Hey y'all, I'm apologizing beforehand if this particular chapter doesn't seem too interesting, but I wanted to put the "next part" in another chapter. I did my best, so please review it!

On another note, I know it's been eons since I last updated. I actually have an explanation – my grandfather passed away late June and life went completely upside down for awhile and I couldn't write. When I could, I had to move, so I didn't have my story until a week or two ago, and I wrote as fast as possible. I hope you love reading it as much as I did writing it!

Rose's simple but pretty shoes clicked against the sidewalk as she walked home from the grocer's. Grass had pushed up in cracks of the stone and was overturning them, struggling to breathe the air and drink the sunshine. Sometimes that was how she felt, like she was an inch from death and barely surviving. It had been a month since she had become engaged - again. Every once and awhile her fingers toyed with the silver ring, swirling it in circles, but she never took it off because it meant too much.

She sighed with longing as the church bells from St. Peter's Cathedral across the street tolled mercilessly, each clang rocketing straight through her heart. A young couple raced down the ancient church steps, hand in hand, the veil behind the beautiful bride flying like a silken bird, the groom's gaze still unfocused as though he couldn't believe she had made it past the alter, but both looking as though the were in the very depths of love. A parade of guests, from the little children clothed in white to the elderly leaning on canes, grinned and shouted and threw handfuls of rice into the air. It fell like snow on the newly married, but with a promise, it did not melt.

Rose realized how long she had been standing and staring when the two climbed delicately into their decorated carriage and rode out of sight. Her simple white-and-blue flowered dress blew around her smooth legs and a selected few of her red curls were teased out of their loose up-do. She turned away with her basket of bread and eggs hanging limply from her hand as she became lost in daydreams of her wedding. Of course she didn't want a big ceremony, that was something she was intent on escaping. But her girlish notions of romance still lived inside of her and she wanted the same passionate joining of a man and woman in soul that every woman who ever had or ever would live did. She wanted the kiss after the "I do's," to be filled with the trust that only Jack and a Rose could share. And she wanted it soon.

It was more torture being engaged and waiting then not being engaged at all. They had not set a date. They had hardly discussed it. Their relationship, though it was not falling apart, was not growing at the skyrocketing rate it should have been. The pay at the factory had fallen and Jack had been forced to work Saturdays to make the same amount of money, which was the bare minimum they needed to stay in an apartment. She hated to see that happen to him. He was giving up all his hopes and dreams, his art, to put food on the table. His eyes, though still full of deep mystery, no longer sparkled so bright. They had been dimmed and looked weary and tired. They had not made love since their engagement. They hardly kissed anymore. He came home, he ate, he talked, and he went to bed. This was not the life she had wanted to live.

With each step home, she became more and more furious. Something had to work because this was not. She wasn't happy anymore, and he sure as hell wasn't. It was not either of their faults, but rather circumstances that they should both have taken control of. She did not feel capable of bringing her child into a world that its parents had not sorted out yet.

Sometimes she felt it the same way. Sometimes when she looked at him her knees turned to jelly and then he grinned and she could barely breathe. But in so many other ways, it was never the same.

When she got to the apartment, she found the door already unlocked and she realized Jack must have come home. More determined than ever to talk to him, she twisted the knob, opened the door, set down her basket, and secured it behind her.

She turned and saw him looking out a window beside an armchair. He hadn't heard her come in. She saw that look in his eyes and she knew he wasn't watching what was outside, but he was looking on his inside, past what was visible, and into the uncharted depths of his memory.

She usually didn't disturb him at times like this, and, likewise, he didn't disturb her. But this was important. "Jack . . .?" It was more like a pleading, she realized when it came out of her mouth. She was begging, please, please notice me again.

He turned suddenly and he did not smile like he used to when he saw her. The lines of his face were deep with exhaustion. His hair was blonde from sunlight. He seemed so old and young at the same time. She wondered if she looked like that.

