Listed: Volumes I-VI

by Noelle Adams

  She didn’t look sick, but she was. And two weeks of her last three months had already passed.

  Sitting on the couch with a growing ache in his chest, Paul realized something he hadn’t consciously been aware of before.

  He was going to miss her when she died.

  FIVE

  Paul was really busy for the two days before they went to New York.

  Emily didn’t see much of him at all on the Wednesday and Thursday after their skydiving expedition, since he was gone from the apartment for most of the day, working in his company office or having meetings or something, and then he didn’t leave his home office most of the evenings.

  Emily didn’t complain or even mention his absence. She missed him a lot after spending so much time with him for the last couple of weeks, and she found herself quite lonely in the apartment by herself. But Paul had gone to incredible lengths to make wonderful things happen for her, and she could hardly begrudge him the need to spend his time working or having fun on his own.

  She wasn’t going to be a silly, self-centered girl who whined that the man who had married her, taken her skydiving, and was flying her to Egypt on Sunday wasn’t spending enough time with her.

  So the only time she interrupted him was to ask if he wanted to have dinner with her. On Wednesday he said he had too much to do, so he just ate a sandwich at his desk. He came out and had chicken stir-fry with her on Thursday, though.

  He was quiet at dinner, and he’d reverted back to the perpetually gentle look, which bothered Emily more than it should have. On Tuesday evening, she’d had such a wonderful time eating with him on the terrace. He’d seemed relaxed, like he thought of her as a friend and not as a project or an object of pity. It hadn’t lasted past the night, though.

  Emily refused to take it personally. He was probably stressed out by his difficult new job. His change in behavior surely couldn't be connected to her. She couldn’t think of anything she might have done to upset or offend him.

  She was disappointed by his standoffish mood, however, and honestly a little bit hurt. She’d felt close to him on Tuesday, and then it seemed to disappear.

  He still seemed quiet on the trip to New York on Friday. Once they were on the road, Emily started reading him passages of Henry IV Part 1 out loud, mostly so they weren’t sitting in silence. She hammed it up as much as she could and made Paul laugh with her exaggerated readings of Falstaff and Hotspur. Eventually Paul started reading scenes with her, and they had a great time going through the best parts of the play.

  When Paul was his warm, dry self again as they arrived at their very fancy hotel in New York, Emily congratulated herself on a job well done.

  * * *

  Emily woke up at three o’clock on Saturday morning with her mouth so dry it hurt.

  She sat up in the dark and drank the rest of the bottle of water she’d put on her nightstand before going to bed.

  When it was gone and she was still thirsty, she got up to go to the bathroom and then fill up a glass with tap water. She took a few sips and decided she must be getting spoiled, since tap water wasn’t nearly as good as the expensive bottled water she’d grown accustomed to over the last weeks.

  She and Paul were staying in a two-room suite on one of the top floors of the hotel. Emily had insisted that Paul have the larger room with the huge king-sized bed because she wanted the more feminine smaller room with pale blue walls and elegantly curved furniture. She peeked out the door to the bedroom and saw that the lights were off in the parlor, which meant Paul must have gone to bed.

  She couldn’t believe how dedicated he was to his new job. He’d still been working on his laptop when she’d gone to bed at midnight.

  She was only wearing a white tank-top and a pair of pink boy-shorts, and she didn't want to parade around Paul like that. Since he was in his room now, however, she didn't bother putting on more clothes.

  She walked through the huge parlor—complete with a fireplace and chandelier—to the kitchen. When she bumped into the edge of the bar, she reached over and turned on a small lamp so she could see where she was going, and then she opened the refrigerator to grab another bottle of water.

  Her mouth felt bone dry again, so she screwed off the top and took several cold gulps.

  She put the water down so she could turn back off the lamp, which should have been a simple process, but somehow she managed to knock the bottle off the counter as she was bringing her hand back from the lamp.

  The glass bottle landed on the tile floor with a loud clatter. It didn’t break, but it rolled across the kitchen, spilling out all the water onto the floor.

  Emily cursed under her breath and snatched up the bottle, glancing over at Paul’s closed door. It was dead silent in the suite, and she hoped the clatter hadn’t woken him.

  She couldn’t bring herself to leave spilled water on the floor—not in a place as nice as this—so she grabbed a hand towel and bent down to wipe it up as best she could.

  “Emily?” Paul’s voice came from across the parlor. “What’s wrong? Emily?” He sounded urgent, worried. Then the overhead lights came on.

  “Nothing,” she groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m just clumsy.” She wiped hurriedly, trying to get it done before Paul came into the kitchen. She felt her cheeks grow warm. She really should have put on more clothes.

  She wasn’t quick enough. Her back was to the entrance of the kitchen, but she could feel him standing there, assessing the situation, including the empty bottle of water, the wet floor, and Emily's hurried wiping.

  And very likely her overexposed butt.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, finishing up the floor before she turned around to see his expression. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. You can go back to bed.”

  “You should have turned the lights on. Why were you trying to grope around in the dark?”

