New York

Winter 1920

There were so many things they needed to say, so many questions to ask. Where were you? How have you been? Did you miss me? Did you…forget me? But all they could do was gaze at each other. Jack held her hands, slowly moving his own over them. If he let go, she would disappear. Rose's lips moved, but no sound came out. Her heart pounded in her chest. She felt as though she was shaking, but she wasn't sure. The noise of the party was gone; as far as she was concerned, they were the only two people left anywhere.

"Do—do you wanna go somewhere and talk?" he managed to say. She nodded quickly. "Yes," she said. He held her hand as they left.

When the frigid night air hit her, Rose realized how tightly she was gripping his hand. She loosened her hold. He glanced at her. "It's fine," he said softly, squeezing her hand.

…

They studied each other across the small table. Their hands were wrapped around their coffee mugs. As soon as they sat down, awkwardness had settled over them like a fog. Neither of them wanted to speak first. "You look well," Rose said finally.

"So do you."

"Thank you…How did you get the…uh, the limp?"

"The War. I don't really like to talk about it, though. It was…pretty awful."

"I was a nurse," she said. "In France."

"Really?"

"I thought I should be doing something," she explained. "Something useful, and I never figured out how to knit properly. I didn't have anyone to worry about leaving behind, so I went."

"That's incredible," he said, looking into her eyes. She smiled. "Thank you." He leaned forward. "What else have you done?" he asked.

"Nothing else that interesting. I tried to be an actress and failed. It seems I don't have any talent for it." She let out a short laugh. "I've been doing political work, union organizing, suffrage."

"You're a Red, aren't you?" he said.

"That isn't the term," she said. "But yes. You could say that I have certain Socialist tendencies. I—" she stopped, noticing his grin. "You're trying to offend me, aren't you?"

"You're just so cute when you get annoyed," he said. "Didn't you call me that?"

"Yes," she admitted, smiling a little. He mimicked her exasperated tone. "You are so annoying!"

"Well, you were! Asking me about things you had no business asking about."

"You just didn't want to answer the question."

"I didn't think you deserved an answer."

"You didn't want to admit the truth."

Rose's expression grew serious. "I couldn't," she said. "Not out loud; not yet." Jack reached over and took her hand; he laced their fingers together. She looked down at their clasped hands. "I'm still so pale next to you," she said. "You're so tan and healthy-looking." She lifted his hand and lightly pressed it between both of hers. "You look like you belong outside," she went on. "Under the sun, building something, making things grow. I love that about you. You see things, but you also do them." She met his eyes. The intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down her spine.

….

Jack's apartment was small, just two rooms with a tiny bathroom attached to the bedroom. There were drawings on the kitchen table and canvases leaning against the walls. Some were finished, while others were in various stages of completion. "Oh," Rose said, dazzled by the display. She slowly circled the room, examining each picture. Jack watched her, nervously awaiting her response. "You've gotten better," she said. "These are—" she froze in front of a completed portrait of herself. Rose instantly recognized the scene that had inspired it. The colors were rich and vibrant. This other version of her looked so real, she half-expected her to step off the canvas. Her curls blew freely in the wind; her cheeks were flushed with cold—or was it pleasure? Her lips were swollen from kissing; the sky above her was full of stars. "When did you paint this?" Rose whispered.

"About a week ago. I dreamed about you—us," he said. "That night. It kind of painted itself. I just held the brush." She turned to him. "It's exquisite," she said. "I don't know how you do it. You have such a gift."

"People still don't think too much of 'em," he said with a shrug. "My style isn't what the critics want."

"Someday they'll regret ignoring you," she replied.

"Do you want to sit down?" He pulled a chair out from the table. "You can take your coat off, if you want, though it's not too warm in here." She took the opposite chair. "You're closer to that one," she said.

"I was holding it out for you."

Her eyes glittered. "I know. You don't have to do that." She reached across the table and took his hand. A few drawings fluttered to the floor. She moved to retrieve them. "Leave 'em," he said. "It doesn't matter."

"What are you doing in New York?" she asked.

"I don't know," he answered. "I've been here a few months. Since the War I haven't traveled as much. I haven't wanted to the way I used to. I kinda felt I was supposed to be here. I was in Boston for a while, and something told me to come here. Have you been here this whole time?"

"No," she said. "I left a few days after…I hated this place. It was cold and grey. Everything reminded me—" She stumbled over the words, her voice thick with emotion. "Reminded me I was alone." He brushed the tears from her eyes. "Don't cry," he said softly. "It's alright. You aren't alone."

"I couldn't find you," she choked out, tears streaming down her cheeks. "It was so cold, and I kept screaming for you, but you weren't there." Jack pulled her to her feet and into his arms. For the first time since seeing him at the party, she relaxed. She sank against him. "You smell the same," she said. He pressed his face into her neck. "So do you."

Slowly, they moved down to the floor and sat with their arms around each other. "I guess my feeling was right," Jack said. "Why did you come back?"

"My mother died."

"Rose, I'm sorry."

"It's alright. We hadn't been on very good terms. I told her I was still alive after the Carpathia docked. I didn't want her to spend the rest of her life thinking I was dead; it didn't seem right," she explained. "She was overjoyed, at first, but when I refused to marry Cal—or anyone else—she decided she'd rather not see me for a while. After the house and everything else in Philadelphia was sold, she moved here. She preferred to be poor in a place where fewer people knew her. I sent her money from time to time, but she never responded."