She moved towards him and put her hand on his forearm, but he did not respond except a nod. A nod? When had their love been reduced to a nod? She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, but he turned away. That's when she snapped.

"Jack Dawson, I do not know what is going on here, but I'm sick of it!" She burst into a flood of tears and he looked shocked and the old him came back immediately. His broad thumbs began to frantically wipe away the specks of salty water on her cheeks. But nothing could stop her now. "We just started! We're engaged, Jack! Engaged! So much has happened between us! And now when you come home you hardly look at me! It's like I'm not good enough! Damn it, Jack, that's how I felt with Cal!" His face was horror-stricken, and he opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off with a tiny whisper. "Is . . . is there someone else?"

Jack looked at her with such hurt and betrayal that she wanted to crumble. That look said everything – and then he said it, and he was crying too, and she was trying to take away his tears, because they could not stand to see the other cry. "God no, Rose! You're my everyone! How could you even think . . . Why don't you trust me anymore?! What do I have to do to earn your trust? I love you, I love you so much, I love you so, so much . . ."

As he watched, he realized she seemed so tiny and alone, so, so alone that it was worse than dying, worse than ever before, because he was right there and she still looked alone. He had let her wilt. He had promised to never, ever let her die inside, and it was going on in front of him and he hadn't done a thing. Inside he screamed at himself, cursed himself with every name he could think of, and it wasn't enough. He wasn't enough.

He pulled her roughly to him, so suddenly and strongly that she gasped, but she was still weeping and she wept into his shirt. Where had they gone wrong? He would never betray her love. But somehow he felt he had lost her trust.

"Why won't you marry me?" She sobbed, and he could barely make out the question. For a moment he thought he had misheard her but then she shrieked it again, needing an answer.

"Rose – I wanna marry you so badly, I thought that you wanted to wait, I thought . . . I'm gettin' tired inside, I want you to be mine, I can't wait anymore. Nothin' is more important to me than you, you are me, you . . . saved me . . ." He got so choked up he couldn't talk anymore and without warning Rose looked at him adoringly.

"I thought you didn't want to go through with the wedding."

He shook his head hopelessly at her, smiling sadly at their misconceptions of each other, and ran his fingers through her hair. He hadn't done it in a month. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. The cool, silky strands parted as he went through them, and he pressed a curl to his nose to catch its scent. "Rose," he whispered, "Can we go back to how it used to be? You know, to our engagement."

Warm relief flooded through her like bath water and she sank against him, thrusting her arms around his neck and weaving her own slender fingers through his tousled locks, nodding against his chest. Before she could stop it a laugh escaped from her, and he started to laugh to, until he cut it off by swooping his head down to hers and kissing her with a kiss that was full of apologies and wants and desires and Time and tears and past and future. She became so confused with all of these emotions that she just went limp and kissed him back, not caring what she felt anymore, lips melting against lips, souls melting back together, wounds closing.

Two hours later, Jack had taken out his tools for art again. For so long he hadn't drawn a single piece, but now a familiar sense of possession by that was overtaking him and he felt a need to work in the trade he loved. He removed a charcoal stub from his tool belt. The first thing Rose had bought after the sinking was a leather portfolio that could be tied shut by leather straps. It was almost a replica of his old one, and that didn't surprise him, since these things didn't come in much variety. It had just as much emotional meaning as his other one had, because his Rose had given it to him. His last one had been a gift from Pa when he was maybe eleven. Ma had commanded that he do so, because she was sick of Jack drawing on the walls and in the dirt. He smiled at the memory.

Now, as Rose watched curiously over his shoulder, he pressed the charcoal to the paper and watched the black smudge grow. Suddenly he knew exactly what to draw. The lines started spiraling across the given space. He felt the passion throbbing within him for his job. Shapes started blossoming.

