure sense of privacy from puberty onward, they also tended to develop good voluntary communication skills. I had read some pretty enlightening diaries from over the decades during my research.

"Ah. Good times. The formative years."

"I promise I'm not just reading it for the parts that have to do with sex…but since it's there..." he slipped a hand around one of my ankles, "I like the idea that you have fantasies you haven't told me about yet."

I grabbed the book and pretended to search the page. "Is that in there? I thought I cut those paragraphs."

He laughed and took the book from my hands, setting it down. "No, you don't say it in so many words, but you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. I feel the same way." I worked my hand inside his sweater sleeve, gently massaging his forearm and wrist through his ace bandage. I watched his face for any signal that I was pressing too hard. "Will you tell me one? What's something that turns you on that I don't know about?"

"Oh, God, where do I even begin?" He laughed and rolled his head back against the sofa cushion. "You must know by now I light up like a pinball machine at the stupidest stuff."

He bent his head toward me. The feeling of his face in the crook of my neck, his breath and lips, was familiar to me now, but the thrill never faded. It was like my own personal on button.

"If people didn't get turned on by stupid stuff, the human race would die out. Just give me a 'for example'."

"Okay. Here's one. Today when we were walking back to campus after lunch, you looked so cute in your puffy coat and mittens and everything, with your pink cheeks…don't laugh! I had the impulse to just pull you into the snow bank and go at it on the spot."

"In broad daylight?"

He raised his eyebrows. "That's your objection? Daylight? Not, I don't know, being pantless in the snow?"

I glanced down at what I was wearing—a long, loose wool skirt warm enough for winter. "I never said it was an objection."

He looked at me, searching my face warily. This was how this worked. I asked him to tell me something private, and I needed to let him feel safe answering me. And anyhow, I kind of liked the idea. So I kept talking.

"Do you think it's something about the spontaneous on-the-spot aspect? Or is it the winter gear? Maybe you just want me wearing more clothes." I felt a tickle deep in my abdomen when his eyes crinkled with laughter. "That's it, isn't it? I wish I could just get her to be less naked." I made myself laugh, mimicking the deep timbre of his voice.

He laughed—a throaty, rumbling sound. "That is definitely not it. I think it's the cold-hot thing. The contrast. I have this image of…well, seeing your breath when you come."

Now I had the same image, only of him. I looked at him for a moment. His skin was flushed just above the collar of his sweater, and his eyes had that dark, flinty gleam. I swallowed. "Jesus, Edward."

I looked out the window. The evening sky was clear and bright, and a thick layer of smooth snow extended from one end of Edward's field to the other.

"Let's go. Put on your snowboarding pants."

"What, really? Isn't it too cold?"

"It's not that cold. It's clear, too. I think the stars will be really beautiful." I was already ransacking the outerwear basket for a pair of thigh-high leg warmers to pull on under my skirt, which earned a nod of approval.

Soon we were slogging through the ankle-deep snow in our heavy boots, making snow angels, and admiring the gleam of moonlight all around us. I rolled on top of him and arranged a little pillow of hard-packed snow for his head to rest against. He was smiling crookedly even before I sat up and tugged the layers of my long, loose skirt out from in between us.

"What do you think? We can always go back inside if it's not working. And…I don't want to reinjure your arm."

He shook his head. "Not a concern."

He sat up, half-kneeling in the snow, and I straddled him. There was some logistical maneuvering.

"Those pants are waterproof, right?"

"Um, in theory. When they're…when they're buttoned, yes."

"Are you getting snow in your crack?"

"Sort of. A little. Don't worry, it feels good. That's a hot area." I was glad he could laugh at himself. It was strange feeling so little skin-to-skin contact. It made me notice his face more. That and his fingertips poking out of the ends of fingerless gloves.

He leaned in to warm my face with his, breathing onto my skin. Like I always did when he was this close to me, I turned it into a kiss, relishing his response, feeling every little grunt and the clicking of our teeth.

"You really want to try this?"

I nodded. I felt his cold fingertips graze my inner thigh, and I yelped.

"Sorry. What is—are you wearing underwear?"

"Oh, I forgot!" My hand flew to cover my mouth and the giggles pouring out of it.

"Swan. That's poor planning." He snickered, half in frustration, nipping at my earlobe. "There's no way I'll get them off over your boots."

"Which ones are they?"

"I feel a little ribbon thing at the front. They're those purple ones."

"Oh, I don't care about those. Can you tear them off or something?"

"Yeah, nice try. It's a pretty strong seam."

"What about, just…push it to the side?" His fingers were warmer now, and I was getting hotter, trembling with nervous energy.

