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I'm never sure if she's quiet because she's pensive, or because my driving makes her nervous. I hope it's the former, because I'm not likely to get that much better at driving anytime soon. I was glad to be able to borrow my mate's car, just as he was glad to get the flat to himself this weekend. I'd been saving up a bit for something special to give her, and this was the weekend for it. For a lot of things, I hoped, but I tried not to let too much of it show.

I gave her a sideways glance to my left, enjoying seeing her mane flipping in the wind made by the open window. She'd have a gripe about it later, as she knew it would get knotted up and tangled, and it irritated her no end, but she still loved the feel of the wind in her mane. It was one of the things we had in common, and although I most often got the sensation by running along the beach at St. Kilda when the wind was high, she preferred her entanglements through rides like this. It was magnificently warm for December, as summer was just trying to settle in like a very large cat in a sunbeam the size of all of Victoria, and it was Saturday, and we were driving, together, and I really couldn't ask for anything to be better. I hoped it would, but I didn't want to place bets, maybe just for superstition's sake.

For the fiftieth time that day, I sent up a bit of thanks to Someone Out There Somewhere for this beautiful palomino mare. Falling in love with Emma was as simple as breathing for me, and not just because she smells sweet. Her soft blue eyes, white-gold mane, perfectly golden coat, and her fine figure were just the surface of her. Complex and complicated both, intelligent and warm, caring and snarky, confident and terrified. We were two of a kind, when we let ourselves be. When we let ourselves.

She looked over at me and sang softly. "Chip chip, my little horse."

"Chip chip again, mum," I sang back.

"How far to wherever-the-heck-you're-taking-me?" she jammed the words into the verse.

"Fifteen klicks ahead, mum," I improvised. It made her laugh, at least. Neither of us would make the Operatic Society's Chorus, but it was fun for me to realize that she knew that little ditty from so long ago. We'd been up the M8 for a time and then, past Maddingley, I detoured off. The general direction included Lerderderg, but that wasn't quite where we were heading. Close, though.

"You're being secretive," she said.

"Romantic," I countered.

"Am I going to like it?"

"I certainly hope so." I was smiling, although still a bit nervous. We were taking it easy, working out the old questions yet again. That was one thing that I counted on, though. As long as we don't split apart more times than we come back together, it meant that we still wanted to work it out. After all, the Bard famously told us all about the course of true love, and the silly bugger had no idea, where we were concerned.

I love you. Why is that so difficult to say, sometimes? Why is it so difficult to hear, or to trust? Why is it that it's so easy for us to hurt each other, with those words or others? Well, actually, that's a mystery simple to solve. Look how we grew up, she and I. We each have our tales, many of them, and it is so easy to fall back into old ways of reacting to things. I've got a friend in the States fighting what he calls "old tapes" in his head. He's old enough, he told me, that some of them are 8-tracks, and the oldest are reel-to-reel. His Da had taught him how to splice and mend reel-to-reel tapes, even had a handy-dandy little gadget to help him. Shame it was his parents who gave him his first mental tapes, dozens, hundreds, thousands. You get 'em when you're young, they're a fuck to get rid of later. That's something he and I know, and Em knows it too. We've all had our fill. I think that's why he keeps cheering us on.

The roadways were well-marked, if discreetly. It wasn't like we were trying to find a gang hideout or something. When she realized that I was headed in the direction of (as the signs pointed out) Three Lasses B&B, she gave me a look I couldn't quite fathom. "Figureheads," I said, hoping I was anticipating her question correctly. "Prow carvings from some very old ships, one presumably from one of the prison ships."

"So we're not heading for Alice Springs?" she quipped.

"According to the website, the couple running the place are singularly heterosexual, married, and one of each."

"Makes a change."

I stole a glance at her and felt comforted by the smile on her muzzle. She really wasn't trying to be defensive or nasty, just glib. I felt both concern and patient caution fighting it out inside my heart and head. Old tapes, indeed. Arguments had started with less, and I didn't want that, not now, not this weekend. She was willing - more than merely willing - to try again, and I really didn't want to bugger this chance, like I buggered all the...

Old tapes, I heard him say in my head. Those are old tapes. Takes two to bugger properly.