Rose recognized the forms of three people, two big, one small. The bigger ones seemed to be men. Jack's warm, rough hands moved like dancers to a beautiful song as they continued – stubble on both men's face, a stovepipe hat on one, a flat sort of cap on the other . . . the little one had rich dark curls. Suddenly it hit her. Fabrizio, Tommy, Cora. Flashes from her past illuminated her mind as, finally, he drew her favorite part – the eyes.

Their eyes were glimpses of days on the Ship of Dreams as she chose to remember them, sunlight-filled, smiling, beautiful, fantasizing. But deep inside, past that, she somehow saw the haunting blackness from casualties to an unknown war, the unsettling gaze of shattered lives and unfinished dreams and broken hearts, the soul-wrenching feeling of sweet innocence forsaken. She almost heard the glass of their spirits break. It stirred so many, many memories . . . who knew that you could have so many memories after just a few days? But she had them, all of them, and worst of all was the phantom-like face of a little girl, an adorable little girl that danced and danced and danced to music never ceasing . . .

Jack couldn't stand it anymore when he finished. Tommy and Fabri were leaning against the railing of something that didn't exist anymore. Cora stood by them, holding her doll to her, pointing at something in the sky. She would never, ever see the sky again.

Images from his imagination began to completely overtake his mind. At first all he could see was blackness, but suddenly ghostly shapes took form, and there was the body of Fabrizio de Rossi on the ocean floor, miles beneath the sea. Jack shook, and then all of the sudden Fabrizio opened his mouth and screamed. Death grasped him with a hand like a vice and he kept on screaming. Then Jack screamed too, because he had done this, he had let him die, he had broken promises. Their screams were lost in the Atlantic. They would never be heard. They would never make it to the surface.

Then he was back on the couch, with the love of his life behind him, and drawings of his life in front of him, and he had hurt them all. He collapsed onto the sofa, weeping. He was done holding it in, he was sick of pretending to be not emotional, because really, emotions were all he had. The tears came so hard and fast his face became a lake. His moans swirled through the apartment.

Rose wasn't surprised when Jack started to cry. She had seen it coming. She had been wishing it would so he could heal. Immediately she went around to the other side of the couch and sat next to him, pulling him to her, cradling his head against her chest, murmuring to him like he was her child, rocking him back and forth, smoothing his hair. He clung to her with fingers like stone.

For some reason, he didn't even feel ashamed. His best friend and his love were the only ones here, and that was all he needed. "I love you," she whispered. "I love you, I love you, I love you." What had he done to deserve a partner in life like this? Unworthiness crept into him again.

"I love you," he sobbed, and suddenly he knew that was all he needed to know. He loved her. Everything else was irrelevant. The past would never leave him and there would be more of this, but at the moment, nothing else mattered.

He sat up, and she wiped away his tears. She was being so tender to him, so gentle, and so caring that he all of the sudden gathered his strength from hers. When she leaned in slowly to kiss him, he met her half way. She had meant for it to be soft, but desperately their lips became entangled in a lover's dance, their tongues meeting, hands exploring. Passion and despair stirred to create absolute perfection in that kiss. And perfection always leads to something more.

Jack opened the window the next morning at dawn. The inside of their apartment was stifling, but he soon found that the outside wasn't much better. Bizarre smells wafted inside – smells of everything from that damn bakery to sewage. He wished, for just a moment, that he was back in Chippewa Falls, with its apple-and-grass-scented air, rolling hills, and endless sky. He supposed Rose would like it better there too. This city life wasn't for free spirits like them. Maybe after the wedding . . .

There was an awful lot of planning that still had to be done. They hadn't a clue about they date, but Jack wanted it soon. They had talked about it drowsily last night in bed, and Rose had insisted that Jack wear what he wore everyday. She didn't want him dressed up. She said it something like she wanted the Jack she had met in April. That's who he was anyway and he didn't mind.

He watched the early morning bustle as people made their way to work in the same timeless, boring routine that was driving him mad. It was a Thursday, but he wasn't gonna go to the factory today. He couldn't. He was tired, Rose was tired, and they needed the day to get to know each other again.

