I run my thumb along the wood grain of the banister at the house I once shared with Savannah while Savannah sits at the dining room table, staring at me. The banister was the last project I completed on the house, two weeks after we moved in together. The wood is solid mahogany, and I purchased it for way more than I should have at a demolition auction. The home that was slated to come down, with a foundation that was unfixable, was built in the mid 1800s, and though no one could be sure, the wood for the banister likely came from England. It was easy to see that it had been carefully hand carved and sanded, long before the days of power tools. A lot of labor went into its creation, and a lot of labor went into me fitting it onto the staircase at this house. It was by far the best project I've ever completed.

I made the extravagant purchase because I could see something that unique and beautiful in my home. And now there's a realtor upstairs taking pictures so we can get this house on the market.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Savannah asks softly.

I grip the wood at the bottom of the banister and nod my head. I had told Savannah that if she wanted to keep the house, we could figure out a payment option that worked for both of us, so she didn't have to buy me out all out once, but she looked at me like I was crazy.

I love this place, but I can't live here anymore.

"What about our things? How do you want to divide them up?" she asks. She's been very business-like so far today.

I look towards the living room. When we first moved in and combined the furniture from each of our apartments, I remember I felt content, like I was making the right decision - our furniture seemed to fit together in the space. Now I'm looking at it and seeing an incongruent jumble of things that were never meant to be paired together. I start to reply, and my voice cracks, so I clear my throat and try again. "You can move out first. Take what you'll need or you want. I'll deal with what's left," I say in what I hope is a friendly voice.

Her response is a deafening silence, and then a few sniffles. "Are you and Emily still good friends?" is her biting response a minute later.

I turn to look at her. "Yes," I say. It's not quite the truth. The honest answer would be that I don't know what Emily and I are, but that response would only lead to more questions that I can't answer, and I don't think Savannah really wants to know anyway.

My thumb goes back to the smooth mahogany, and I brush it gently, remembering how the night before, as I laid next to Emily while she burned with her second night of chemotherapy-induced fever, I moved my hand from her forehead while she was sleeping. I brushed my thumb lightly over her eyelid, and the last few eyelashes she was holding onto came away on my thumb.

While she slept, I closed my eyes and made the biggest wish of my life, and blew those eyelashes away.

"But you're hoping in the near future it will be more than that," Savannah says, like she wants to clarify this point yet again.

It's a comment, not a question, and I can tell she tried to soften her tone before the sentence ended, but her words drip with hurt and barely controlled anger. This is mostly how she's spoken to me on the occasions that we've talked ever since I owned up to the reality that our end was as much my choice and responsibility as hers.

I turn fully around to face her. "Right now, I'm just hoping for any near future that includes Emily, in whatever capacity, at all."

She looks down at that remark, and I can see she's barely holding back tears. I sigh. "I'm not sorry about the past two years, and a part of me will always miss you," I say. And that's honest, too. We had many more good times than bad, and I loved her, and a part of me still does, but not the part that wants to keep me here. My heart is already miles away from this house; to be exact, it's thirty-one-point-two miles away from this house, in Bethesda.

Savannah stands from the table, her movements slow and resigned, not angry. She's in scrubs and ready to head back to work. "I've signed what I need to. We'll check in after the open house this weekend, I guess."

Her eyes blink rapidly and I know she wants to get out of here before she falls apart, so I nod. "Sounds good."

She closes the front door softly behind her, and moments later the realtor starts walking down the stairs. "I think that's everything," she says with a bright smile.

"Not quite," I say. "Make sure that any prospective buyers know that this banister is not part of the deal. I'll come by sometime next week to take it down, and will pay to replace it with whatever the new owner wants."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "The banister?" she asks, like no one has ever requested such a thing in all her years doing this job, and it's likely they never have. But I am. That banister is going to end up in a home - my home - even if it can't be this one. That banister represents a long journey, back-breaking work, and a lot of mistakes and do-overs to get to the ultimate, beautiful finished product. And it's coming with me.

"Yes, the banister," I say firmly. I'll need a storage area for furniture anyway, and I'll store it there until I can use it.

"Okay, then," she says.

I nod. "I really need to get going."

We walk out together and I get in my car without another look back at the house. I feel both sadder and more free than I have in weeks, but I focus on the free part. I dial Penelope.

"At your service," she answers cheerfully.

"Do you have any connections at Six Flags?" I ask.

"The amusement park in Maryland?" she questions.

"That would be the one," I respond.

"No connections that I know of. Why?" She asks, sounding completely confused.

