by Noelle Adams
Paul cleared his throat. “Just tell me.”
She cut her eyes up to his face and swallowed. “There is one thing on my list I can do now.”
His features twisted briefly before he composed them. “Is this is your way of breaking it to me gently?”
Emily smiled and met his eyes. “I should have done it early on, but I was too scared. It would have been a lot easier for both of us if I’d done it first, though. It wouldn’t have bothered you so much back then.”
“It would have bothered me,” Paul said. “I never would have been all right with my wife stripping for other men.”
“It’s not really stripping,” she objected quickly. When he just arched his eyebrows, she hurried on, “I mean, it will be sort of like that, but I’m not going to get totally naked or anything.”
“I should think not.” His voice was low and slightly rough, and something primitive had flared up in his eyes.
Emily released a long sigh. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not want you want, but I really want to do it. I want to finish my list.”
“Why the hell is stripping even on your list?”
“I know it's a little weird, but I’ve always been kind of…kind of insecure about my ability to attract men. When I was twelve…I don’t know, doing a sexy striptease on stage seemed like a symbol of my being a confident, desirable woman. A woman that men would want.”
“Of course, men want you,” Paul said in almost a growl. “Can’t you just do a dance for me?”
Despite herself, Emily almost snickered. “Nice try, but that’s not what I was envisioning when I wrote the list. I’m sorry, Paul. I really am. But I want to complete the list for real—not just give it lip-service.”
She stared down at his face worriedly. She didn’t need his permission, but she really wanted his support. It was going to be hard enough to go through with this as it was.
When she saw the resistance in his expression break slightly, she continued, “I’ve talked to Stacie about it. She knows a club that has an amateur night on Sunday evenings. She says the mood is more fun than sleazy, and she’ll help me practice the dance. I could do it this weekend and get it over with. Stacie will go with me.”
Paul straightened up in his desk chair. “I’ll be going with you too,” he said with a frown.
Relieved that he’d accepted the idea, Emily squeezed his warm hand with both of hers. “You can come if you want, of course, but I’d be more comfortable if I just went with Stacie.”
“You don’t even want me to come?”
“It’s not that I don’t want you with me. It’s just that you’ll make me more self-conscious, sitting there glowering.”
“I won’t—”
“You will too,” she interrupted with a fond smile. “I know that just the fact that I’m doing this will be hard for you. You don’t have to actually be there, Paul. I’m a big girl. I can do this on my own.”
She wasn’t sure at all how he would respond. She knew he was a possessive, territorial. She knew he was used to controlling things. He’d been working on letting go a little in his relationship with her, but he hadn’t yet let go very much. And having his wife do a striptease on stage in front of a club full of strangers would force him to let go of more control than he could easily do.
Paul stared at an empty spot in the air for a minute. Then he finally let out his breath and gave a stiff nod. “All right.”
Emily relaxed and squeezed his hand again. “Thank you. It won’t be that bad.”
“You say that now…”
She giggled and leaned down to hug him. He pulled her into his lap and held her tightly.
Burying his face in her hair, he murmured dryly, “You’re sure you don’t want to just strip for me? I promise I’ll be a very receptive audience.”
She laughed again. “If you’re very good, I’ll give you a private showing on Sunday when I get back from the club.”
She was relieved when he laughed too, low and husky.
He held her for a few minutes in silence, and she took comfort in his lean strength. She knew by the tension in his arms that he was trying to work through his instinctive need to hold onto anything that was his.
The striptease would be hard for Emily. Just the idea of it made her heart flutter nervously. But, in some ways, her doing it would be even harder for Paul.
“It’s important to me,” she said after a long while, making one more attempt to explain why she was pursuing such a silly thing when it wasn't really what either of them wanted. “The list is important.”
Paul brushed a kiss against her hair. “I know it is, baby. If it’s important to you, then it’s important to me too.”
* * *
Late on Sunday evening, Emily came home from the club, exhausted and kind of shaky. She was happy she’d managed to do the striptease, but she was really glad it was over.
And it felt like she was getting sick again.
She’d had a fever the previous day, but she‘d felt better that morning, so she spent most of the afternoon practicing her dance with Stacie.
Her dance was short and simple, since Emily wasn’t the best dancer in the world and had only limited time to practice. She and Stacie had gone shopping that morning and had decided on her outfit. Since Emily was already nervous, Stacie had suggested that she not wear something too tacky or overtly sexual - like a dominatrix or an exotic showgirl. So they’d found a prim librarian outfit with old-fashioned blouse and wrap skirt that could be easily taken off, which she’d worn with a bun, heels, and glasses. And she’d strip down to a vintage bustier, lace panties, garter-belt and stockings. It was very sexy, but wouldn’t actually reveal any more of her body than a swimsuit would.
Emily had been absolutely terrified by the time they got to the club for amateur night. If Stacie hadn’t been with her, she definitely would have chickened out. She felt a little better when she started to see some of the other acts. None of the other women were much better than she would be, and the audience seemed to enjoy them anyway.