  “I had the lamp on. I’d just turned it off before I knocked over the water.” She finished wiping and straightened up, hanging the towel on the side of the sink. “Your sage advice is much appreciated, though,” she added sarcastically, deciding she wasn't going to be self-conscious about her sleepwear. He saw her in her pajamas all the time, and this wasn't that much worse.

  She turned around then but froze when her eyes landed on Paul.

  She’d always only seen him fully dressed, and it was somehow shocking to see him now, shirtless and wearing nothing but pajama pants. Her eyes automatically registered the sight of his smooth shoulders, strong arms, efficiently sculpted chest, and hard abdomen. His black pajama pants were made of a very soft, thin fabric, and they molded the powerful contours of his legs.

  They were also riding low on hips, and there was something mesmerizing about the way his lean abdomen tapered down to the waistline of his pants, as if the rippling lines of his body were leading her eyes down on purpose.

  Emily gulped and turned away, pretending to wipe her damp hands on a dry towel. She suddenly felt hot and jittery, and it was a highly unsettling feeling. She’d found men attractive before, of course, but she’d never felt so tense and heated just from the sight of a man’s bare chest.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Paul asked, walking over to pick up the towel and wipe some water Emily hadn’t noticed off the counter.

  “Yeah. Just needed some water. Sorry about all the ruckus.” She glanced over her shoulder to look at him again, and this time she got the profile view, highlighting his flat belly and the curve of his tight ass, since he'd turned slightly away from her too. Her eyes darted down, quite unconsciously, to his groin. He didn't have a hard-on or anything, of course, but the soft fabric didn’t leave anything to the imagination, and she definitely saw something there.

  She flashed briefly to the idea that they were married. They could be having sex. They could have sex tonight, if both of them wanted to.

  She wanted to have sex with him, a lot more now than she had when they’d first wed. She hadn’t known Paul as well before, so it was sex in genera
l she was interested in. Now, however, she really liked him. And she really liked the idea of sex with him.

  Seeing him like this made her body like the idea of sex with him.

  But they’d taken sex off the table until her eighteenth birthday. It had been hard enough to bring the topic up the first time and mortifying when he'd rejected her, so there was no use to even think about it again until she turned eighteen. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to work up the courage even then.

  “I thought you’d already got a bottle of water before bed,” Paul said with a frown.

  She rolled her eyes, her unexpected physical response to him making her feel flustered and a little irritable. “I finished that one and needed another.”

  She turned around to face him again, determined not to act like a trembling virgin just because Paul appeared without a shirt. He would probably be appalled if he knew the direction of her thoughts.

  She saw him draw his eyebrows together. “Are you okay? Do you have a—”

  “I don’t have a fever,” she snarled, “I’m just thirsty. Stop fussing.”

  Paul blinked at her tone.

  “Sorry,” she said, tempering her voice and feeling like an ungrateful ass. “I’m really fine. Sorry I woke you.”

  He gave a half-shrug and walked over to the refrigerator himself, evidently deciding he wanted water too since he was up and they were talking about it.

  Emily couldn’t help but check out his bare back, since she was offered the view. The strong lines of his shoulders and the planes of his back were graceful and powerful—nothing over-developed or ungainly about him. But Emily was immediately distracted by something else.

  She gasped loudly and stepped toward him. “God, Paul, what happened?”

  “What—” he began, glancing at her over his shoulder. Then he must have realized what had diverted her.

  He stiffened. “It’s nothing.” He tried to turn around, but he was trapped by the open refrigerator door and by Emily, who had moved in closer.

  “Nothing?” she repeated, overwhelmed by horror and outrage at the sight of the network of ragged scars all over Paul’s lean back. The lines were white, so they must have been old. The idea of his being hurt so badly made her sick. “This is horrible, Paul! Who did this to you?”

  “Emily, I said it was—” Paul began, sounding awkward and uncomfortable.

  As he spoke, without any conscious volition, Emily’s hand reached out, and her fingers traced one of the longest scar lines, just at his shoulder blade.

  As soon as she touched him, Paul broke off his words and jerked away, his sudden motion causing the bottles in the refrigerator door to clatter. “It’s no big deal,” he gritted out, pushing her backward slightly so he could close the door. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

  “Melodramatic?” she repeated in astonishment. Her heart throbbed and her vision almost blurred as she tried to process his being hurt so badly. This was so much different than the faint bruises he’d noticed on her arm a week ago. “Paul, please, what happened?”

  Paul’s tight face softened slightly, but he stood with his back against the counter, evidently so she couldn’t see the scars. “It’s really not as bad as it looks. Several years ago, I…I fell.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Fell on what?”

  “Against the doors of a china cabinet.” He swallowed, not meeting her eyes. “The glass panes shattered.”

  Emily covered her mouth with her hand, the visual his words had evoked appalling. “How did you fall?”

  Someone wouldn’t accidentally fall backward into a china cabinet.

  When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Did he…did he push you?”

  “He didn’t mean to. We were arguing, and I got in his face. He never hit me or anything.”

  Her heart almost broke at the sight of his stiff, guarded face.

