One

ONE

Snow drives into the windshield, turning an evening ride home into a theme-park spaceship ride, launching us into orbit, light streaking past, making me feel as if we're hurtling forward instead of inching along the highway.

"I'm thinking… Iceland," Anton says from the driver's seat.

I shake my head. "It's a freak fall storm. By tomorrow, it'll be gone. Wait until February. Then you can start complaining about the snow."

"I mean I'm thinking about going to Iceland. The two of us. On a cruise into the midnight sun."

I glance over at him. Headlights from the opposite lane catch his face, green eyes under dark hair falling over his forehead. He's overdue for a haircut, but I'll never be the one to remind him. I long to reach up and push the hair back, uncover the hidden strands of gray, run my fingers over the scar at his temple, maybe lean in to kiss his stubbled cheek. Yes, we've been married for two years, but I'm still ridiculously in love with my husband.

"Did you hear me, Nic?" he says.

"Mmm, no. I'm busy staring at you."

His color rises, which is adorable. I resist the urge to reach out and touch his thigh, tickle my fingers over it. None of that while driving in a snowstorm.

"Fine," I say, "you were saying something about a cruise to… Iceland?"

His gaze doesn't leave the road. "I know cruises aren't your thing, but this is an intimate one, with an emphasis on adventure and education. I'm quoting the pamphlet. Can you tell?"

I smile. "I can. I like the sound of ‘intimate,' though."

"And your brain stopped there. Small cruise, I mean. Fifty people. Lectures and sea kayaks. Glaciers and whale watching. That sort of thing."

"I would love that. Seriously. It sounds amazing, but I'm not sure… Well, we'd need to see whether it's doable. For me."

He takes his eyes from the road just long enough to fix me with a look.

"Which you have already done," I murmur. "You wouldn't mention it unless you were already sure they could accommodate someone with CF. Because you are amazing and perfect."

"Can I get that in writing? For the next time I burn breakfast? Yes, I found a travel blog from someone with CF who took the cruise, and I checked with Dr. Mendes. She thinks it would be fine, with all the usual precautions."

Which means taking along my shitload of medical supplies— bottles of enzymes and my vest and my nebulizer—and a backup power supply. But it can be done, and that's the important thing.

"I would love to see Iceland," I murmur.

"Excellent, and if you want to test out cruising first, I found another small one that sails through the Great Lakes. Would you like that?"

"Yes, please."

I smile and lean back against the headrest. Iceland. My parents would be proud of me, as if I were doing it at eighteen instead of thirty-eight. But I know, despite their boundless support, that they'd always worried I wouldn't live to thirty-eight. When I'd been diagnosed as a baby, my life expectancy ended a decade ago. But a lifetime of advances mean I'm still here, even when my parents aren't around to see it.

Thirty-eight years old, married, heading off on cruises with my husband. I spent my life being told that none of that was possible. Not by my parents, of course, or my brother or my doctors. But it felt like everyone else who heard I had cystic fibrosis put limits on me.

You won't live past twenty, thirty if you're lucky. You can't play sports. You won't marry. You won't go to university.

I can still hear the guidance counselor telling me I could skip career-planning day because, well, that wasn't for me, was it? No point in a career I won't live long enough to need.

I ended up with a master's in software engineering. At university I was part of the running club and ran three half-marathons. A decade ago, I started my own company. And then, just when I was certain marriage was no longer in the cards, Anton came back into my life.

I won't say I'm running marathons these days. I know what's in my future. I can feel it in my lungs. But for now, I am healthy enough to go on cruises and more, and we're doing it all while I still can.

It helps that I'm on a new medication. A groundbreaking one that has me more hopeful than I've ever been. The fact that—as of last month—it's covered by Canada's health plan means we have the money to do those cruises.

"I want the best cabin they've got," I say.

Anton smiles. "Do you now?"

"Yep. We are splurging. First-class airfare, best cabin on the ship."

"Champagne every night?"

"Damn straight."

He laughs and—

And then—

And then—

The rest comes in lightbulb flashes that illuminate a single scene before darkness falls.

Flash.

Headlights, closer than they should ever be, shining through Anton's window. We rocket sideways, and there's a crash, the sound coming on a delay, just as my brain screams What the hell is happening?

Flash.

The car has stopped. People are shouting. I'm… upside down? Sideways? I can only tell that I'm suspended somehow, the airbag in my face, seat belt cutting into my chest. I yank at it, panic making me struggle to breathe until I'm sure I can.

"Nic?"

Anton's voice is a groan. I turn my head, but all I see is my airbag. And blood. I see blood.

Flash.

Hands pulling me out of the car. A man's voice, pitched high.

"My truck hit ice. I lost control."

A woman's voice, snapping. "You were driving too fast. I told you to slow down."

"They're okay, right? They're going to be okay?"

"Does he look okay?"

Anton…

Flash.

So many voices. Everyone talking. Shouting for a doctor. Asking whether anyone's called 911.

"We've all called."

"Where the hell's the ambulance?"

"On its way. The storm…"

Flash.

I'm kneeling on grass. Slush soaks through my jeans. Blood drips down my face. Anton lies on a blanket someone has dragged from their trunk.

Anton, his breath wheezing, his chest caved in, blood streaming from his head, one eye fixed on me, the other off to the side, unable to focus.

"The airbag," a woman whispers. "Why didn't his airbag go off?"

Someone else shushes her. Strangers all around, pacing and whispering and keeping their distance, as if they're witnesses at a vigil.

"The ambulance is coming," I say, as I squeeze Anton's hand.

"I love you," he says.

"Shh. The ambulance—"

"Stay with me."

"I'm right here, baby."

"No, stay…" He struggles for breath, that awful wheezing sucking sound bubbling up. "It's okay. Just stay with me. Focus on me."

A noise comes out of my throat, an almost hysterical yip. "That's supposed to be my line."

"Nic?"

I squeeze his hand tighter. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Can you see me?"

His lips quirk. "I always saw you."

I squeeze his hand.

"Even when we were kids," he says. "You might not have seen me, but I saw you."

"I saw you, too."

Another quirk. "But not in a good way. I was a jerk."

"Your friends were jerks. You were just a guy with really bad taste in friends."

A soft laugh. "Maybe, but I had very good taste in girls. I always saw you, Nic. I always…" His voice catches. "I need to tell you something. A secret."

Something in me flails, a wild and unreasonable urge to stop him. Whatever he's about to say, don't say it. Just—

"Remember how I said I accidentally found your company when I went looking for a coder?" He's wheezing, struggling to get the words out. I try to stop him, tell him to rest, but he plows on. "It wasn't an accident. I recognized you in an article, and I had to reach out, take a chance." His fingers flutter in a weak squeeze on mine. "Best damn chance I ever took."

I lean over, pressing my lips to his. "I'm glad you did."

His mouth twists in a wry smile. "I don't think I'm going to Iceland, Nic."

"Don't say—"

"Wherever I do go, though?" His fingers tighten on mine, startling me with their sudden strength. "I'll be waiting for you. But…" His lips form the next word, but nothing comes out, and his eyes roll back, and his fingers release mine and, with a soft exhale…

Anton is gone.