"That must've been really hard," Jack said somberly. "I remember what losing my mom was like."

"We had a complicated relationship," Rose said. "We were never close. I wasn't the kind of daughter she wanted."

The hours slipped by. Their conversation was punctuated by lapses into silence. It wasn't from lack of things to say, but rather, from the need to just be with one another. There was an unspoken understanding that they had plenty of time to say everything they needed to.

"I've been living in Los Angeles," Rose said. "It seemed like the best place to go if I wanted to be an actress, and when that ended I was settled in and didn't want to leave. It also made me think of you…in a good way. It didn't make me sad."

"I went home for a while," he said. "Never thought I'd do that."

"What made you change your mind?"

"After everything that happened, I didn't want to stay in New York, but I wasn't ready to just head back out there. I wanted to be somewhere familiar. I thought it might help."

"Did it?"

"No." He shook his head. "I shoulda never gone back. Everything was different. The people I knew were changed or gone. They didn't know me anymore. It was like being a ghost. People recognize you, but they don't really want you around, at least, not the way you are now."

A little while later Rose untangled herself and stretched. Her stiff muscles cried out in protest; she stood up and looked at the clock. "It's past one," she said. Jack stood up beside her. "I should go," she added, turning toward him.

"I don't want you to go."

They were so close; their lips were almost touching. In that moment she realized they hadn't kissed since meeting. She looked into his eyes. They were so blue; they seemed to look not just at her but into her. "Ask me to stay," she said.

Jack didn't respond in words. The kiss was overwhelming. Rose's knees buckled, and she struggled to breathe. No-one else had ever kissed her like this. She felt as though she would fall, but as soon as she began to, his arms were there to catch her. She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him. Jack pressed her closer. Their kisses were deep and hungry, but they weren't enough.

In one swift motion, he lifted her up. Rose's voice was low. "Where are you carrying me off to?" she asked. It was only a few steps to the bed. "To the stars," he answered, laying her down. She moaned softly as his lips moved down her throat. He undid the buttons on the front of her dress with ease. She leaned up just enough to shrug off the top half. Jack could only gaze at her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Rose blushed under his stare. A mischevious grin spread across his face. "Are you blushing?" he teased.

She took his hand and placed it on her breast. "Yes," she said. "Now, put your hands on me."

In moments the rest of their clothes were off and tossed aside. Their hands roamed over the other's body, exploring greedily. They couldn't touch each other enough; they couldn't be close enough. Their kisses were deep and filled with all the longing of the years spent apart. Rose felt him pressing against her thigh; she shifted slightly and pressed her knees against her hips. Jack's moan came from deep in his throat. "Are you sure?" he asked, hesitating.

"You have to ask?" she gasped.

It was over quickly. They couldn't help themselves. It was almost like a need to devour one another. Jack lay in Rose's arms, his head resting on her chest. She slowly ran her fingers through his hair. "No-one has ever made love to me the way you do," she said softly.

Jack knew he shouldn't care, but a part of him did. "Who else has made love to you?" he asked. The few seconds it took for her to answer felt like years. He wished he hadn't even said it. But there was something about the image of another man kissing her, another man touching her, that unsettled him. He wasn't angry; he just wished it hadn't happened. He wish he'd never been with other women after her. He wished they had never lost those eight years.

"When I was still trying to be an actress, right before I gave up, I had an affair with one of the men in my theatre group," she said. "It was about five years ago. It only lasted a couple of months. Neither of us were interested in anything else."

"Why did you pick him?"

"He was good looking," she said. The memory moved across her mind.

Summer 1915

Steven had dark grey eyes and soft brown hair. His features were finely chiseled, like a sculpture's. His training as an actor combined with a natural charisma to give him total sway over any room he entered. His reputation with women preceded him, but Rose didn't care. He was exciting. Being with him made her heart beat a little faster. He gave off the impression that he could made things happen without even trying. She didn't admit it to herself, but he reminded her a little of Jack in that regard.

His hands were soft and his nails manicured; being touched by them didn't carry the thrill she hoped it would, but making love with him was still more than pleasant. Steven was a skilled lover, although there was nothing personalized about it. Every woman received the same treatment. She couldn't help but remember what it had been like with Jack. He had seemed to be trying to memorize her body, taking his cues from her responses.

He never told her he loved her, and she didn't want him to. It was enough to be held and told she was beautiful.

"I lived with a woman," Jack said. "For about six months in 1916."

"Did you love her?"

"No. I liked her. She was smart and had a good sense of humor, but I didn't love her. We were both just lonely, I guess."

"I hate thinking of you with another woman," she said softly. "Even the ones who came before me." He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. "You're the only one I've ever loved," he said. "You are the best thing that ever happened, even though I lost you for so long." Tears glistened in her eyes. She hugged him tightly and kissed his hair. "I'll never leave you," she said.

Jack lightly rubbed his thumb across her cheek. He kissed her, slowly and tenderly. The lost years didn't matter anymore. They couldn't get that time back, and what had happened was unimportant. All that mattered was making the rest of their time together count.