Yah, he's my gay old wuff-pouf, grizzled gray-muzzle I met online some few years ago, friends and fellow writers, never bedmates, but damn if he didn't know my head faster and better than just about anyone else. I've told him things I've literally never told anyone else... even Em. He didn't take advantage of that, though. I mean, when I'd get so hurt over Emma, he was there. He never tried to take me away from her, not really, even though he's told me he wants me that much. But I mean, being real - distance, for one thing; history, for another. We had no idea about what we'd be like together, he and I, and we weren't likely to get the chance. Despite all that, the simple truth is that he cared - cares - enough to want what real happiness is, whatever that looks like, for him, for me, and by extension, for Emma. He made me realize that I wasn't all at fault, but never at Em's expense; just slapped my silly hoss' head when I tried to take all the blame.

I'm worthy of her, and she's worthy of me. We've both been tempest-tossed, storm-laden, downtrodden, and had our Whetabix pissed in. That's not because we're less than what we ought to be. Took me a lot of time to get that in my head, and she's been working on the same idea. It's part of what keeps us coming back together. We both know that we need to work at a relationship, any relationship, with any and everyone. And we know bullshit when we smell it, and we call each other on it. Sometimes, that splits us up, but it's also brought us back together. Shit is shit, but it washes off. That's what we remind each other. It washes off.

Swinging the car smoothly (for me) into the large circle in front of the B&B, I pulled up and looked at the place. I'd seen the photos on the Net, and the pictures, location, amenities, and price are what made me choose the place. Nearly mansion-sized, at least by my humble reckoning, it boasted a full-on hot-tub-and-the-works honeymoon suite, three simpler doubles, and three singles. There was a small cottage at the back as well, most often used by a writer who would come here to focus himself when his deadlines for publication loomed. He wasn't here this particular weekend, which was good for me, as I might have felt a wee bit intimidated by his presence. Either that, or try to talk shop, and that wouldn't do this weekend. This one's about us.

"We're not overnighting?" she asked, a hint of edge in her voice.

"I hope we are." I held up my forepaw before she could go on. "I packed a simple change of clothes for both of us; it's in the boot. You've left some clothing at the flat before, so I chose from that. And yes, I washed everything! See what a good domestic I'd make?"

"I thought we'd be staying in the city."

"Do you need to be in the city tonight? We're not that far away; we can go back."

She hesitated, which wasn't necessarily a bad sign or a good one. "I just didn't think..."

"Let me check something." I pulled out my cell, nodded. "The ads said they had service out here, and my cell works. Yours should too."

She checked. Knew she would. I've learned that it's not about her not trusting me; it's old habits, old tapes, like the bag I used to keep packed all those years ago. She had one, too. It was about being sure, double-checking, knowing a fact for yourself rather than trusting someone else's information or opinion. It stung a little, but a lot less now than not so long ago. I knew it for what it was, and I knew that we might never get completely over it. That didn't mean we couldn't make it work.

"Do you want to go back? We could have an early dinner in the town near here and drive back to the city. We don't have to check in." Gods, I wanted this to work. I so much wanted...

It took a bit, but she mustered a smile. "Not much on surprises, am I?" she noted softly. I could hear her unspoken thought: I'd like to be. If they're good surprises.

And just how many of those have we had in our lives?

That's why you make more for yourself, lovely, the wolf in my head said softly.

Hoping that I read her correctly, I stepped out of the car and got round to the other side to open the door for her. She climbed out readily enough, and with a cautious smile, she said, "I hope you've packed some proper toiletries, you male you."

"A good surprise for you there too, luv. You'll see." I placed a forepaw to her cheek, and she rubbed it against my palm. Definitely a good sign. I smiled warmly at her, got the duffel from the boot, and offered her my arm. She took it, and up the several steps we went, clopping across the huge wrap-around porch, and into the foyer of the establishment.

On the clean counter of the front desk stood a large, classically-styled summoning bell. I pushed the piston at the top (modestly, I thought), and a crystal clear chime echoed throughout the downstairs. Em jumped a bit. It was a loud little beast, to be sure.

In only moments, a plump, rather matronly raccoon came from out of the shadows of what seemed to be the dining area. I wondered if she were trying to be a cliché, or if she simply enjoyed her style of attire: Grandmother's lavender-flower print dress, gingham apron, her headfur in a tidy bun, and half-rim spectacles decorating the end of her nose. "G'day!" she said brightly, making me wonder if there might be a crocodile hunter in her lineage. "Wehl-cum t' Three Lah-sez! Oim Missus Grah-vitz!"

"It's okay," I grinned. "We're local."

