November 19th

Dana glanced at her watch and took another sip of now-tepid mineral water. Greg was half an hour past their agreed-on meeting time, and he hadn't called her or answered when she'd tried his number a couple of times. This wasn't unusual behavior for him, but to show up late for a date he'd suggested in the first place . . . She struggled against the automatic thought that it was yet another test. She'd give him a little more time before she went home. It was a raw, blustery evening, and she didn't relish the thought of the drive back to Philadelphia in this weather.

She glanced at the entranceway, then took a discreet look around her. The club was one she and Greg both enjoyed; it was an informal place with a well-stocked bar, decent kitchen, and a small stage where local musicians held forth most nights. The music was mainly blues and usually offered through pickup sessions, with an occasional official band on the weekends.

Her phone chirped at her. It wasn't a call, just a reminder to take her meds. Dana fished the little enamel container from her purse, extracted her anti-depressants, and washed them down with the last of the mineral water. The temptation to stop taking them was as strong as ever, but she set it aside. She hated the side effects of the medication; still, going without was far worse. Until this depression lifted, she'd follow her own doctor's advice.

As she tucked the container away, someone took a seat at her table. She looked up with a slight smile. It wasn't Greg. For just a moment her heart stopped. Another accident—She set aside the automatic reaction, gathered her wits and said quietly, "Can I help you?"

The man offered her a charming smile. "You looked a little lonely. I thought I'd come over to keep you company."

Dana hid her profound relief. "I'm quite all right." She made it an obvious dismissal. The man's smile didn't waver.

"Let me buy you a drink at least."

"No thanks." Time for her to leave; she had no desire to wrangle with someone who couldn't take even broad hints. "Have a pleasant evening." She rose and picked up her coat from the back of her chair.

"Uh-wait," the man got to his feet. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Dana shook her head. She put on her coat and turned to go, to find she faced Greg. He'd just come in, his pea jacket and muffler covered with half-melted snowflakes. He put out a hand, drew it back.

"Hey, where . . ." His voice trailed off. He shot a lightning glance at the other man, then at her, a keen, assessing stare. Dana felt her gut tighten with dread.

"Did you set this up?" The words came out before she could stop them. Greg's eyes widened. He swallowed and darted another look at the man.

"Gardener, I-I don't know this guy, I just-just got here." He tried to sound humorous, but his voice was tight with anxiety.

"You know as well as I do you could have arranged this beforehand. You chose our meeting place—" She stopped, horrified to find tears stung her eyes. Before they could fall she snatched up her purse and pushed past Greg toward the door. It was the wrong thing to do, she knew it was, but she couldn't endure another heartbreak at the hands of someone she still loved.

"Gardener—dammit! Dana, wait!" He caught up with her at the door as she was forced to stand aside for a large group of people coming in. "I didn't arrange anything, I'm just late because the traffic's bad and my damn phone is dead!" He hauled it out and shoved it at her. "Check for yourself!"

She didn't look at it. "I want to believe you, but I know—" She drew in a shaky breath. "I know you need to test people—"

"Jesus! I'm not—" He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and scrubbed a hand over his face. "It doesn't matter what I say, does it? You won't believe me."

Dana heard the bitterness in his words. Appalled, she forced herself to think and not just react.

"If . . . if you tell me now you didn't do it, I'll believe you."

"Even if you really don't."

"Non." She reached out, put a hand on his sleeve. "I wouldn't do that, Greg."

He looked down. There was a brief silence. "I didn't arrange anything. I'm not testing you." The terseness in his words, his willingness to tell her directly without evasion, convinced her he was truthful.

Dana nodded. "Okay." She took her hand away. "I should go now."

"No, you should stay and have something—" He broke off when the other man came up to them.

"Hey, didn't mean to get the lady upset. If I'd known she was with someone else-"

Greg glared at him. "Apology unneeded. Get lost."

Dana took the opportunity the distraction provided and slipped through the door, only to have Greg's voice stop her. "Running away isn't something you usually do." He sounded almost angry now. She turned to face him and felt the snowflakes on her face, in her hair. He glared at her, his expression both annoyed and pleading. After a few moments she came back inside and walked with him to another table, since her original seat had been claimed by now. She struggled to keep her thoughts coherent; the last ten minutes had shaken her badly, and she needed the routine of eating dinner to help her calm down.

They had their usual meal—burgers and a pile of fries, though neither appealed to her tonight. She refused a beer and stuck with mineral water.

"If you're worried about driving back to Philly, you can stay at my place. No strings attached." Greg pushed some fries toward her. "Eat." She took a fry and munched it. He rolled his eyes. "You can have more than one at a time, you know."

"I'd like that. To stay at your place tonight, I mean." Dana selected another fry. "On the couch."

"Sure, take all the fun out of it." He sipped his beer. "I'll take the couch, you can have the bed."

She shook her head. "The couch is fine. Is it all right if I have a fire in the fireplace?"

There was a moment of silence. Then, "you don't have to ask. Fuck's sake, Gardener. You're not a guest." The genuine affront in his tone made her smile. Greg stared at her and then exhaled slowly, just a small soft sound, but she heard it. "So you can still turn up the corners of your mouth. Good to know."

With leftovers boxed, they headed out before the music started-a first for them, but the weather showed no sign of improvement. Dana drove to Greg's place, as he'd taken a cab to the club. It was a short trip across town, but by the time they arrived she was glad she'd agreed to stay overnight. The streets had acquired a light glaze of snow and freezing rain and had grown more treacherous. At least there was a parking spot close to the apartment house, so they didn't have to navigate blocks of slippery sidewalks. When they reached Greg's door he took out his keys, paused, looked down at Dana, and kissed her cheek.

"Thanks."

"For what?" Her skin tingled from the touch of his lips.

"For not running away." He gave her a brief intent look, then put the key in the lock and opened the door.

The apartment hadn't changed much since she'd left it six months ago. It was a bit dustier, a little more cluttered, but clearly James and Amos had been keeping order to some extent. Dana took off her coat and remembered standing in this spot six months previous. She'd just left her keys on the hall table and found herself unable to leave as she fought against fury and grief, terrified it was the last thing she'd ever do in Greg's home.

Dana let the memory sweep through, then draped her coat over a chair and took a seat on the couch. Greg had disappeared, probably into the kitchen to get a beer. She looked around, saw the fireplace was set up with wood and kindling.

It didn't take long to get a good blaze started. She held her hands to the warmth, a little surprised to find she was trembling. Part of her feared a disastrous outcome; she'd spent months struggling with at times overwhelming pain, and now she was afraid of what might happen next, some mistake or poorly chosen word that would destroy the fragile détente they'd created.

On a quiet sigh she got up and brushed the dust from her front, turned and found Greg watching her. He sat in his wheelchair, the one she'd asked Amos to get for him with her money. It was a sports model with canted wheels and a low back, the seat fitted with a cushion. He'd removed his prosthesis, the empty leg of his sweat pants folded back untidily and tucked into the waistband.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Dana broke the silence. "I—I hope you don't mind."

"I said you don't have to ask." Greg sent her a fierce glance, then looked away. Without another word he rolled to the couch and transferred over, a process he accomplished fairly quickly. No doubt he'd been doing it for some time now. "You're gonna join me, I hope."

Dana realized her shoulders were tight. She rose and moved to the couch, took a seat and sent up a wordless prayer to whomever might be listening: let this go well.