"Um, okay." He took his hands out from under me and whipped off his half-gloves. In an instant I felt his fingers again, tugging at the fabric of my underwear, and then the head of his cock, hard and silky and warm. My breath caught—it always did—knowing he would feel how much I wanted him. He exhaled sharply.

"Oh, that feels good." I lifted up a few inches to help out, leaning back on my mittened hands in the snow. "Is that working?"

"I think so. Oh…God." That would be a yes. A definite yes. A cloud of misty air puffed out of his gaping mouth.

"Uhh." As I adjusted to feeling him inside me, I could see his face was flushed, beads of sweat forming at his hairline. I pushed the fleece-lined hood of his heavy coat back and watched vapor rise.

"Is that okay?" He had his bandaged hand pressed against my back, the other working its way up and down my upper thigh, between my underwear and my wooly leg warmers. "So soft."

Something about the situation made me feel like a furtive teenager, stealing opportunities for privacy with no regard for comfort. I'd never even done that when I was a teenager. All in all, it wasn't anything for the record books—I missed the feeling of his skin, and it frustrated me—but it was fun and different, and it felt good to laugh with him.

There was a moment where a shadowy expression passed over his face—a flicker of a memory. A different hour on a different wintery night spent immobilized on that dreadful footbridge, I imagined. The moon would have been just this bright, the snow just this fresh. That should have occurred to me. I chucked off my mittens and splayed my fingers across his face, holding eye contact with him.

"Hey. Come back. Edward." He nodded, drawing in a deep breath. His eyes sharpened, his focus back in the present now. "We can go inside at any time. We can do whatever you want."

He was sweating. I plunged my hands into the snow and came up with a dripping handful. As I packed it into my palm and pressed it to his pulsing, exposed neck, he gasped and rolled his head back. A tiny rivulet of melted snow tricked down his throat, and I caught it with my tongue, sweet and cool and salty with sweat. I wove my wet hand into his hair and felt him shudder. He twisted his head to reach my wrist with his lips and teeth. His skin was hot under my cool hands, and he grew harder inside me as I grazed his face with more fresh snow, following the trail of wetness with my mouth. Abruptly, he seized my head in his hands and pressed his face close, binding his mouth to mine with a bruising kiss that I felt in my spine. He finally lifted his head with a gasp.

"Bella, I need to be inside. Indoors, I mean. I can't come like this; I keep thinking you're cold. I'm gonna stand up. Hold my pants up while I walk, okay?"

I did. He eased out of me and cupped my ass with his good arm, lifting me with him as he stood. I wrapped my legs around his torso as we shuffled inside. We made it as far as his ground-level workshop, where he sat me on a wooden table, laid me back, and reached up to pull the chain on a hanging light bulb. In the arcs of shadow and light swinging back and forth, he stripped off my boots and leg warmers.

He cursed under his breath when my legs were bare, smoothing his hands and mouth along my skin urgently. He drew his thumbs up the backs of my thighs, pausing to massage the backs of my knees, to palm my calves, easing my legs up until they rested on his shoulders.

His face, framed between my ankles, was on fire with need. He peeled my purple underwear up my legs and off, groaning when he reconnected with me, every last barrier finally gone. Then he was openly frantic, unrelenting, taking us both to the edge and over it, our voices echoing strangely in the concrete room. He bent over my body and brushed sawdust away from my face, easing me out of my coat, lifting me into his arms, whispering my name into my hair.

~.~.~.~.~.~.

On Saturday night, I felt a few sniffles and a tickle in my throat. I took a zinc tablet immediately and drank some hot water with an Emergen-C packet dissolved in it, but by Sunday afternoon I had a full-fledged cold.

I made a run to the Pick-n-Save and was perusing their paltry medicine shelf when Edward texted me with a weather report. He was out at Sam's picking up materials for his installation.

Edward: BIG WINTER STORM COMING.

I glanced toward the store window. It was definitely snowing.

A second text came in.

Edward: PLEASE DON'T DRIVE.

Well, there was no getting around at least a little bit of driving.

Me: AM RUNNING ERRANDS NOW. I HAVE SEEN SNOW BEFORE, JSYK

Edward: THIS ISN'T LIKE IN CHICAGO. I HAVE SAM'S TRUCK IN CASE WE NEED ANYTHING. I'LL COME GET YOU.

Me: THAT'S EXTRA TRIPS. AND WITH YOUR ARM? NOT NECESSARY.

Edward: YOU HAVE GOOD TIRES ON THAT TRUCK BUT NOT A SNOWPLOW

Why was I fighting him on this? I considered just asking him to pick me up some Robitussin at the pharmacy, but I knew he would freak out about me getting a cold from romping in the snow. He'd feel responsible.