"Thank heaven for that," the lady raccoon breathed happily, reverting to something closer to a BRP, the sort of accents Melbourne has in abundance. "American tourists expect me to sound like Paul Hogan! We are surprisingly free from reservations this weekend, in case you're just casting about."

I gave her my name.

"Oh yes, of course; you're the only person booking online to make requests and comments in real English instead of some gods-awful abbreviations. Thank you for that! The Sirens Suite, you said?"

"Online, it looked to have the best views and windows."

"Hence the name," the raccoon said with a wink. "It seduces the most hardy souls with gentle morning light from one side and delicate evening gloaming from the other. It's the largest of our singles. For your politeness, good equine, allow me to provide it to you at the rate of our regular-sized singles."

"You might regret that tomorrow," Emma grinned, "if breakfast is included. He's a ruck, and he eats like one."

I was grateful that my black coat only allowed a blush to be seen in the upper parts of my white blaze. The raccoon provided a full belly-laugh that would be the joy of any entertainer who values a live audience for his jokes. "Not to worry; we're fully stocked, and I don't think we'll have any competing rugby teams vying for the goods!"

I was grateful to sign the registration book and pass over the cash. I put Emma's name as well as my own. Nothing would allow me to say "Mr. & Mrs." or other fakery. I was wondering if we'd catch hell for not being married. Not a word or hint of displeasure was shown. The lady raccoon couldn't have been nicer. She showed us upstairs, to the end of the hall, and opened the suite door with a key that looked like it belonged in the Addams Family house. "Part of the ambience," she said. "These are original keys and locks, set into these more modern-fashioned doors, made to look as old as they're supposed to. We're really quite secure here. You can take the key with you, or leave it downstairs at the desk, as you wish. We're not bothered with strangers, ne'er-do-wells, or footpads."

"What do you do if any show up?" Emma wondered.

"My husband was a bowler for the Uni Eleven," Mrs. Gravitz noted, "and he can still knock a wicket from under a flea's belly and make the insect wonder where his foothold got to."

"And you?"

"Who d'ya think keeps hold of his bat?" The raccoon winked at us again as she moved around the room to open the windows a bit. I decided I liked her.

It was indeed a grand room, and high ceilings (a two-meter tall stallion notices these things in the brochures). The most modern thing we found was a ceiling fan, with large wicker blades; if I was right, those were originals, refitted to full electric from the old series of pulleys used a century ago and controlled from a dynamo in the basement. The bed was a gigantic exaggeration of a king-sized bed, the kind of thing out of a John Denver song, with two full sets of pillows and what looked like a pawmade quilt as well. A chaise lounge appeared both comfortable and mildly suggestive - lovely combination. The bath was equally well-appointed, and although the tub couldn't accommodate both of us in luxury, it would certainly do to give Emma a soak, and my wolf friend had given me an idea that I hoped to try out.

Mrs. Gravitz suggested a few places in the nearby town to get dinner, pointed out the "sunset window" to the walking path through her own little chunk of peppermint-gum forest, noting that she'd heard tell of a few koalas in the manna gums, but she'd not seen any lately. "If you're out late, watch for wild bobucks and owls; they're not likely to hurt you at all, but they can surprise you if you disturb them." And then she left us to ourselves.

The awkward part.

Always was, although I'll bet neither of us could say why. She sat down on the chaise, making a beautiful picture in her jeans and well-fitting yet somehow modest shirt. Her seductive pose wasn't calculated; it was just the effect that she always had on me. She's one beautiful female, for a mare or across any species you'd care to name. It's who she is to me, in my heart and spirit, that puts the rose-colored glasses on her when I gaze at her... but that's how it's supposed to be. Love isn't blind, nor is it stupid. It's generous, kind, patient, forgiving, accepting, and perhaps above all, persistent. That's why we keep trying. And I still want to get it right.

We want to. Pretty sure of that.

"What's next, then?" she asked, pert as you please.

"You're asking me?"

"You're the cruise director on this junket." She smiled as she said it. Damn you, old tapes...

"How about a leisurely walk in the woods for a bit? See if any wallabies or koalas are out there to remind us what city-dwellers we've become."

"Always have been, really." She rose fluidly to her hooves and stepped over to me. "Sounds like a good start."

"Here's to good starts," I said, offering my arm.