  Emily had lost her father, but he had loved her.

  Poor Paul hadn’t been so lucky.

  She couldn’t believe she’d thought his life was easy—just a few weeks ago.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Paul said again, his eyes darting over to check her expression. “All the cuts were fairly superficial.”

  “Superficial?” she breathed, stepping over to the counter and nudging him away so she could see again.

  The scars crisscrossed his whole back, some thicker than others, and she’d never known his back was torn up this way.

  “Do they hurt?” she asked softly, tracing the line of one of them gently with her fingers, even though he’d pulled away from her before. It was a stupid question, but her heart ached for him. Something tender and protective rose up inside her, stronger than anything she’d experienced before.

  “Not anymore.” He stood very stiffly with his head lowered, but he didn’t jerk away this time.

  She followed the line of another scar, brushing it with her fingertips. Then found another one, lower, near his waistband, that looked deeper and more jagged than the rest. His skin was warm and firm, even at the scars. She had no idea why she felt compelled to touch them—just wished her touch had the power to heal. “Oh, Paul,” she murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

  She heard his breath hitch strangely, and he muttered, “Emily, please don’t.” He took a couple of awkward steps away from her. He opened the refrigerator again and stared inside, as if he remembered he’d never gotten his bottle of water.

  Emily gazed at him, bewildered and disoriented. He’d sounded almost bad-tempered with her, and it hurt her feelings. She made herself think through it rationally, though, and she realized she’d pushed too hard, forced an emotional intimacy on him that he wasn’t comfortable with.

  Just because stroking his scars made her feel like she was somehow helping him didn’t mean that was what Paul himself would want. She’d gone way beyond the bounds of their relationship. They didn't pour their hearts out to each other. They respected each other's privacy, and they didn't make each other uncomfortable.

  She had no idea what she was thinking in trying to do all three just now.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He shook his head, a little jerkily, still staring into the refrigerator. Only his head and shoulders were visible above the door, so she could no longer see most of his scars. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Can I have a bottle of water?” she asked, since that was her purpose in coming out here at all.

  He handed her one without comment. Then told her goodnight. And he was still standing there staring into the refrigerator when Emily hurried into her room to hide.

  * * *

  Things returned to normal in the morning.

  When Emily woke up, she lay in bed for a few minutes and reoriented herself.

  Last night had been a stumble, but it was recoverable. She'd slipped into acting like she had a normal friendship with Paul, but that just wasn't the case. There were forced limits on her relationship with him. Those limits were set by her impending death.

  Their friendship didn't have a future, so it had to be about keeping each other company in the present. That didn't mean she couldn’t care about him—she did, a lot more than she would have imagined she could—but there was no sense in pushing it deeper. That would be hard, for both of them, and there wasn't any point to it.

  She was self-aware enough to know that, if she hadn't been dying, she would have been in danger of falling head-over-heels in love with Paul. It wasn't just that he was an incredibly attractive man. He was also funny and intelligent and generous and more considerate than she'd known him to be. But Emily's life now was all about moments—experiencing moments, enjoying moments, living moment by moment. And the nature of love assumed a future.

  She had no future.

  So, after assessing her emotional condition, she determined that things were going well with Paul. She was enjoying his company, and she thought he must be enjoying hers too, at least to a certain extent. They cared about each other, an
d the sacrifices Paul was making for her would be rewarded with the knowledge that he'd done something incredibly good, something worthwhile.

  That would matter to him.

  Hopefully, after she was gone, he could think back on her sometimes as a fond memory of a girl to whom he'd once given an incredible gift.

  She emerged from her bedroom, fully dressed and ready to be cheerful and natural. She wasn't surprised that Paul was already up and dressed himself. They had a quick, pleasant breakfast in the room, with no hint of the awkwardness of the previous night, before they went to visit the Empire State Building.

  Paul had made arrangements for them to get a private visit to the 103rd floor of the building, the very top usually available only to visiting dignitaries and celebrities.

  Emily was quite sure she wasn’t either a dignitary or a celebrity, but she wasn’t about to complain. She had a great time gawking over the view. Paul was well-informed on almost everything, and he seemed to be in a light, charming mood. While she didn’t like this mood as much as the dry, fond humor that seemed somehow more genuine, she wasn’t about to complain about having a fun, intelligent companion to see New York City with.

  It was much better than the awkward tension of the night before.

  After they finished at the Empire State Building, they strolled through Central Park and ended up having brunch in a trendy little bistro on 5th Avenue that specialized in cheese. It was packed out, but Paul had made reservations and had predictably snared the best table in the restaurant.

  Emily stuffed herself on scrumptious pancetta and gouda soufflé and hot beignets that melted in her mouth. Paul kept her giggling with stories about his trips to New York with friends in college and with every random detail he knew about cheese.

  “Did you want to do some shopping?” Paul asked, after they’d finished their meals and had drifted into a satiated quiet.

  Shopping was exactly what she wanted to do, but she had almost no money of her own, and she was determined not to spend Paul’s money on a pointless splurge for herself. He’d already spent a small fortune on her.