In Five Years: A Novel - Rebecca Serle Page 0,66

no other options. Despite that chemo hasn’t kept it at bay. Despite that it’s spread to her abdomen. Despite. Despite. Despite.

“Look,” she says. She holds up her hand. On it is an engagement ring, perched daintily on her finger.

“You’re getting married?” I ask her.

“When I’m better,” she says.

I get in bed next to her. “You got engaged and you didn’t call me?”

“It happened at home last night,” she tells me. “He was bringing me dinner.”

“What?”

She looks at me, her eyebrows knit. “Pasta from Wild.”

I make a face. “I still can’t believe you like it there.”

“It’s gluten free,” she says. “Not poison. They have good spaghetti.”

“So anyway.”

“So anyway,” she says. “He brought me the pasta, and on top of the Parmesan was the ring.”

“What did he say?”

She looks at me and she’s right there—Bella, my Bella. Her face bright and her eyes lit. “You’ll think it’s corny.”

“I won’t,” I whisper. “I promise.”

“He told me that he’s been looking for me forever and, even though the situation is less than ideal, he knows that I’m his soul mate, and that he was always fated to end up with me.” She blushes pink.

Fated.

I swallow. “He’s right,” I say. “You always wanted someone who would just know it was you. You always wanted your soul mate. And you found him.”

Bella turns to me. She takes her hand and places it on the duvet between us.

“I’m going to ask you something,” she says. “And if I’m wrong, you don’t have to answer.”

I feel my heart rate accelerate. What if . . . ? She couldn’t . . .

“I know you think we’re really different, and we are, I get that. I’ll never be someone who checks my weather app before I go outside or knows the number of days eggs can last in the fridge. I haven’t strategically built my life the way you have. But you’re wrong in thinking . . .” She wets her lips. “I think you’re capable of this kind of love, too. And I don’t think you have it.”

I let that sit between us for a moment. “What’s making you say that?” I ask her.

“Don’t you think there’s a reason you never got married? Don’t you think there’s a reason you’ve been engaged for almost five years? A five-year engagement was never in your plan.”

“We’re getting married now,” I say.

“Because,” Bella says. Her voice gets small. She seems to fold into herself next to me. “You think you’re on a clock.”

December 15.

“That’s not true. I love David.”

“I know you do,” she says. “But you’re not in love with him. You may have been at first, but if you were I never really saw it, and I don’t have the luxury of pretending anymore. And what I realized is that you don’t, either. If there’s a clock ticking toward anything, it should be your happiness.”

“Bella . . .” I feel something rise in my chest. And then it’s tumbling out onto the duvet between us. “I’m not sure I’m capable of it,” I tell her. “Not the kind you mean.”

“But you are,” she says. “I wish you knew that. I wish you understood that you could have love beyond your wildest dreams. Stuff movies are made of. You’re meant for that, too.”

“I don’t think I am.”

“You are. You know how I know?”

I shake my head.

“Because that’s the way you love me.”

“Bella,” I say. “Listen to me. You’re going to be fine. People do this all the time. They defy the odds. Every damn day.”

She holds her arms out to me. I give her a careful hug.

“Who would have thought?” she says.

“I know.”

I feel her shake her head against me. “No,” she says. “That you’d end up being someone who believed.”

And that’s the thing I know more than anything, as I hold Bella’s shrunken form in my arms. She is extraordinary. For once in my life, the numbers don’t apply.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Intraperitoneal chemotherapy and gardenias bring us into late November. The former is a more invasive form of chemo, where a port through which drugs are administrated is essentially sewn into the abdominal cavity. It’s more direct than previous rounds, and it requires Bella to lie flat on her back during the procedure. She’s nauseous constantly, and throws up violently. The gardenias have somehow become our wedding flower—even though their life span is approximately five and a half minutes.

I’m dealing with the flowers on the phone at work when Aldridge stops by my office. I hang up on the florist with no explanation.

“I