* * * * * * * * * *

We spent about an hour or so of the afternoon, walking amid the foliage, disturbing no wildlife, and talking softly about everything, nothing, safe topics that we had no firm stake in. The day was warm, the air sweet with gum tree and soft breezes, and for my part at least, the romance of the moment was just what was wanted. I didn't want to ruin it by asking if she were enjoying it. If she weren't and I asked, she'd be forced to lie or hurt; if she were and I asked, she'd wonder if I weren't enjoying it and just wanted to make her feel good. I was over-thinking, and I knew it. I stopped the over-thinking by just letting the moment be. Trusting the moment. Trust. It's a learned behavior.

When we got back to the B&B, we paused to take appreciative looks at the figureheads that gave the place its name. Each had a small plaque relating the origins, the history, the ship each was from. I teased her that one looked like her, and she replied, "If you try to pull a _Titanic_DiCaprio on me, so help me, I'll kick your tail with both hooves!" I suggested that it might be kinky enough to try, and she fetched me a good smack for that one. I was glad. When she hit me like that, and for that sort of reason, it meant she was in a good mood. She didn't always like my puns, but if she smacked me for telling one, I knew she was okay with it. For once, a hit truly was playful and a good thing. We'd both had way too much of the other kind in our lives.

Thoughts turned to the nearby spots for dinner, and we drove the short distance and picked one at random. The lady raccoon did us proud with her choices. I'm enough chef to know when a meal has been prepared versus thrown together. Someone in that kitchen actually cared about food, the customers, or both. I asked about the vinaigrette used on the salad, if it were available locally; Emma agreed that we should get a bottle or two before we left town. We shared grilled toothfish and coconut black tiger prawns. Emma worried a bit about the price, and for once, I didn't take it as an insult but instead a caring gesture. I smiled, explaining that I'd been saving up. I wanted to take her somewhere special for a weekend, with all the trimmings. She calmed down a bit, let the moment be. I think we both felt better. We were learning.

As we ate, I took another bit of the old wolf's advice to mind: Look for a fault, intentionally. Look for something small that bugs the crap out of you. Then ask yourself, Can I love her enough to let her be who she is, small crap-bugs and all? It was a strange exercise, because reasons and rose-colored glasses. I tried it, though, and immediately came something that had been there almost from the beginning - her teeth click when she eats. Not always, just sometimes. And the moment that I caught hold of it, I almost couldn't hear anything else in the entire restaurant. Nice going, wolf; fucking spoiled the dinner! But it hadn't. He was right. I became so aware of it that, after a while, I had to laugh (not out loud - I couldn't have explained it safely if I'd tried), because it was so damned trivial! How could I not love someone because her teeth clicked when she ate?

Because it's those little things that make up the days, that make up the weeks, that make up years, that can wear you down. When you get old, like me, you'll start to notice things that really make your dick itch. The upstairs bath, where I live, has no working electrical sockets. No blow-dryers for the wuff; got to make do with towels and air-drying. Every day. Two years after my surgery, and I still can't use my left arm fully, after they'd kept it in one strained position for six hours. And it's minor stuff, nothing... but remember the weight of nothing.

It was an old fable, about watching the snowfall, and watching it collect on the branch of a tree, until finally the branch broke off. A snowflake weighs nothing, yet enough of "nothing" can break you. That was why I had to learn how to love her not in spite of her teeth clicking when she ate, but to love her because she's Emma. She's my Emma, or I hoped that she would be one day. Embrace that nothing, he said, and it won't break you. Or her. Or the couple that you are.

Did I mention that I love that old wolf? Because I do, and damned right too.

The sun was still out when we'd finished. I'd checked the online almanac, because I was hoping for something perfect. It wasn't yet eight, and we took the time to go find that vinaigrette at the local shop (still open, for summer nights), and then we went back to the Three Lasses. In our room, I opened the windows wide to let through the cross-breeze, and I rummaged in the bag to produce the half of wine I'd purchased, and two glasses. Neither of us needed to get hammered; it was for atmosphere, taste, and just a bit of tiddly-buzz. This way, I made sure that we could share the temptation without succumbing to the overkill.

I moved slowly to her, lifting her chin tenderly to meet my lips, and I kissed her. For a long and languorous moment, we were each other's universe. This is what I had hoped for. It was in these moments when we forgot all our past, before we met and after, and just let the moment be a cocoon of intensity and tenderness where nothing else mattered, where we remembered why we want to be together. Not the sex. The tenderness and support. The joining of more than just bodies. This was an act unto itself, but it was also a symbol of what was important.

