Page 140 - In Five Years

don’t know. We’re all grasping. We’re all pretending now. Pretending this was
the hard part. Pretending it’s over and behind us. Now, sitting in her sunny
bedroom, the smells of coffee surrounding us, it’s easy to forget it’s a pretty,

dressed-up lie.
“Did you bring it?” she asks.
“Of course.”

From my bag, I produce the entire season of Grosse Pointe, a WB show from
the early two thousands that performed so poorly it apparently doesn’t warrant
streaming on any service. But when we were kids, we loved it. It’s a sitcom
about the behind-the-scenes of a fictional WB show. We were so meta.

I ordered the DVDs and brought my old computer—the one with the DVD
player from ten years ago—with me.

I take it out now and reveal it to her.
“You think of everything.”
“Just about,” I say.

I kick off my shoes and crawl into bed with her. My jeans feel too tight. I
abhor people who walk around in workout clothes. It’s the entity of the reason I
could never live in Los Angeles: too much Lycra. But even I have to admit, as I

tuck my legs in underneath me, this would feel more comfortable with some
stretch. Bella wears silk pajamas, embossed with her initials. She makes a move
to get up.

“What are you doing?” I say, springing into action. I toss my body across hers
like train tracks. I lunge.
“I need some water. I’m fine.”

“I’ll get it.”
She rolls her eyes but tucks herself back into bed. I leave the bedroom and go
into the kitchen where Svedka, the nurse, is furiously washing dishes. She looks

up at me, her face practically murderous.
“What do you need?” she barks.
“Water.”

She pulls a glass down from the cabinet—a green goblet from a set Bella
bought in Venice. While the water is being poured, I look out over her living
room, the cheerful color, the bright spots of blue and purple and deep forest

green. Her window drapes hang in soft folds of violet silk, and her art, collected