That made him jerk out of his sleepy trance and almost silently enter the kitchen. He found a huge pan and put it on the stove which he lit with a match so flames erupted under the burner. He opened the icebox and quietly took out a handful of eggs, which he cooked. Then he got the bread from the breadbox and carefully toasted it over another burner. When breakfast was ready another smell sizzled through the rooms – a smell of food. He served it up on plates and carried them and two glasses of juice, tottering, into the bedroom.

He sighed when he saw her. She was bare, but covered with a thin white sheet. It made her look even more angelic. Her eyes were peacefully closed, and her chest rose up and down with each breath she took.

He put the food on the bed beside her and leaned over her, sprinkling soft kisses on her face. She stirred, stretching, until her arms suddenly clasped around his neck. Her eyes fluttered open like budding magnolia leaves against a blue sky. "Mmm . . . I love it when you wake me up like that," she whispered, smiling tiredly.

"And I do so love wakin' you up like that," he answered almost inaudibly, not wanting to break the morning silence. He caressed her smooth, fine cheek with his calloused hands of an artist. She pressed her own hand over his.

"Are you leaving now?" She asked, her eyes flickering up to him with dread written in their irises, savoring their moment together.

"Nah, I think I'll stay home –"

"Really?!" She squealed before he could finish, hugging him so tight he thought his head would fall off and all circulation had stopped. He chuckled and laced his arm around her waist, pulling her against him, his fingers tracing lines down her spine. "We have to talk about the wedding!"

He nodded, relief dancing in his eyes, and Rose realized that their love had not dimmed at all over the past month; it was still as violently and gently and boldly present as it had always been. Feeling a sudden loveburst wash over her, she shivered. He must have thought she was cold because he slipped under the covers with her and held her, softly kissing her scarlet hair. She fit perfectly into the contours of his body, nestled against him and holding him, her own fingertips dancing on his clothed stomach. The food lay getting cold, forgotten, at the foot of the bed.

"When?" He murmured, speaking the previously unspoken question that had burdened her for a month. She stirred slightly to look up at him as she untwisted his suspender straps.

"Soon," she answered, desire from her burning holes in him, "Very soon."

She knew that he wanted it soon to. He wanted them to be married. He was getting restless of staying in New York. She could feel it from him. New York could not be his home. He belonged in a place with no boundaries, a place that she desperately wanted to share with him.

"You need a wedding dress."

He felt the double take she gave him. There money supply was about as dry as a desert. The factory paid in what seemed like dirt rather than cash. But she didn't know he had been saving bits and pieces of his pay check for a long time – not to mention getting a generous wad of dollars from the leaser of their apartment. Tom had insisted that he was paying too much to live in that hunk of junk anyway. Not that Jack could disagree.

The questioning gaze that found him made him reach under their bed and produce a dusty glass jar filled to the brim with dollars and worn down coins. He was proud that there was enough for a cheaper wedding dress without Cal's money. They had both agreed that they would not use it. That she was completely independent now. It may have been foolish stubborn pride, but everything was turning out alright in the end.

She gasped when he nodded to confirm that she had heard correctly. "A . . . a wedding dress? But I thought . . ." Her face was puzzled.

"Not an expensive one, though, but I –"

She squealed in excitement and crushed herself against him so he couldn't breathe all over again. He never knew not breathing could feel this good. "We should go pick it out soon," he gasped, hardly able to talk at all. That of course just made her squeeze harder and again, he didn't mind.

Suddenly she let go of him and bounded out of bed, flying to the wardrobe and changing into her undergarments and a lemon-yellow gown with a wide skirt. He sat up and crossed his legs, watching her excitement with happiness that was sprinkling his life now. She quickly secured her hair in a sort of elegant updo with pins, letting her few stubborn curls fall and lie on her neckline as they seemed to always do. "Let's go!" She demanded, grabbing his hand and trying to pull him up.

