In Five Years: A Novel - Rebecca Serle Page 0,79

swept him up and deposited him here. December 16, 2025. Where do you see yourself in five years?

“You want to have lunch tomorrow?” he asks me. He sits up. Discreetly, under the covers, he pulls his pants back on.

“Yeah,” I say. “That would be nice.”

“Maybe we could make it a weekly thing,” he says, establishing something. Boundaries, maybe friendship.

“I’d like that.”

I look down at my hand. I don’t want to. I want to hold it forever. This promise on my finger. But it is not my promise, of course. It is his.

I take it off.

“Here,” I say. “You should have this.”

He shakes his head. “She wanted you—”

“No,” I say. “She didn’t. This is yours.”

He nods. He takes it back. “Thank you.”

He stands up. He puts on his shirt. I use the time to get dressed as well.

Then he stops, realizing something. “We could drink some more wine,” he says. “If you don’t want to be alone?”

I think about that, about the promise of this space. This time. Tonight.

“I’m okay,” I say. I have no idea if it’s true.

We walk across the apartment silently, our feet light on the cool concrete.

He pulls me into a hug. His arms feel good, and strong. But gone is the charge, the kinetic energy pulling, asking, demanding to be combusted.

“Get home safe,” I say. And then he is gone.

I stare at the door a long time. I wonder whether I will see him tomorrow, or whether I will get a text, an excuse. Whether this is the beginning of goodbye for us, too. I do not know. I have no idea what happens, now.

I walk around the apartment for an hour, touching things. The marble countertops, the grainiest shade of green. The black wood cabinets. The cherrywood stools. Everything in my apartment has always been white, but Bella knew I belonged in color. I go to the orange dresser, and that’s when I see a framed photo sitting on top of it. Two teenagers, arms wrapped around each other, standing in front of a little white house with a blue awning.

“You were right,” I say. I start to laugh, then. The hysterical sobs of someone caught between irony and grief. The woven tapestry of our friendship continuing to reveal itself even now, even in her absence.

Outside, across the street from the apartment, right by Galapagos, I can see it start to snow. The first fall of the year. I put down the picture. I wipe my eyes. And then I pull on my rubber boots. I grab my down jacket and scarf from the closet. Keys, door, elevator.

Outside, the streets are empty. It is late; it is Dumbo. It is snowing. But from a block over, I see a light. I turn the corner. The deli.

I wander in. There is a woman behind the counter, sweeping. But the place is warm and well-lit, and she doesn’t tell me they’re closed. They’re not. I look up at the board. The array of sandwiches, none of which I’ve ever touched. I’m not hungry, not at all, but I think about tomorrow—about coming here and getting an egg salad on bagel, or a tuna on rye. A breakfast sandwich—eggs and tomatoes and cheddar and wilted arugula. Something ­different.

The door jangles behind me. A tinkling of holiday bells.

I turn around, and there he is.

“Dannie,” Dr. Shaw says. “What are you doing here?”

His cheeks are red. His face open. He’s no longer in scrubs, but in jeans and a jacket, open at the collar. He is handsome, of course, in the way familiarity is beautiful, if not a little worn, a little tattered.

“Dr. Shaw.”

“Please,” he says. “Call me Mark.”

He extends his hand. I take it. We will stay in that deli until they close, sipping on coffee that turns cold, which is an hour from now. He will walk me home. He will say he is very sorry for my loss. That he never knew I lived in Dumbo. I will tell him I didn’t. Not until now. He will ask if perhaps he can see me again, perhaps at that deli, when I am ready. I will tell him yes, perhaps. Perhaps.

But all of that is an hour from now. Now, on the other side of midnight, we do not yet know what is coming.

So be it. So let it be.

Acknowledgments

A very special thanks . . .

To my editor, Lindsay Sagnette, who quite literally had me at hello. Thank you for sweeping me off my feet, and forcing me to use the phrase “the one.” You are . . . and I am the lucky one.

To my agent, Erin Malone, who continues to support my career with sharp fangs, crazy good editorial skills, and real respect. Erin, thank you for believing in the things we can’t yet see, and trusting me to be your true partner. I am lucky, and grateful. I’ll say it here on them all: you are never getting rid of me.

To my manager, Dan Farah—thank you for your willingness to grow, your absolute commitment to my career and our relationship, and your unparalleled belief in my future. I’m proud of us.

To my agent, David Stone, for keeping everyone and everything in line. I need your wisdom, guidance, and support more than you know. Our grown-up forever.

To everyone at Atria, especially Libby McGuire, for welcoming me with such open arms.

To Laura Bonner, Caitlin Mahony, and Matilda Forbes Watson for carrying Dannie and Bella all over the world.

To Kaitlin Olson for your time and attention, and to Erica Nori for being the keyest (it’s a word) member of this team.

To Raquel Johnson, because the truest love there is has always already belonged to us.

To Hannah Brown Gordon, first reader forever. Thank you for saying this was special, and different, than any that came before. I needed it. I always need it.

To Lexa Hillyer for loving me with such compassion. My New York is our life together, and I’ll treasure it always.

To Lauren Oliver for the revelation(s).

To Emily Heddleson for being the best research assistant (boss) in the biz.

To Morgan Matson, Jen Smith, and Julia Devillers for being such champions when the road got scary, and for telling me to leap.

To Anna Ravenelle for keeping me in line.

To Melissa Seligmann, who continues to inspire all my stories. You’re it for me.

To Danielle Kasirer for your forgiveness. I’m so grateful for our story, every last chapter.

To Jenn Robinson for the warmest hugs and the sharpest bitch slaps. Thank you (f—you) for setting the bar so goddamn high.

To Seth Dudowsky, because I didn’t know on that one, so I’m saying it here in this one. The longest phase.

To my parents, who show me over and over again what unconditional love looks like. Thank you for loving me, all of me, every single day. Blessed doesn’t even begin to cover it. This is all because of you.

I ended the acknowledgments of my last book, The Dinner List, by saying “to any woman who has ever felt betrayed by fate or love. Hang in there. This isn’t the end of your story.” I now want to add: Even after midnight, especially after midnight. Continue moving toward that which is moving toward you.