I stood eastward aside, opposite the west-facing window, as she undressed slowly, then lay upon the bed as the orange fingers of the setting sun caressed her beautiful golden hide. In that moment, I felt like a worshiper before his goddess, and all I wanted was to be worthy of her. And in defiance of old tapes and all, something in me proclaimed, quiet but unchallengeable, that I was worthy, in every way... and she of me. We were good, and good for each other. We. Are. Worthy.

She beckoned me to her. I disrobed, stepping softly to the bed, and we lay together in the gathering gloaming. We made love with a deep sense of desire for one another, slowly, melting together into a puddle of deepening sunset. We kept a respectful quiet, which only intensified the moments; I held back whinnies that would wake the dead and then they'd thank me for the privilege. Afterward, we panted together, a light lather on us cooled by the cross-breeze through the windows, still joined, nickering softly to one another, our finger-hooftips tracing love signs across each other's slickened coats. My thoughts were nowhere else, my desire of no one else, my hopes nowhen to be challenged. This moment and the future merged, and with all my will, I let myself want them.

When the darkness was full, I pulled the comforter around her to keep her from getting chilled, told her to wait for just a bit. I took the bag with me into the bathroom and pulled the door not quite shut. "More surprises?" she called softly, her voice honeyed by our lovemaking.

"Just a few," I said mysteriously, and went to work. I was ready in a very few minutes, then started running the warm tub, dumping a proper quantity of bath salts into the water. Her favorite floral scents rose on the steam... my second favorite of her scents, though my muzzle was still covered in my first. I smiled and rose to fetch her.

I took her forepaw as if to invite her to dance, because in a way, that's what this was. She rose, all grace and perfection (for me, at least), and at the door to the bathroom, she gasped a little. I had festooned the place with votive candles, two dozen in holders. With the bedroom fallen into darkness, the bath glowed like a sacred place where my goddess could lie down in the warmth of scented water and soak while I read to her.

"Not Fifty Shades of Gray, I hope?" she managed to quip before settling down into the steamy waters.

"Certainly not. You get one shade of black with white blaze, chest, and feathers, and it will just have to be enough!"

"More than enough." She flicked a quick glance below my waist and grinned before stretching her neck up for a kiss, which I provided after a quick nicker of amusement. "So... Grimm's Fairytales?"

"Better. Kipling."

I'd thought about her taste in literature, and while I wouldn't call it wide-reaching, I knew that she appreciated humor. So I started with Kipling's poem "The Post That Fitted," with all the appropriate vocal inflection and wiggling eyebrows at the in-jokes, and it made her laugh. After that, I thought that she might want to know "How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin," and "How the Camel Got His Hump," and by that time, she had laid back in the tub, hills and valleys covered in warm water and puffs of bubbles, and she looked like she was about to drift off.

"Cooee, filly," I said softly. "You want to dry off and get to bed?"

She made a mildly feline-sounding objection, then asked, "Do I gotta?"

"I can keep you warm enough from here to there. Look." I stood and, from the bag, procured the extra-large beach towel that I use myself at home. On her, it was a neck-to-hoof sarong. She rose from the tub and stepped out dripping, and I wrapped her up like an Australian burrito. She laughed.

"How am I supposed to get to bed like this? I can barely walk!"

"That's because you're not supposed to." I bent and hauled her into my arms as if she were a rolled-up Aubusson rug, making her giggle like a happy schoolgirl (do such people exist? Somewhere, perhaps, especially if memories are properly rewritten to tell the truth instead of reality), and I carried her to the bed to set her soft as down upon the comforter. I reached up to stroke her forehead and mane tenderly. "Shall I bathe?" I asked her.

Shyly, she said, "I think I like you as you are. Besides, I want you to come back quickly."

I kissed her lips gently, then tended to my duties in the bath, draining the tub and putting out all the candles but one. This, I carried back to put on the nightstand, knowing it had burned far enough into the glass container that it oughtn't blow out with the breeze in the room. I crawled into the bed as she unwrapped herself and shimmered up next to me, cuddling close, her head on my broad chest. Something about her doing that almost makes me want to cry. Happy tears, mind you. It's just so... what?

It's so damned romantic, you stubborn young equine! I heard the wolf's voice laughing in my head, and in the dark, I smiled as well. He was right. I'm a romantic. Always will be. Fekkin' sue me. I pet her neck and mane tenderly as her finger-hooftips stroked my belly affectionately. How much perfection dared I hope for? Only one more thing... if I took that dare...