Of course she couldn't, and for a moment Jack just sat their grinning until he allowed himself to bound to his feet and sweep her in his arms. She tried to fight for a moment, eager to get going, but he wouldn't let her go and finally she just collapsed against him, pressing her cheek against his muscled chest for a moment. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you . . ."

He just nodded into her hair, saying it all.

The minute Rose walked in the bridal shop on 2nd Avenue she felt like a girl again in a fairy tale. All around her were mazes of silky, velvety white, soft and beautiful, like snow suspended in midair. The scent of crisp, new fabric hung in the little room. Somehow she managed to weave her way to the counter where a woman with wavy, tightly crimped fawn-colored hair and pale, freckled skin stood leafing through a magazine. Rose crinkled her brow when she saw how tight the girl's skirt was but dismissed it without warning. She had to hurry because for some reason, Jack wanted to take her out to lunch. He was "planning," as he called it. He had gone to visit the Reverend.

The worker looked up immediately when she heard approaching footsteps and shoved the magazine under the counter. She licked her lips and uncomfortably Rose felt as if she were assessing her body and size. "How can I help you?" She asked, suddenly all business.

"I'm getting married and –"

"Ah! Say no more! Follow me!" And just like that she was off, flying down the aisles, flicking dresses back with her thin fingertips, all the while turning back to look at Rose and compare her to the gowns.

Rose was feeling dizzy from the speed of everything and tried to compose herself. "I have a price range though, but –"

"Madam, I don't believe we sell anything over your price range."

That made Rose pause. Who gave this woman the right to assess her worth so freely? To judge her? And what did she mean, nothing over her price range? Either this was a terrible shop, or there was some sort of misunderstanding and Rose was betting on the latter. "Well . . . I want a dress for an efficiently low price . . ."

The way the girl raised her eyebrows at Rose quizzically told her that for some reason she thought that Rose was wealthier than she really was. All of the sudden panic ensued her. Had this worker read that article in the paper a month ago about the "Hockley Loss" as it was titled? Or had she read of the funeral that had gone by for Rose DeWitt-Bukater without a body? Had she recognized her and guessed that all had been ironed out? Would she tell anyone?

These thoughts came so quickly and with such power that Rose was breathing way too loud and fast. She tried frantically to regulate her body, and found that it wasn't as difficult as could be expected. If it was so, she'd simply set the woman straight. If it wasn't, there was no need to bring up the matter. With these ideas and the newfound calmness that Jack had given her, she realized there was no need to be afraid. What could this poor, petite, shriveled shop worker do anyway?

"Actually, my husband-to-be and I are a little on the financially troubled scale, so I suppose my question is, can you help me or not?" The way in which Rose spoke left no room for questioning and very little time for chitchat.

The woman, Rose read her embroidered shirt as Georgina now, seemed a little bit surprised but did not let much emotion show. She nodded, answered, "Of course, would you do me the courtesy of following me?" and walked off.

Amusing herself a little, Rose let her mouth move and silently mimic Georgina with the same words, of course, would you do me the courtesy of following me? Then she smoothed her top and did follow this so far dreadful woman.

"This is a modern model," the shopkeeper explained, stopping at a gown so smothered in lace and pearls that, when Rose went to lift the fabric, she estimated its weight at half that of her own. The sleeves were flounced and huge in all that Edwardian glamour called for these days. With the jar securely hidden in the folds of her skirts, she checked the price tag, knowing she would never buy this particular dress anyway. When she saw that it was five-hundred dollars she nearly died. Five-hundred dollars?! That was a fortune, a fortune to feed a third-world country for a year! She shook her head, her eyes pointedly fixed on the tag.

