Rose; Two months later...

Rose stood at the foot of the beach at Santa Monica, staring off into the magnificent Pacific Ocean. It was a marvelous wonder to her, for she knew it was not the sea that was haunted--atleast not by the R.M.S. Titanic, anyway. She could barely feel her heart beating, with the wind brush against her long, scarlet hair. She was finally making peace with the world after two wild months of misery and recovery from the tragedy that had happened to her and her dearest Jack.

"Come Josephine in my flying machine..." she sang quietly, with a grin attached to her soft, now tanned face. "Going up, up she goes, up she goes..."

Suddenly, a spasm spread across her stomach. She felt a sudden flash of nausea, and feeling like she was about to vomit, she put herself down on the sand. Panting heavily, she remembered a car with love, and Jack mixed in with the scene. Her eyes widened more than they ever would in normal circumstances. "No, no, no, I can't be pregnant!"

Rose got up, and ran towards the boardwalk, where there would be a bar awaiting her arrival. She did not know what was good for her at the time, but all she knew was that she wanted a drink--and a strong one at that. She continued to run as fast as she did back when she was on the verge of killing herself on her lovely ship of dreams. Drinking seemed to have been the only thing that could solve her problems at that moment.

Please, Rose thought, this cannot be happening! But Jack... what would he think? What would he do?" Rose clasped her hands onto her pink face, and carelessly toppled into the bar, feeling as though she was already drinking heavily. "Oh, please, just give me the strongest thing you have!" she said to the blonde bartender, who was standing up with his head facing down.

"Please, I beg of you," she gasped desperately, placing a couple of dollars in front of her. She carefully sat herself down onto the stool nearest to the bartender, and banged her head on the table.

"What are we talking, a Suicide?" said the bartender with his polite, lovely voice. "You know, banging your head on the table won't do you too good. A woman as beautiful as you are should not be doing such things as trying to drink your heart out in front of a Chippewa Falls Dawson known as myself. It's bad for you, you know."

Chippewa Falls Dawsons. The words just kept on popping up in her head over and over again. Maybe she had finally found exactly what she was looking for, but she had to be sure. "W-who are you?" Rose asked with a startled look in her eyes as she picked her head up from the bar. Amazingly enough, she did see exactly who she had least expected to see.

"Why, I am Jack Dawson, and you are Rose DeWitt Bukater."

Jack...

Apparently, after the two months of going through extensive recovery from the "boat problem," Jack had finally had the courage to find his dear Rose for once. His first stop was at his home in Chippewa Falls, where he greeted friends, and told them he was embarking on a great journey to find the woman of his dreams. Then, his second stop was coincidentally at a bar at Santa Monica, where he had gotten a good paying job, just so that he could get enough money to buy another book of paper again.

It was the fourteenth of June--exactly two months after the sinking of the Titanic--and Jack was psyched to set up the bar that afternoon in order to serve the early customers. His heart, however, was torn in half, for he still had not found Rose DeWitt Bukater. Then again, that would not prevent him from fullfilling his ambtion to find her, let alone his ambition to do his job. However, he missed his old job... sketching people for ten cents a piece. Even though the pay was horrid, he still missed the experiences. Yet, without Rose around, he figured he may as well wait until he would find the love of his life.

"Come Josephine on my flying machine..." Jack sang quietly as he polished the glasses behind the counter. The costumers slowly began to come in, one by one, one by one. Some people were the regular people he would usually see, like Frank George and Paul Tulane. As though he had grown accustomed to doing so, he gave a wave to each costumer as they came in, and the orders piled on immediately.

"Ale, vodka, scotch--people demand for so much," Jack sighed, as he filled three glasses in front of him with strong, Irish ale--the exact same ale he had drunk the day he had introduced Rose to a real party. Sighing, he figured that it was not the time for him to be thinking of Rose, for it was time to serve drinks.

However, the next thing he knew, Jack's eyes had trailed off into a different direction. There she was, a radiant young woman with hair so red that it seemed as though it was on fire. He figured that since she had fallen into the bar, she was blatantly depserate for some form of alcohol. Rose, Jack thought at the top of his head. After all these months of looking... God almighty, look down... let her notice you.

"Oh, please, just give me the strongest thing you have!" the woman who must have been Rose wailed to him. "Please, I beg of you!"

"What are we talking, a Suicide?" said Jack, in the same old voice which he used when he first met the woman. "You know, banging your head on the table won't do you too good. A woman as beautiful as you are should not be doing such things as trying to drink your heart out in front of a Chippewa Falls Dawson known as myself. It's bad for you, you know."

"W-who are you?" he heard, coming straight from the lips he had surely missed touching with his own. He felt like Romeo, seeing the most stunningly gorgeous person he had ever seen in his life, although he had seen her many times before.

"Why, I am Jack Dawson, and you are Rose DeWitt Bukater."