“For me.”

“Yes.” She looks at me head-on, with the same direct stare that Stewart uses, one that seems to peer into my soul and strangle the truth from me. “Is that who you want? Paul?”

I sigh. “I’ve asked myself for two years which one of them I would choose—if put in that situation. I love Paul. I love our life together. We fit...in a way that is easy. Seamless. Stewart is the opposite of me. He gives me a different side to life. I will miss that part; I will miss his intensity, his fire. But just because I’ll miss it doesn’t mean it is meant to be my everyday. I don’t know if I could handle him every day. And I would never be happy with being second to his work. And I could never ask him to work less. You know him. His work... it is his breath. He has a fire for it, it is what makes him tick.” I fidget with my hands. “I don’t know if I would have ever willingly walked away from Stewart—but this is what’s best. I know that. I love Paul. It wasn’t really ever fair for any of us—what was going on.” I blink, realizing suddenly, that tears are welling, embarrassment seeping through me at the weakness. I wipe at my eyes, avoiding her gaze. “I just want him to be happy.” I whisper. “I hate the thought of him being alone.”

I feel her arms, they wrap around me, the strength of them comforting. And I relax in her embrace and let the tears, and the guilt, flow.

Stewart never came back to the hospital. Every time the door opened, or I heard a voice in the hall, I expected it to be him. But he never returned.

They release me three days later, when I had reached a point of bitchiness, trying to rip the IV from my arm and biting the heads off anyone but Paul or Dana.

Dana. I finally realized where I knew her from, her face turning bright red when I brought it up. It was then, over hospital Jello and shit coffee, that she told me. How she watched me. Suspected me of some master plan, one that would destroy her brothers. How she hated me from afar. She apologized, though none was needed, and we hugged. And she paid me the nicest compliment I have ever gotten.

“I see why they love you. It is hard, while in your presence—not to love you.”

I blushed, taking a sip of coffee to disguise the reaction, and thought about how vile I had been since waking up chained to this bed. How she was able to see any redeeming qualities was a shock.

Then, finally, they put me in a wheelchair and take me out, Paul’s Jeep parked at the curb. The wheelchair is unnecessary; I could have cartwheeled out of there. But some hospital policy requires it, and I am only too happy to oblige. Anything to speed my exit. Anything to get me out of the sterile environment and back into beach air and sun.

Paul lifts me from the chair despite my protests, taking advantage of the act and brushing his lips over mine, his eyes examining me, filled with emotion. “I love you, Maddy.”

I grin at him. “I love you, too.”

“I’m so happy you are coming home.”

I don’t know if he is referring to my near-death experience, or the fact that I am now fully his, without a second man hovering over our relationship. But either way, I am  happy, too. More than happy, I am anxious, ready, for our new life together. And yet, there it is. Guilt. Leaning onto my shoulder, whispering in my ear. Every smile, every burst of happiness accompanied by a twinge of guilt. I am coming home to Paul; I am making a life with him. And Stewart will be alone. Twinge.

Paul sets me into the front seat and buckles the belt around me, his normal scent—one of ocean and sunscreen—gone. Replaced by hand sanitizer and ivory soap. I’m suddenly anxious for us to swim. To wash away all of the last four days and literally dive back into our old world.

“Paul,” I say softly, his head turning quickly at the words.

“Yes, baby? What is it, are you in pain?” his eyes are concerned, and I smile to appease his worry.

“No. When we get home... I want to go in the water. Just for a quick swim.”

He studies my face, leaning forward and giving me another kiss. “If that’s what you want, baby. I’ll do anything you want.”

Anything. It is true. The last two years have taught me that. Anything. It is a heavy word when used correctly. It is a word that can hold unknown possibilities.

VENICE BEACH, CA

It is good to be back. To step from the jeep and walk, my weight gingerly, then confidently, held by my legs. I stretch in our carport before turning to Paul, seeing him round the jeep, his eyes on me, intent, looking for some sign of physical weakness. I grin, shooting him a look he knows, a look that leads to ditched clothes and feverous hands.  He returns the smile, relief crossing his features, and reaches for me.

I dip around his hands, dropping my bag on the concrete, and dart into the sunshine outside our garage, surprising him with my speed. “Uh-uh,” I click my tongue at him. “Ocean—now.”

“I want you, now,” he growls, stepping out of the darkness, his hand catching my sundress and tugging on the fabric until I am against him. “Seeing as you seem to be back to normal.”

I push against him, breaking free and move, grabbing his hand and tugging him along the alley. “First the water.”

He wraps an arm around my neck, pulling me against him and pressing soft kisses on my head as we walked down a broken sidewalk we have traveled countless times before. A block from the water, when we round a corner and see the glint of afternoon sun reflecting of the waves, he bends, catching me off guard, and swoops me into his arms, smiling down at me as he moves.

“It’s cold out,” he warns. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Don’t chicken out on me now,” I warn, the sentence causing him to laugh. That beautiful sound, that huge smile I have missed; the closer we step to the water, the less intensity his eyes carry.  He pulls me to him for a kiss, then throws me over his shoulder and breaks into a run. I bounce, holding on tightly, and laugh, feeling the change in his stride when his feet reach the sand. I brace for the water.

Freezing, shockthebreathoutofyou cold. Paul hits it first, gasping, then moves in deeper and unceremoniously dumps me into the ocean. His hands pull me to him, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist and squeezing, seeking the warmth of his body as I move closer.

“Told ya,” he whispers, his hands on my skin, rubbing it, warming it slightly as he gathers me against his chest and takes us deeper, the water now at our shoulders, waves rocking us every few moments.

“It is pretty cold,” I agree, the click of my chattering teeth causing us to laugh.

He kisses me into silence, sliding his hands under my floating dress, pulling my hips hard into him. “What do you say you let me take you inside? Let the shower warm us up?”

“Or something else.” I whisper against his mouth.

“Or something else.” He grins, and I squeeze with my legs.

VENICE BEACH, CA

My wet dress feels like an ice pack by the time we stumble, shivering, up the steps to our home. The house is just as I remember it, and I feel a burst of shock at how much has changed since I last walked through these doors.

“Come here,” he whispers, adjusting the thermostat, leading me into our bedroom and pulling me close, rubbing his hands over my arms, stealing a quick kiss as he yanks at his shorts and drops them to the floor.

Wow. Anyone who thinks water causes shrinkage has never met this man. At least, not this man at this moment in time. He is, despite the smile he shoots me, raring to go, and I am suddenly warm, my skin tingling, the heat between us erasing anything else.