"No? Well then, we have something that might be better accustomed to your price range and still in this lovely style." She flipped a few hangers away to reveal a more of an off-white, creamy color dress with the access material giving it volume and weight. Rose assessed it carefully, considering it when she saw it was only fifty-two dollars. But all of the sudden a foggy, smoky memory pushed forward in her brain and with horror she recognized it as a design similar to the one that had been chosen for her canceled union with Caledon Hockley. The cut was nearly the same, and it was the same color. The fabric was obviously not Italian-tailored like her own had been, and the gown was not dripping in jewels and French lace. But it bore a light resemblance, and even light was enough for her to shake her head furiously.

Again the woman raised her eyebrows, and said, "Well, we have another dress, not in this modern style . . . no . . . But I personally love this one because it uniqueness would fit someone like you, someone with such obvious individuality."

Rose didn't let the pampering of words work on her, but instead tapped her foot impatiently. Georgina understood the sign and immediately floated down the aisle in her phantom-like way, stopping and leafing out another gown.

The first thing that ran through Rose's mind was, It's beautiful. There was something so wonderfully rare in it . . . and for some reason she couldn't quite place it. Then it hit her. It looked similar to the dress she had been wearing that night . . . the night that she had made love for the first time, the night that she had experienced death again, the night that she had felt all of her dreams that had grown break. It looked similar to the dress that had been showered in fiery heat and ardor, in fear and bitterness, in such deep, deep, cold that it penetrated her heart and brain, in blood. There was something emotionally represented by the fact that it was as white as the whitest snow, so pure and faultless that it for some reason promised her life and love. It was simple, just like the other one, the sleeves cut a little bit after her shoulders and an angelic white transparent sash tied around the waist. She guessed the skirt would fall to her ankles, and there was a small length of lace framing the low, straight edge at the top of the gown, just above the top of her breasts.

For a moment, she simply stared, overwhelmed by the similarities and perfection in one work of art. "I'll take it!" She cried, so loudly that Georgina jumped. "How much?"

"Uhh . . . it's . . ." Before the clerk could answer, Rose snatched the tag and felt herself melt in gratefulness when she saw it was only forty-three dollars. She slipped the jar out and ran to the counter, carefully counting coins and bills.

When the money had been sorted, Rose said off-handedly, "I'll pick it up on my wedding day."

"When should we be expecting you then?" Georgina asked, pressing the dress and lifting it over the counter to hang behind her.

"Who knows?!" Rose exclaimed. "Soon. Probably in less than a week." Her smile was so bright that everything that had plagued her for a month was lifted and she felt as light as a butterfly in the wind. There was something about picking out a wedding dress that made the ceremony seem so close it felt tangible, like she could touch it.

"Oh, well, miss, we don't do holds for more than two weeks, and if you don't know, maybe –"

But the look Rose gave her sliced like a hatchet through butter and Georgina just nodded, gave Rose a scrap of paper as proof of her purchase, and waved her out the door.

The sunlight seemed entirely brighter than it had ever been, warm and beautiful and pleasing to her soul as Rose twirled through the streets that weren't as crowded as usual, since more than ninety percent of New York City's population had to be at work. She danced her way to the clock where Jack had said to meet him, gazing at her reflection in the small pond around that clock. The sky was reflected too, behind her, and it made her look like she was flying, exactly how her heart felt.

She would be lying to herself if she thought she wasn't nervous. She was more than nervous. She was terrified. Marriage was, by far, one of the most challenging things that she had ever dreamt of attempting, even if she felt like she was marrying a god from Mt. Olympus itself. In her mind, Jack Dawson was the perfect man, more perfect, by far, than anyone she had ever or would ever see in her lifetime. He cared about her, in a way that went past their physical intimacy, in a way that he loved her mind, her soul, her thoughts, her personality. All of her. And for that she loved all of him.

It was strange, really, how to beings could be so attracted when it seemed everything in the entire world was pulling them apart. Societies and people and positions . . . and the sea. Somehow, though, they had proved that real love cannot die. Whether that was true or not to reality didn't matter, because it was true to them.