"Because Emily's never ridden a roller coaster and she wants to, but she can't stand crowds right now."

"Ahh," she says softly. "Sometimes it's not who you know that gets you what you want, it's what you can find out about someone. Let me see what I can do. I'll get back to you." She pauses for a second, but before I can say goodbye, she whispers, "You could never be an asshole, Derek Morgan."

I need the reminder today.

I disconnect with her and turn my car away from Bethesda. I'll be there soon enough, but I need to make a little detour first, to a small chocolate shop in Springfield, Virginia that's touted as one of the best.

For a little over three weeks, my only acknowledgement to the bucket list Emily sobbed out from a knelt position on her kitchen floor was to bring ice cream and make milkshakes on occasion. But there was far more on her list, and it's time to get to work, not because I believe she'll die, but because I've finally absorbed the lesson that life is precious and possibly short, and life, love and time waits for no one.

Derek has started leaving chocolates around the house for me to find. These aren't Hershey's Kisses or M&Ms. These are foil-wrapped pieces of chocolate that are so good they literally melt in your mouth. And they are shaped like characters, with a foil design on the packaging to match. There's always one on the pillow next to me when I wake up in the mornings. The rest are hidden in random places that always make me smile and then laugh, and sometimes cry.

The first day he did this, I found a little foil-wrapped garden gnome chocolate on the shelf in my shower. I've since found a piece wrapped and shaped like a mushroom in my t-shirt drawer, a few pieces here and there in my purse or my car. The other night I picked up the remote to turn on the TV and it wouldn't go on; it took me a second to realize the batteries were on the TV stand, and when I opened the back of the remote, there was a little chocolate frog in the battery compartment.

Today he's taking me somewhere, but I don't know where. It's Thursday morning, and I'm on the upswing in terms of energy and how I feel after my fifth chemotherapy appointment. He told me to dress comfortably, assured me I wouldn't get too tired, and said we'd be gone only for a couple of hours at most.

I stand in front of the full length mirror in my bathroom after my shower and survey myself. I've almost gotten used to how I look completely hairless, not that I like it at all, but I've stopped scaring myself when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The rest of my body still horrifies me, though. I've got little bruises on my arms and legs, I've got a red rash that spans my left arm from wrist to nearly my shoulder, my skin stretches over my hip bones in a way that looks almost painful, and I'm just looking forward to the day that I can no longer count every single one of my ribs.

I'm fairly certain Derek's plan here is to take me through that embarrassing list of desires I blurted out into a dustpan of broken glass over a month ago, which scares me more than my emaciated body does. So far he's given me ice cream, chocolate and his love, though the latter has not been spoken out loud. It doesn't have to be.

Being loved like he's loving me, with the utmost care and respect, and nothing much in terms of being physical, is a terrifying misnomer to anything else I've felt in my life when I think about love. It's starting to feel real and hopeful and like everything I've ever walled myself away from with sarcasm and a brash exterior.

This is what happens when you're too tired for your walls and snappy words, Emily, my inner voice tells me frequently.

It's true, and I should be keeping him pushed further away. Letting him get this close and willingly tiptoeing on this fragile path with him is only going to make it harder if this all goes to shit; if my body completely goes to shit and I die.

My dreams of Helios and his sun chariot still haunt me, they've merely shifted. There's always room for me next to Charlie and Derek now, but most of the time I'm too weak, scared or self-deprecating to climb on board. The reality is that no matter how he's been treating me, I still don't believe I deserve an ounce of his care after what I did to him. It's just that most days I'm too damned exhausted to fight it.

I sigh and turn towards my medicine cabinet, opening it to retrieve my deodorant. There on the shelf sits a foil-covered chocolate heart. I smile and shake my head, and start getting ready for this little surprise adventure of his. The only thing I know with certainty is that it's not going to be the mind-blowing sex or the rock climbing - the former because there is no way in hell anyone is seeing my body like this and even if I'd allow that, we're nowhere near that point yet and I'm not sure I could follow through even if we were there; the latter because the last time my arms were able to lift more than Charlie was over two months ago.

Fifteen minutes later, Derek is in the living room and ready to go. We hug and kiss Charlie goodbye and wave to Claudia. I grab a sun hat and we are out the door.

Ten minutes into the drive, I see the first signs for Six Flags and know we're after a roller coaster. I grin, but don't say anything.

Twenty minutes later, I see the tall rides just a short way in the distance and look at my watch. It's only eight-thirty. I reach over and touch Derek's arm. "Are they even open yet?"

He grins at me. "They are for us."