Me: AND YOU DO?

Edward: YES

Oh. Right, Sam's truck. I sighed.

Me: OK, HEADING HOME TO BEAT THE WORST OF IT. XO

And I did intend to head straight home. I really did…until I started coughing so hard my throat felt raw before I even got out of the parking lot. It had been a while since coughing fits could do real damage to my lungs, but they scared me. I needed to take something, and these Pick-n-Save cough drops weren't helping. I calculated the distance to the pharmacy—only a half-mile out of the way—and decided it was worth the risk to save Edward having to make a special trip with his injured arm. That was what I told myself, at least. I called Carlisle on the way there for a recommendation, and he offered to phone in a prescription for cough suppressant with codeine.

Picking up the prescription wasn't a problem. It was getting back to Edward's that threw me off course—literally. The wind whipped at my truck and blew drifts of snow clear across the road. How did it accumulate so fast? A small line of cars built up, which was unheard of in Clearwater. Up ahead, flashing lights indicated some type of problem, and soon I saw the trail of cars was being redirected off of Main Street. According to the patrolman directing traffic, fallen trees and branches were common with the first big windy snowstorm of a season. I'd have to take the long way around.

That might have worked, except that I started coughing again, and my teary-eyed vision combined with the blustery snow meant I needed to drive at a snail's pace. I was suddenly uncertain just how long this detour would be. My chest tightened, which pained the muscles around my ribs. I finally gave in and groped for my phone to call Edward, only to find there was no signal.

I looked longingly at the package beside me on the seat, knowing that I couldn't take anything while driving. By now, my head was pounding. How long had I been out and about? The phone showed about an hour since Edward's last text. Crap. He was going to be pissed. I searched around the truck for an old napkin to cough into and found a package of Kleenex in my glove box along with some granola bars, a small flashlight, and a pair of road flares I had never seen before. Edward.

Suddenly, I saw a sign for Cranbrook Road. I knew that road. I pulled over to the shoulder and rummaged for my map, confirming that this road led back to Edward's. It did, and it would cut miles off of my detour. But what if there were trees down on this road, too? It wasn't blocked off...and in the worst-case scenario, I imagined I could get home on foot. Home? To his home. Whatever.

I should have seen the signs of what was happening to me. Between finding my way on these vaguely familiar roads and my distracting and painful cough—not to mention stubbornness about taking care of myself in the snow—I wasn't thinking clearly, or I never would have turned down that side road. I never would have found myself, moments later, spinning my wheels in a snow bank, angled somewhere between the road and the shoulder. I never would have made the decision to walk forward a full mile into the woods, instead of back a half mile toward the main road. And I never would have decided to down a mouthful—more or less—of narcotic-laced cough medicine midway through my long march.

I remember standing between two large trees to get a break from the relentless icy wind. I remember taking careful steps, finding the driest spots, avoiding slippery rocks and branches, then later simply plowing through the sludge indiscriminately, propelling myself forward with brute force. I remember cursing my decision to ever leave Phoenix. I remember sitting down on a log for a long while. A vision of Edward's face in the snowy moonlight on Friday night came to me—the flash of haunted panic in his eyes. Then Robert Frost: I have promises to keep. I rose again and trudged forward. Then snow-blindness. A curious numbness in my hands.

The next thing I was aware of was the column of light spilling out from Edward's doorway, Edward pressing a phone to his backlit head. "Oh, thank Christ. She's here. I'll call you back."

His heavy footsteps on the stairs. Why couldn't I find the steps? Why couldn't I lift my foot?

"Goddammit, B. What happened to coming straight home?"

He got closer, and he made a softer prop to lean on than the wall. I couldn't focus on his face. Oh, he was warm. He was hot. But why so frowny?

"Oh, shit. Shit, shit. Baby, you're gonna be okay. What the fuck did you do?" I felt myself being lifted into the air. "Put your arms around my neck. Can you lift them? No? Oh, fucking hell."

I heard a strange mumbling noise. My own voice, but not the words I was trying to say. Don't be mad was what I meant. The coughing began again—a sharp sound that should have alarmed me but only sounded foreign. I was a little bit fascinated. Then I was inside the loft, my cold and wet outerwear being peeled off of me. I must have stepped into a puddle. Something.

A warm blanket was around me. He was on the phone again. I heard words here and there. Frostbite. I think a panic attack. Yeah—how warm? Now the sound of water pouring into the bathtub. He rummaged in my coat, pulling my prescription bottle out. No, not much at all. Maybe an ounce or two. I don't know.