Her face lit into a brilliant smile and happiness accented her light steps as she gracefully made her way to the clock bench. A tap on the shoulder startled her, sending shivers to run down her body. Immediately she froze, because she had heard stories of men who . . . who . . .

But when she whirled around and began to recognize the touch, the terror on her face dissipated, and the brilliant smile returned. "Looking for someone?" Jack murmured, his arms crossed, leaning against a pole. Seeing that intense laidback joy dancing in those mysterious blue eyes of his again, finally, maybe for the first time since their engagement, she stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth against his, so soft Jack blandly thought she felt like a feather. Completely unaware of passerby looking at them disdainfully, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her up to meet him.

"So," he whispered huskily when they finally broke apart and she laid her head on his shoulder, "I reckon this means you had a good experience finding a wedding dress. When can I see – "

She looked at him suddenly, her eyes as big as buttons. "No, no, no, Jack! No! You should know that the groom can't see the bride's gown until the wedding! No!" She shook her head viciously, like an innocent little child.

Amusement flickered in his face and he grinned. "You win. Again."

She playfully nodded. "Did you get it all sorted out with the Reverend? And what did you mean, the "Reverend?" There are a trillion churches in this city and we can't possibly get married by every single preacher! And did you decide where you want the wedding to be? I've been thinking about it –"

Her face was glowing with excitement, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks rosy. Gently, he pressed a finger to her supple lips, thinking he had never seen anything, and he meant anything, quite like her. "You're so beautiful . . ." His voice trailed off almost soundlessly, like he hadn't meant to say it aloud.

At first, she had looked surprised when he had shushed her. But then when he had spoken, her cheeks lit with a furious blush and she buried her face in his chest so that no one else could see the flaming heat of her face.

"I went to that non-denominational chapel . . . because I was raised Baptist and you mentioned something about Protestant . . . and he agreed to do it this Saturday."

All of the sudden she looked up. This Saturday? As in two days? Yes, she had thought soon, but Saturday was almost . . . well, almost this second! She wasn't ready for Saturday, she could never be ready for Saturday, oh my god, Saturday!

Her heart started fluttering so fast she couldn't breathe, and everything started to spin. Jack Dawson wanted to marry her, her, this Saturday . . . God, she couldn't . . . The cold feet set in immediately, and she felt sick.

But then she looked up.

It was an almost miraculous feeling, looking up. Before that second, she felt so close to dying or going insane that everything was buzzing and bile was rising in her throat and her head hurt so bad it should have been illegal. But when she looked up, she saw the man whom she loved. It was the most catastrophic and wonderful moment of her life, so simple and beautiful. An inner sort of peace washed over her and all she could see was that adorable puppy-dog look on his face, his hair hanging in warm blonde strands into eyes that pierced her with an intensity only he possessed on this earth. For once the ice in their blue was gone, and a look of absolute devotion took its place, an almost sacred look, and she felt her heart slow down and finally, she was safe.

Saturday. I can do Saturday. We can do Saturday.

"Saturday sounds perfect," she whispered, quietly as the tranquil feeling carried her along and they started walking, hand in hand. Her dress billowed around her shins and the few loose curls blew alongside her face. Every once and awhile she felt him looking at her, trying to say something, but she couldn't, maybe wouldn't detect it. He could speak if he wanted to.

"Well, uhh . . . Rose, well, I could, I mean, if it's about the money, I could borrow a suit from someplace, a tux or something, I don't have to marry you looking like –" His words were so awkward, so uncomfortable, that he knew he shouldn't have spoken in the first place. Rose wasn't one to lie, even for money.

"You," she finished scoldingly. "Looking like you. That's exactly the way I want you, Mr. Dawson." It made him shiver when he saw that raw love in her eyes, love that mirrored his own, love so furiously passionate that he didn't feel like he could look at it for too long. He did, though. Every day.