"Em?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

Her fingers stopped for just the briefest of moments, as did my heart. We still tended to mistrust those words, both of us. I leaned up and planted a kiss atop her head, then lay back again. Say nothing more, just wait, just wait...

"Love you too," she said, her fingers resuming their sweet exploration. I carefully kept my breath steady; she'd have heard and felt a sigh, and would she know that it was of relief, and even so...? I couldn't live a life second-guessing her, but if I could just - no, if _we_could just begin really to trust... We'd come so far, she and I, and we still had further to go. But it was possible. We _both_believed it was possible. We both wanted it. We've said so. And in this moment, without any more words, we said so again...

* * * * * * * * * *

I woke slowly, experiencing a bliss only a male not sleeping alone can experience, and if you have to ask, you don't need to know. She and I made the day start brilliantly and, after a bit of glorious lethargy, we got dressed to go down for breakfast.

I knew that we weren't the only guests there that weekend, but we somehow managed to arrive in the dining room at a time when no others wanted their breakfasts, so Em and I sat alone at a table near the open window. The smells from behind the kitchen door were superb, and even more so when the doors wafted open. An older red panda emerged, apron bedecked and smile be-lit, greeting us heartily.

"Good morning!" he offered with just the right amount of enthusiasm for the day and time. "The missus told me that the equine couple were locals, so I'll spare you the fake accent. What'll you have?"

My nostrils flared with the onslaught of a myriad choices. "Two of everything!" I only half-jested. "If you'll allow me the joke, crikey, ye've got me nose by the snickerdoodles!"

"Made some of those fresh yesterday, if you want some. I'll put a few on a plate." The panda grinned hugely. "How about something more substantive?"

"Do you have a menu?" Em asked.

"You tell me what you like for breakfast, and chances are pretty good we've got it, or something that'll settle for it. What's your favorite, young mare?"

Had he only known what a mistake it was to ask _that_question. She rattled off a trio of specialty items that I had, perhaps mistakenly, gotten her used to with my own cooking. The red panda merely smiled and bowed, then turned to me. "And you, good clyde?"

Bonus points for knowing my breed, I thought, smiling. I offered a modest if thorough sampling, and he nodded again, not taking a single note.

"Only one last question," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I have a suspicion I'd like confirmed, if I may. You, sir, are the chef I'm being challenged to meet?"

Nickering, my smile got bigger. "What gave us away?"

"Few are so specific about their choices, and while it's considered 'women's work' to cook..." and here he grinned over my shoulder. I turned to find the lady raccoon bearing down on us with cool fire in her eyes.

"Male sexist panda!" she teased. "Get that cute stripy tail back in the kitchen where it belongs!"

Winking at me, he said, "If I need help with the sauces, I'll call you." With that, he padded quickly back to his domain as his mate came over to us.

"How'd ye sleep?" she asked.

"Like wee foals," Em said happily. "Everything was terrific, thank you! I officially proclaim that to be my favorite room."

"Short of the honeymoon sweet, it's a beaut."

Mrs. Gravitz continued for a bit, but I missed it. I'm sure that she meant her comment innocently enough, and she'd certainly had no way of knowing my intentions... I caught up to the conversation a few moments later.

"Oh yes," she was answering Emma's question, "breeze round here seems always to be quartering parallel to the equator, east-west or west-east. Those windows are perfect for most of the year."

"Tell me," Em asked the proprietress, "why did you mention the honeymoon suite?"

The smile froze on my face. Mrs. Gravitz's face was soft and generous.

"I was young once, lovey. And this handsome stallion is almost too large even for our large tubs. Warm water is a good place to cuddle. I didn't mean anything else, and I hope no offense was taken. The luxury of the extra-large tub with the Jacuzzi jets, nothing more."

"Thank you," my lady mare said with a very genuine smile on her face.

"By the way, marriage is not a prerequisite to renting the suite. I hope that I've not grown either so prudish or judgmental!" The raccoon chuckled softly, then seemed to gather herself for her departure. "Enjoy your breakfast."

After she left, I saw the Devil dancing in Emma's eyes, but I didn't know which one it was, nor whether it was a cute mischievous one or one of those evil bastards from her past that might just bring the whole weekend down on top of us. I took a sip from my water glass to buy a little time.

"Jacuzzi jets, huh?" she asked softly. "Didn't you catch that in the room descriptions?"

Just teasing? "They'd have made too much noise; you couldn't have heard me reading."