But, when it got to her turn, she was terrified again, and Stacie practically had to push her onto the stage.
Emily had been a hit—getting a better audience response than any other of the amateurs performing. In some ways, it was gratifying. She’d known for many weeks that Paul found her sexy, but it was nice to know that strangers could too.
By the time her dance was over, though, Emily was quite sure she never wanted to do it again. Being ogled by strangers just didn’t come close to being admired by someone who loved her.
So, when she returned to the apartment afterwards, Emily was glad she had summoned the courage to do it, but she was ready to cross it off her list and be done with it.
She went to the office immediately and was surprised that Paul wasn’t there. She’d figured he would have spent the evening buried in work to distract himself from thinking about her.
She searched the apartment and finally found him in the master bathroom. He’d just gotten out of the shower, but he opened the door at her knock, a towel slung low around his hips.
“How was it?” he asked, smiling at her, his face mostly relaxed although his eyes looked a little stressed.
“It was fine,” she said, grinning back despite the fatigue that kept creeping up on her. “I did pretty well.”
“I’m sure you did.” He came out of the bathroom and went into the closet to get a pair of pajama pants.
“What have you been doing?” she asked. “I thought you’d still be working.”
“I couldn’t focus, so I worked out instead.”
The words were mild, but Emily suddenly understood what they meant. He’d probably spent the last couple of hours working out his frustrations on the weights and treadmill. He was acting perfectly calm about the whole situation, but she knew it must have been hard for him.
Paul dropped his towel and pulled on the soft, black pajama pants. Emily watched, absently admiring his lean hips, long legs, a
nd other impressive body parts.
He studied her face after he pulled up the pants. “You don’t look like you had a very good time.”
She shrugged. “I’m really glad I did it, and I’m glad I did a good job. But I definitely don’t want to do it again.”
His lips turned up slightly. “Good. I know some men are fine with it, but I’m not sure I could handle having my wife stripping for other men regularly.”
She walked over to hug him. “Thanks for understanding, Paul,” she whispered.
He hugged her back. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t really need to.
When they finally pulled apart, Paul glanced down at her. She was still wearing the prim librarian outfit and very high heels. “Did you want to show me your dance?” he asked, a new note entering his voice.
Emily sighed. “I do, but maybe not tonight. I’m actually not feeling all that great right now.”
Paul’s expression changed. He raised a hand to feel her forehead and then her cheek. “Why don’t you just take some Tylenol and go to bed?”
She nodded. “I might take a bath first.”
Paul went to draw her a bath while she took off her sexy clothes and dumped them in a heap on the closet floor. Paul had poured the lemon and eucalyptus oil into the bath, and the familiar soothing fragrance made her feel a little better immediately.
Paul sat next to the tub while she soaked. He didn’t say much. She didn’t either. The evening had taken all the energy she had, and she could feel another fever coming on.
But she was glad Paul was beside her. At one point she reached over to take his hand, and she didn’t let it go.
He was an intensely complicated man. He was guarded and needy, controlling and generous, possessive and deeply loving, experienced at everything except being in a real relationship.
He was her husband.
When the water in her bath was starting to cool, she opened her eyes and looked over at him. He’d been gazing at her, something deep and aching in his expression.
A couple of tears streamed down her cheeks. She was feeling too sick now to stop them. “Thanks for not making this evening hard for me, Paul. I know it took a lot for you to…to be all right with me doing this.”
After a moment's hesitation, he admitted, "It shouldn't have been as hard for me as it was."
She gave a little shrug. "But it was hard, and I understand why. And it means so much that you…that you…" She couldn't figure out how to finish.
She didn't have to. Something cracked on Paul’s face for just a moment before he composed it. "It's about you, baby. It's not about me."
Emily shook her head. "It's about both of us."
He helped her out of the bath, and she dried off and pulled on some clean pajamas. Then she brushed her teeth, went to the bathroom, took some pills, and climbed into bed.
Before she lay down, though, Paul went to get a well-worn piece of paper and a pen.
Emily was able to cross one more item off her list.
***
Today was one of Emily’s “good” days, but it wasn’t very good.
They’d gone to the hospital for another one of Dr. Franklin’s treatments and another blood test that had shown the virus was still getting worse. It was progressing a little slower than before she’d started the experimental treatments, but it just wasn’t getting any better.
When Emily had felt that drop of despair in her stomach that morning and seen a matching expression on Paul’s face, she’d made a decision. She wasn’t going to get hit by this sledgehammer every other day for the last few weeks of her life. She just wasn’t. And she wasn’t going to let Paul get hit by it either.
So she’d asked Dr. Franklin not to share the results with them until there was something noteworthy to report—noteworthy meaning that she was about to die in the next few days or she was going to get better.
Paul hadn’t been happy. In fact, he had objected to this idea quite strenuously. She’d dug in her heels, however, and—since she was legally in control of who had access to her health information—Dr. Franklin had agreed to her wishes despite Paul’s vocal disapproval.