Right now, he was a little off-center, not really paying attention. He felt completely preoccupied. He hardly realized it, but they had just planned his wedding. Their wedding. And it was just two days away.

Impossible, his mind whispered. You? Jack Dawson? As in "the" Jack Dawson? Getting married? Already?! No way.

Yet as crazy as it seemed, it was definitely possible – more than possible. It was happening. It seemed almost lunatic now that he remembered where he had been hardly a quarter of a year ago. Three months earlier he had been slumped under that old stone bridge in Southampton, listening to a light drizzle patter in time with automobile roars and horse's feet clatter. It had been chilly – chilly enough for him to lit a smoke and pull his coat tightly around him. Fabri had been sitting beside him smoking too – his third cigarette in his life. When Jack had learned that Fabrizio de Rossi had never smoked, well, that had been the first thing he had taught him. Sometimes when Jack had looked into the eyes of the Italian, he had to wonder if he missed his homeland. Basically, Jack had passed through and Fabri had come with him on his way out. No looking back, no second glance, no regrets. He had the illusion that nothing had changed, that Italy was a part of his past, and he had been able to see America in his future. They'd never had gotten there though, not like that. A few weeks ago, when they had had almost enough money, Fabrizio had been jumped walking to the pub. Then under that bridge, they had been almost starving, but the stress had been so bad that they had wasted a loaf of bread on the very cigarettes that had dangled from their pale lips. Jack had been ready to get out of England. He'd had enough of the cold and the damp and the grey. The last thing he remembered about that night was falling asleep to the soothing sound of Fabri's voice singing something absent-mindedly and to his own thought that they'd bet their way out in the morning.

Now he was walking hand in hand with the prettiest girl in the entire world, inside and out and back and forth. And the scariest thing – he was getting married. There was no more adventurous, up and run life for him.

No, this was an adventure all of its own. Eventually his nerves were quieted and his heart stopped banging and his mouth worked. "You still wanna eat at that little café I told you about? On the corner?"

She looked up for a second, and then down at their interlocked hands. "Yes, I'd like that very much actually." He grinned down at her, and she felt herself blushing again.

The two made their way down the street, for the first time in a long time happy and content and satisfied with golden promises of yet to come.

They hadn't bought much, just a bowl of soup each and a plate of hot rolls. But the food was delicious, as Jack had promised, and the conversation was a million times better.

Something that struck Rose was that she had never been in a restaurant with Jack before. Their money situation had been, and still was at best, less than tight and at the shelter they had gotten handouts. But now in public, she was so proud to be sitting at this dingy little table waiting for the check, her fingers tracing the again charcoal-lined knuckles of the man across from her. They hadn't talked about the wedding much anymore. It was all planned.

Jack's eyes traveled every now and then to Rose's abdomen. At first she became worried, terrified even, that he was having second thoughts. That he didn't want the baby. But all of the sudden he stood up and squatted down beside her chair, taking her hand and gently stroking her stomach. "I can't believe it," he whispered.

The fact that he was strong enough to still want to have a family with her so soon, with so little time, made her insides melt all over again and come from her eyes in the form of hot tears of joy.

The moment Jack saw those tears dripping his mind whispered to him, "When will they stop?" It seemed as if the grief and the joy, the rollercoaster of emotions that more often than not left them in that abyss of pain, would never level out. Anyone with less faith and endurance than them could not possibly have survived the bloody times they had. It took all he even had to keep himself together.

But right now he exiled these thoughts from his mind into the empty air around him, away from the two of them, and briskly smoothed away the drops of water from her cheeks. Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him so tightly that the food in him would have left his stomach had it been anyone else.

However, it was not anyone else, and instead an absolutely ecstatic feeling was dumped on him instead. He pulled her closer to him for that second, his body responding like he had never felt her before, awkward and anxious and so happy that it felt like he was splitting in two.

It was the first sign that maybe, someday, things would be okay. And maybe, someday, Titanic would just be a memory instead of a reality.