"But you could have climbed in with me."

"And gotten the book wet? Really now..." My face hurt; the smile wasn't quite right. Keep it light, I thought, keep it simple, nothing there, no ghosts, no fear...

The red panda came up, one arm loaded with plates, the other forepaw passing a plate to Emma. "This'll get you started," he said. "I'm taking a bit of extra time on that batter for the brioche French toast. I'm up against an Iron Chef here, and I want to make sure it's right."

My nostrils flared again, and I latched onto the best excuse to change the conversation ever invented. "I'm sure you'll do splendidly, if this is any indication!" I wasn't being polite, merely; the smells and presentation would have won the 20 points even without tasting the food. This fellow was no mere cook. Considering our meal last night, I began to wonder if all of the best chefs in Victoria had somehow migrated to this small area. I took it as read that Emma would begin eating, so I tucked into my own kit and was soon lost to the flavors. The red panda had gone back to his realm, and I commented, "I think I might have to give up my crown; this cuisine reigns supreme!"

The silence tipped me off, although I didn't know to what. By "silence," I mean that I didn't even hear her teeth click. I didn't want to look up, although I knew I had to eventually. I did. She wasn't eating. Really bad sign. My brain frantically tried to come up with a course of action; must have looked like the bridge crew of the Poseidon at midnight. So many traps, so many bad moves, what the hell...? I reached for one of the promised snickerdoodles on the small plate toward the middle of the table and bit into it quickly. "Mmm!" I proclaimed, even before I could really have tasted it. "Try one of these, hon, they're really good."

She flicked a look at me. Hadn't worked. She knew I was deflecting, which meant that whatever she was feeling before, she was now focusing on the fact that I'd deflected. It was like an admission of guilt, but I had no idea what I was guilty of. And if you want the truth, it pissed me off, because I still wasn't sure how to handle it like "a grown-up." To be fair, I don't think anyone does, but there's always a gap between what I'm trying to learn and what I had to live through in that whole "becoming a grown-up" lie.

The panda padded brightly to the table, wielding a small platter. "Dozo, uma-san," he teased, setting down the best-looking brioche French toast I'd ever seen, powdered perfectly, the tiniest whispering of mint leaves, each slice set with geometric precision on the plate, and the whole show accompanied by a crystal flask of finest amber, pure-maple syrup it had ever been my privilege to see. My hesitation caught the panda's eye first, then he noticed Em hadn't really begun eating. "Is there anything I can get for either of you?"

My mare - whether or not I could call her mine - has manners, above all else. She realized the situation instantly, smiled at the chef, saying, "I just wanted to start with the taste of something sweet. I should have begun with snickerdoodles, but since these are here... pardon me, luv," she said to me, "mind if I help myself?"

"Not at all!" I said, just a tiny bit too enthusiastically. I chalked it up as another mark against me, and I waved to the plate. "They smell great," I said to the panda, "and I did try the snickerdoodles, and they are excellent as advertised, thank you, good fur."

"Of course," Mr. Gravitz bowed slightly, "and thank you. If there's anything at all that you want, just give a holler. I'll keep the flames hot in case you want more." He turned to me with a smile. "The missus warned me you might eat us out of house and home, and I'm only too glad to keep cooking. Looking forward to the reviews."

After the panda had left, I saw that Em's appetite had returned. She even confirmed that the French toast was as good as it looked. I helped myself to one, sampled it, and quite agreed with her, and not out of a wish merely to be nice. My only problem was that my much-vaunted appetite had fled. Ice water filled my belly, and I tried to figure out what had happened, or if anything had happened at all. Was I just reading it all wrong? Was it bad? Was it okay?

What are you most afraid will happen if...?

The wolf's voice came back to me, focusing my thoughts. I'm afraid I'll lose her again.

Do you think that's what's happening?

She continued eating, and I did my best to at least look like I was eating. Land mines, IEDs, all placed years ago, still active, still dangerous to both of us... but were they? What did I dare risk?

Risk what? What are you most afraid of happening if... you ask her?

"Emma, I'm feeling a little stupid," I said, not sure if I should try this approach. "I feel like something's wrong. Is there?"

She looked up at me, those soft blue eyes regarding me... coldly? Or just evenly? Which was my attribute, and which was her feeling?

A long moment passed, and she gave it thought. It was something we had promised each other. Had I let myself think more clearly, I'd have remembered that we had promised that we were going to think more and react less. Might have asked sooner, if I'd been thinking.