I started to lie down on the floor. Suddenly his face was close to mine again. "Bella? Don't go to sleep. You need to tell me if there was an accident. Were you driving on these meds? Did you hit your head at all?"

He ran his fingers all around my head, checking for bumps or cuts. His hands were shaking.

I shook my head. "No. It was…just a whole lotta snow. Cranbrook?" He cringed, picturing the shortcut I'd tried to take, then turned stoic again, covering his mouth. "So I walked. That's when I took it. Um, it's for coughing. Recommended." Based on the way he was nodding, I was pretty sure I got most of that out the way I intended.

When he spoke again, it was into the phone. "No. I don't think she hit her head…um, no, don't try. The roads…yeah, I'll call again."

My jeans and socks were being peeled off of me. My sweater and thermal followed. My limbs were like heavy blocks of flesh attached to my body. He hesitated a second before delicately stripping off my underwear and bra, rolling his eyes at me when I made some sort of strange whistling noise.

"Come on, focus. Work with me here. It's not hot, but it's going to feel hot, okay? Just for a minute."

As soon as my feet touched the water, I recoiled, but he was supporting my full weight. Water splashed onto his flannel shirt. "All the way in. It's the only way to keep your circulation even."

Once I was sitting in the tub, wincing, he pulled his arms out. He was soaked to the elbows. I watched him unravel his wet ace bandage and strip off his flannel.

He knelt next to the tub in his jeans and undershirt, warming his hands in the water before pressing them to my face. My teeth were chattering, but my toes and fingers burned.

"It's good that it burns, sweetie. I know it hurts. If they stayed numb, it might mean serious frostbite."

I realized the droning noise I kept hearing was my own voice, but I didn't have any idea what I might be saying. I mumbled something and tried to pull his face close to mine. He looked so warm and soft to me.

He shook his head, pulling back. He continued scooping warm water onto my head and hair. "Stop it. Yes, I am angry with you. We'll talk about it later. Can you wiggle your toes?"

I wiggled. He let out a huff of air and turned the tap on again, filling the tub with warmer water. It felt good.

He stood and switched on the gas fireplace, sending a wall of warm air toward me, and then he was on the phone again, pacing.

"I don't think she has frostbite. Just frostnip. But now she keeps talking about a DNR." He looked my way. I scowled. "Still kind of delirious. No, she's saying…'you shouldn't have tried to protect me' and 'no more coughing now'. And something about a DNR, lifting a DNR?"

He was quiet for a few moments. Listening. His eyes were on the floor.

"Well, I don't know what's worse. Bella having a DNR order or her mother not having one. I mean, fuck it, I do know what's worse, and I'm glad it's not an issue. She's not in any danger whatsoever. I mean, right? Can you just…tell me again, Carlisle?"

I was starting to feel the haze lift. I was feeling the raw burn in my throat and soreness in my ribs again. Beneath that, my heart ached. What had I done?

~.~.~.~.~.~.

After a twenty-minute bath, my delirium had given way to sheepishness. My toes and fingers hurt like hell, my chest rattled, and I had some new issues about Renee to contend with, apparently. Worst of all, I had let Edward down.

He held up a big bath towel and helped me out of the tub, discreetly checking my skin tone while he patted me dry. He enveloped me in a big pair of flannel pajamas and his terry cloth robe, which wrapped around me almost twice. I had a vision of myself as a plush animal in a double-breasted suit.

He had remade the bed with clean, soft white sheets while I took my bath, and he tucked me under them and a heavy down comforter. I was too exhausted to protest when he retreated to the front hall, taking his phone with him. I fell asleep.

~.~.~.~.~.~.

When I woke up again, all the lights were out, but the fireplace was still blazing. Edward was lying atop the blankets beside me, still wearing his clothes. He stared straight up at the ceiling.

I twisted around to face him, groaning at the pain in my chest and ribs. I noticed four of my fingers were bandaged, the 'flesh-colored' Band-Aids standing out against my red, cracked skin. Edward brought an arm around me but didn't move his eyes from up above. Shadows flickered on the ceiling.

"I'm sorry that you're so sick. And I'm sorry you got stuck in the snow and had to walk a mile in the storm. But I'm still upset with you, and I don't understand why you didn't just tell me what you needed. I have this exact fucking prescription in my medicine cabinet."

I nodded into his shoulder, and he turned his head to look at me.

"I thought we were finished with this business about me being overprotective. I know you're a capable person. But these storms are fucking serious. I need to know that you hear me."