“Don’t sulk,” she said at last, tired of his silent glare from where he sat in the back of the chauffeured car beside her.
He turned his head and arched his eyebrows speakingly.
She made a face. “Don’t give me that look. You know it’s better for our mental well-being if we’re not constantly on this roller-coaster every two days.” She sighed. “Especially since the roller-coaster isn’t doing anything but plunging down.”
“Stop it,” Paul gritted out, “It’s too early to give up hope. Dr. Franklin said there are other options he could try. There’s no reason to assume nothing is going to work.”
Emily shook her head and looked out the window. She didn’t want to argue with Paul—not when she knew how much he was hurting, how much he was torn up over being powerless to save her.
But he wasn’t going to be able to save her. She was dying. She felt worse every day. She’d been delirious with fever most of the day yesterday, and today large doses of ibuprofen were barely holding off the unbearable achiness. Even her eyes seemed to hurt.
It used to be that her fevers were pained, blurry blips, interrupting the cycle of her life. Now her life was a blurry downward spiral, interrupted by her good days like short, disconnected blips.
She glanced back over to his to find he was staring out his window as she’d been doing. Today, he wore a French blue dress shirt and black trousers, since he’d gone into the office that morning. His clothes were expensive, and he wore them with the ease and authority with which he wore everything. But he looked tired, pale, tense. His forehead under his dark hair glinted slightly, as if he were perspiring.
He was only twenty-three. Much too young to watch his wife die.
Much too young to be a widower.
“I’m not giving up,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “I just think it would be better if we have longer between the updates. There’s nothing we can do with the information every other day except worry about it. I don’t want you to worry so much.”
His mouth twisted and he reached out to cup her cheek briefly before he dropped his hand to the seat between them. “I’m going to worry about you anyway.”
“I know. But I don’t want to give you any more ammunition. Dr. Franklin will tell us when there’s something we need to know.”
He nodded his head stiffly. He wasn’t happy. He didn’t approve. But he wasn’t going to argue.
She thought he understood.
“It’s still all right for us to leave for Hawaii on Thursday?” she asked, thinking about her list still left unfinished in her nightstand drawer.
“Yes,” he said, rubbing his face with his hand. “And we might as well stop at the Grand Canyon on the way.”
She perked up. “Really? We’ll have time?”
“We’ll have time.”
“Can we—?” She broke off her question before she completed it. The trip to the Grand Canyon and then to a volcano on Hawaii would already take more time than Paul could probably afford to give up. She couldn’t let him get on the wrong side of the board by taking even more time away from Philadelphia.
Paul frowned. “Can we what?” After a brief pause, he added, “I thought about stopping in California, so we could finish your list, but I thought that would make the trip too long.”
“It would,” she agreed readily. “You shouldn’t be away from work so long right now. Just the two stops will be perfect.”
His frown deepened. “I can take as much time as I need. I meant it would be too long for you. I thought you might not be up to it, since you haven’t been feeling well.”
Emily swallowed hard. Let out a deep breath. Admitted, “I’m not sure I’m going to feel any better. It might be a good idea to do everything we can now.”
Paul’s face tightened, and he opened his mouth. She knew he was going to ob
ject, so she spoke over him, “I’m not giving up. I promise. But I want to be prepared. I really want to finish my list—just in case.”
There was no “just in case” about it in her mind. This was the end. She only had a limited amount of time and health left to use, and she still had items on her list that needed doing. But she didn’t want to upset Paul, so she didn’t say it out loud.
He looked upset anyway. His shoulders were stiff, and he turned his face away from her, looking out the window again. After a minute, he turned back. “I want you to finish your list too. I’ll start to make arrangements to stop in California. We can do all three on the same trip.”
She smiled at him, a little shaky. “Thank you. Then all I’ll have left is finishing Shakespeare. I’ve got one more act to finish in this one, and then it’s just Hamlet left.”
Paul opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. He turned away again.
Emily didn’t push. She wanted to reach over and hug him, but he was looking prickly and so she gave him some of the space she knew he needed.
None of this was fair to him. And, no matter what he said, it was her fault he was in the position of losing the woman he loved. She had to do what was best for him.
* * *
Emily wasn’t exactly comfortable, but she was still having a good time.
She’d only recovered from her last bout of fever a few hours ago—so she was drained and incredibly sore—and the bouncing of the mule didn’t help. Her head hurt a little from the bouncing, and the sun was hot on her already hot face. Plus, her thighs were pulled at an odd angle by the position of the saddle.
But she wouldn’t have traded it for the world—not the chance to see Paul Marino riding a brown mule along the Grand Canyon.
His expression was composed and unrevealing, but she knew he would have preferred to be elsewhere. He’d taken her skydiving, ice-skating, and globe-trotting without batting an eye, but the undignified mule-ride was stretching his composure.
He wore a pair of khakis and a black t-shirt, and he looked as outdoorsy as it was possible for him to look—which was not very. She was sure he’d ridden horses at some point in his past because he had no trouble keeping his seat.