"I'm... not sure," she said, without any malice, just with real confusion. "What did you call it? Old tapes? Old voices... maybe just that."

I inhaled carefully, looked into her eyes, remembering to think. "How can I help?"

She returned my look, nodding a little. We were still trying this out. "I'm not sure about that either," she said softly, "and I'm sorry about that. I'm mostly just confused. I'm not even sure what about." Another long moment. "Think it's too late to enjoy the rest of breakfast?"

"I'm hoping it's not too late for anything." Then I grimaced a bit. "Sorry, that may have been--"

"I know." She smiled a little. "It's okay. Better to let it go for a bit, if we can. Maybe a slow walk after brekka?"

I nodded, tried to smile back. It wasn't fake, just uncertain. And a few moments later, as I speared a bit of sausage, I heard her teeth click.

Dammit, wolf, you almost made me lose it right there. But at least I could eat.

* * * * * * * * * *

The good lady raccoon assured us that no one was clamoring to get to our room, that she could "tidy up" anytime tonight or even tomorrow, as far as she was concerned, and please enjoy the walk in the woods for as long as we wished. Emma and I walked quietly, pensively, but for once, not angrily. We were just letting ourselves be calm for a bit. I tried at first to look back over what happened, if anything, and I couldn't get a clue out of it. Had I done or said something? Had someone else? Was it Mrs. Gravitz' comment about the honeymoon suite? Or was it just that, somehow and once again, my emotions had zigged while hers zagged, and we were somehow accidentally daggers-drawn yet again?

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

I glanced at her. "We promised to tell the truth. My thoughts are that I screwed up again. My feelings are that I'm afraid of what to do or say next."

Once again, she nodded. "My thoughts are that I was being told that I should be married, or that we should make a commitment. My feelings are that things were fine until... something I can't put my finger on."

"Thoughts first?"

"Okay."

"My thoughts may not be correct, if I didn't actually do anything. Can you tell me if I did anything that displeased you or hurt you or...?"

She considered, which made me nervous on one paw and grateful on the other. "I don't think so," she said, only a little doubt in her voice. That made her shake her head a little. "That wasn't clear, for either of us. Okay... I don't feel that you've done anything hurtful. I feel hurt, but I don't feel hurt by you." That got a nod out of her, as if she was clearing something up in her head.

"Do you know when you started to feel hurt?"

"I don't seem to have anything I can hang it on, no." Her brow furrowed. "I feel that I could make something up, but I'm not sure that's it."

I thought I'd try the old Dr. Berger trick. "If you were to make something up, what would it be?"

She actually laughed a little. She recognized it, all right. "Probably something about the honeymoon suite. But not anything the raccoon said, and nothing you said or did either. Old tapes, I think. Old voices trying to tell me coulda-woulda-shoulda, or... something like that."

Now, the wolf said. You know how, and the time is now.

"May I say something out of turn?"

"Okay."

I stopped walking and turned to her, reaching out my forepaws to take hers. "Em, one thing about my emotions is clear to me: I love you. I want you, and... okay, here's the out of turn part. I do harbor the hope that, one day, we'd take that honeymoon suite because it's our honeymoon."

Her eyes rolled a bit in fear, and I gripped her paws for just an instant. "I'm only saying that's my emotion, Em. I'm not proposing. We're still not ready. I'm just saying... well, I'm just saying that I really want to be with you. We're talking more, working through things more, and I hope a lot for us. That's all. No pressure; just a promise that I do want to keep trying, if you do."

Okay, wolf... now I've gone and done it. I won't blame you if this blows up. But you're right about one thing: I'm more afraid of what will happen if I don't_try..._

She chewed her lip a little, and I could feel the tension in her body. In romance stories, this is where they throw themselves into each other's arms and pledge that nothing will ever, ever separate them. And yeah, I'm a romantic, but enough of me is realistic that I knew such things were fantasies. This was as real as it got.

After a long moment, she looked up at me, sad-eyed but hopeful. "Chip chip, my little horse..." she sang softly.

"Chip chip again, mum," I sang back.

"How long till we get this right?" she sang, her voice cracking a bit.

I cupped her face in my forepaws, tenderly, willing every erg of love I had in me to flow into her. "As far as we need to go, mum."

This time, she did put her arms around me and kiss me. It was promise enough. The road, as the storyteller told us, goes ever on... and no matter how far we had to go, we knew for certain now - we wanted to go together.