"I know. I didn't mean it like that, really. It was impossibly stupid of me…I just didn't expect it to get so bad so fast. It got out of control. Then the cars were all detoured, and then I thought I could take a shortcut…and I guess I was having an anxiety attack. And after what happened with Tanya—"

"No." He sat up and drew his knees to his chest, pressing on his eyelids with both hands. "Like hell. Don't even fucking say it! It would have been a hundred times worse, Bella. Infinity times worse. I mean no disrespect to her, but it's the truth. Have you heard me say that I love you? That I am in love with you?"

"I did. I do. But…" I broke off, wracked with a coughing fit. Edward helped me sit up alongside him. He started rubbing my back.

"But what?"

I took a deep breath. "I was afraid to tell you I had a little cold because I thought you would blame yourself. And—"

"Well, you know what? I would have. Actually, I do—now. But you would rather lie to me?"

"I didn't think of it like that. I wanted to tell you, just…after it was under control. But then it turned into a worse cold."

"Bella, you've always been honest with me. It's so important to me. You have no idea."

"I didn't want you to have a negative association after being so open about what you want to explore in our sex life."

"So, you hid your cold from me—and nearly lost some fingers and toes—because you don't want me to cut you off cold turkey from doing it in the snow?" That got an uncomfortable laugh out of me.

"You know what I mean."

"Can't we talk these things through?" He shook his head, his forehead creasing. "Don't start metering out honesty with me. We can't be honest and forthcoming with one another about sex and not about everything else. It doesn't work that way."

I blew my nose and threw the tissue into a trashcan near the bed. "I'm sorry. I agree with you, and…I'm sorry."

He wrapped both arms around me and rested his chin on my head. "I'm not going to kiss you—but only because your germs terrify me."

I laughed, feeling heartened by the conversation. He tightened my blanket around me and cleared his throat. "Um, there's something else."

"What is it?"

"You kept talking about some sort of 'Do Not Resuscitate' order. While you were delirious."

I nodded.

"Well, it freaked me out, so I called your dad."

I shifted to face him. "You called Charlie?" That was the call he had made from the front hall.

"I just didn't know. Honestly, I envisioned taking you to the E.R. and them refusing to treat you or something. I thought it was a DNR for you, and I wanted to get it torn up. I don't know how it works."

"Well, I don't have that type of order on file. And anyway, that's not how it works. It only applies to certain very specific life-prolonging measures and situations." I decided now was not the time to mention that only a patient can 'tear up' a DNR. That's the whole point of one, in fact.

He nodded. "Charlie explained to me about your mom not having a DNR. You've mentioned this to me before…but I didn't know she had one and retracted it."

I shook my head. "She did it because it was me donating the lung. She thought she should fight extra hard to stay alive, I guess, to show me she was grateful."

"Why didn't you write about it in your journal?"

"I skipped over some things. You'll see some gaps if you look. It was…too hard."

He cocked his head to the side and clasped my hands in his. We were facing each other now, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Well, Charlie says something different about that DNR."

I sighed. I had heard his theory.

"He says she was just scared, babe. He says she saw how confident the surgeons were, and she wanted to feel just as confident, so she got rid of anything associated with the possibility of failure."

I would never forget the faces of those surgeons. I'd had confidence in them; we all did. And as far as I knew, they did everything in their power to help her—before, during, after. They had tried to talk her back into the DNR, with proper reasoning and professionalism. But she insisted.

Edward sighed, massaging my shoulders. "I don't want to press the issue. But…I worry that you…did the most loving thing possible and wound up feeling like the outcome didn't have the effect you hoped for. Talk about negative associations."

I had no response to that. Not the effect I'd hoped for. It had shattered me and everyone involved. I just nodded, looking down at the crumple of blankets between us.

"Just don't be reluctant to let the people you love, and who love you, know that you need help." He stroked a hand over my hair. "I mean…me. You won't hurt me by letting me help. That will never, ever hurt me."

I nodded again. "Maybe I am reluctant. I don't want to be, but I am."

"Well, you know how I feel. What I'm asking."

I lay down again, pulling him under my blanket. "I know. I'll try to be more aware of it. I am trying. You're so good to me."

He got up for a moment to switch off the fireplace and kick off his jeans, then lay back down and curled around me in his boxers and undershirt. I felt like the squishy center of a snail, and he was my shell.

He hummed into the back of my neck. "I'm just getting rolling, baby. I can be so much better if you let me."

I fell asleep contemplating that. Like so much about Edward, it scared and thrilled me. For the first time since moving to Clearwater, I dreamed of Phoenix—the desert, blooming cactus fields, red dust roads, and my mother.

~.~.~.~.~.~.