I sit quietly, excited and curious. I watch him bypass every exit for the public parking lots and turn a corner. We pull into the staff parking lot and are waved into a space. I turn back towards him and raise one non-existent eyebrow. "Penelope?"

Derek laughs. "Don't ask me how she managed it, because I decided I didn't want to know."

I smile and laugh, then sober quickly. I don't want to spoil this, but I have some concerns. "Don't you get knocked around a lot? I bruise so easily," I whisper, hating to admit my own fragility out loud.

"I think I've got it covered, but if we get there and you're not up for it, we'll skip it and go get pancakes or something. Chocolate chip pancakes," he says with a wink.

He exits the car and I follow along. I watch him open his trunk and retrieve a mysterious duffel bag. He closes the trunk, slings the bag over his shoulder and reaches for my hand. "A man named Alan is supposed to meet us right here any minute now."

I hear him, but the only thing I can sense is the feel of his fingers linked with mine. I look down at the connection, at his very bold gesture out here in public. I look over and see some rides moving, likely going through their safety inspections before the park officially opens. I squeeze his fingers. Seconds later a cart pulls up and a young man smiles and asks, "Derek Morgan?"

His voice sounds slightly nervous, and I can only imagine what Penelope must have done to pull this off for us, but we get into the cart and moments later, we're at the entrance to a large roller coaster. I look up and then back at Derek.

I laugh giddily, because I'm excited, and because he's here with me and doing this with me. We make the walk up the exit, which he tells me is shorter than the long, winding path of the regular entrance line. When we arrive on the decking next to the cart, Derek drops the duffel bag and unzips it. He takes out an oblong piece of fluffy sheepskin and lays it so it's cushioning one of the two seats at the front of the cart.

He turns to look at me. "Hop in."

I don't know how much hopping I'm capable of in that moment, because I'm frantically blinking back tears at the amazing man who is smiling at me. But I manage the walk and sit down. It feels soft and my hips and back are completely protected from the hard plastic of the seat. Next he lays a piece of foam over my chest before pulling the bar over my head and locking it in place against the foam.

"OK?" he asks.

I nod and reach up to wipe my eyes. I smile at him. "It's okay."

He grins and reaches forward, gently removing my hat so it doesn't fly off. He tosses it next to the duffel bag. "Then let's do this."

Derek sits next to me and pulls the bar over his head and against his chest. He links his fingers with mine again. "We're doing this with our hands up, Emily Prentiss. If we're going for it, let's go for it totally."

I turn to glance at him, absorbing the many meanings of his words, but he's merely smiling excitedly at me. I grin back and nod.

"Go for it, Alan," Derek calls out.

And we're off, like we were shot out of a cannon. We are whipping through the cool morning air, up and down, upside down on corkscrews and loops. Derek keeps his hand in mine and we raise our arms up. I scream and laugh and cry, and it's over way too soon.

I'm disappointed when the cart returns to the loading area and slows down, but Derek turns to look at me. "Again?" he asks.

I laugh joyfully and nod at him. "Again."

Even though I know it's going to be short-lived, it's the first time I haven't felt sick since June.

I don't stop holding his hand after our second ride on the roller coaster. I hold it as we get out of the cart and as we walk down the path. I decline the ride in the cart and tell Derek I'd rather walk back to the car, but I don't dawdle. The park is just opening and I'd like to get out of there before the crowds converge.

I can't stop smiling and laughing or telling Derek, "Thank you." When we reach the car he turns my body so it's leaning against the car door. He steps in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body even if I can't actually feel the solidness of him. "Thank you," he whispers.

He doesn't say for what, but he also doesn't need to. I can see it all in his eyes. He's thanking me for letting him in, for letting him do this for me, for me telling him what I wanted, for laughing and smiling and holding his hand.

His eyes shift between my eyes and my lips and I'm still caught up in a euphoria that is preventing me from taking the time to rationalize my way out of this. I nod my head, barely, but he catches it and immediately moves his lips towards mine.

That's when I feel it, just when his lips are a breath away from mine, something warm running out of my nose. He sees it before his eyes completely close and pulls back. I reach my hand up and wipe at the blood on my upper lip. I pinch my nose and shrug, disappointed and embarrassed. I knew this could happen; I am well read on this topic. My platelets are probably a little low, the turning upside down on the roller coaster was probably pushing the envelope, and this is just like the bruises on my legs. I'm supposed to have a blood test tomorrow and I'll know. It's a real mood killer, though, and I feel bad for ruining our perfect moment.

And then, the trickle out of my nose stops. It turns into a full-force faucet, and there is blood gushing out of my nose, nothing that my fingers pinching could stop. Derek's eyes are immediately frightened, and mine, I'm sure, reflect the same sentiment.

I'm in his car with my seat belt around me before I can even comprehend how it happened so quickly. I sit there and pinch my nose and gag on the backwash of blood. I feel it falling down my lips and chin and dripping into a warm, sticky puddle on my shirt.

I pace in the waiting room at Johns Hopkins.

It took me about three seconds to rationalize that the fastest path to that hospital and Emily's doctor was in my car. Watching her with blood gushing out of her nose as I drove was terrible; watching the fear leave her face and a numb, absent look replace it was almost too much for me. But I pushed well beyond the speed limit and got her to the emergency room faster than any ambulance could have come to the amusement park and gotten her there.

I carried her in my arms into the ER, and she was immediately taken back to an exam room. I called Claudia to let her know what happened, and I asked Claudia to call Emily's mom. Everyone else could wait. The team was on a case, Penelope couldn't be here even if I really wanted her to be, and there was no use worrying them all until I knew more.

So I pace. It's been just about an hour when a doctor comes into the waiting room. "Mr. Morgan?" he calls out.

I turn and nod. He smiles at me. "Dr. McKenzie," he says while holding out his hand. "I'm Emily's oncologist. She's okay, even though I know that was scary. We got the bleeding stopped, but her heart was racing. She's sedated and sleeping now. Her platelets plummeted this past week, which sometimes happens. We're going to give her a platelet transfusion. That should take about an hour, and then we'll observe her for a few more hours. If everything goes well, she should be home by dinner."

"But what does it mean?" I ask.

"It's a side effect of chemotherapy, unfortunately. It doesn't mean things aren't working. In fact, her blood tests indicate that everything is working just like it should be. This is just a blip, but I'm sure it was a frightening one."

I nod, relieved, but my heart is still knocking around in my chest with adrenaline and fear.

"Would you like to go back and sit with her? We'll let you know if there's anything else, where you might need to make medical decisions while she's asleep, but I highly doubt that will be necessary."

I stop moving. "Why would I make medical decisions?"

Dr. McKenzie holds up a piece of paper. "You're her medical power of attorney."

I look at the paper and see the date. Emily signed this on July nineteenth, the day before she met me for coffee and told me about Charlie. I don't say anything; I'm worn down and confused. I follow Dr. McKenzie back into the ER and am led to a private, curtained room. Emily is asleep in the bed.

I sit in a chair next to her. I've sat like this, while she's slept, more times than I can count in the past several weeks, but this feels different. We're in a hospital and everything is amplified.

I hold her hand and wait, watch as a doctor comes in and hooks up an IV bag of a cloudy fluid. I don't doze, I don't look away from her face or stop holding her hand, I'm not even sure if I blink. When her eyes open a couple of hours later, mine are dry and raw.

"Hey," I say softly as I stand. "How are you feeling?"

She stares at me. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"For what? It was time to get my car detailed anyway," I say with a smile.

She lifts her lips slightly and squeezes my hand.

"You'll get out of here soon. You already got your platelet transfusion and it went just fine. They just want to observe you for a few more hours."

She nods, her eyes still on mine, but seemingly unable to say anything.

"Emily, how come you chose me for your medical power of attorney? I mean, I could understand it now, but you signed that before we even talked."

Her eyes glance away from mine and down. She mumbles something so softly that I can only catch syllables and vowels, but no actual words.

"What's that?" I ask.

She looks up at me, tears in her eyes. "Because I trusted you the most to not give up on me too soon."

It's a huge admission for her, and my heart that has gone from excitement to exhilaration to nervousness and then blind fear today yields to a different emotion. It literally feels like it's melting and remolding itself into something better because of the undeniable connection I have with the woman laying down in front of me.

I bend to kiss her forehead, then I kiss each of her eyes, before gently brushing my lips against her nose. I'm just about to touch her lips when she turns her head slightly. I catch the edge of her lips and her cheek. I pull back, hurt and confused.

Her hand is on my cheek in an instant and she's smiling at me. "Not like this. If this happens, I don't want the memory of it to be in a hospital," she whispers.

The if stings, but I try not to show it. She seems to realize it just a fraction of a second later. She touches my cheek again and traces her finger over my lips. "When this happens, I don't want the memory of it to be in a hospital."

I let out the breath I feel like I've been holding since we were in the parking lot at the amusement park. I sink back into my chair and kiss the back of her hand several times, and she doesn't pull away. When I rest my cheek on the edge of her bed, her free hand reaches over and rests on top of head.