Page 192 - In Five Years

“Hi,” I say.
Bella’s voice is soft and bright. “Well,” she says. “Do you like it?”
I want to tell her she’s crazy, that I can’t accept this, she cannot buy and gift
me an apartment. But what would be the point? Of course she can. She has.

“This is insane,” I say. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“Do you like the chairs? How about the kitchen? Did Greg show you the

green tile sink?!”
“It’s all perfect,” I say.
“I know the stools are a little edgy for you, but I think it’s good. I think—”
“It’s perfect.”

“You always tell me I never finish anything,” she says. “I wanted to finish
this. For you.”

Tears roll down my cheeks. I didn’t even know I was crying. “Bells,” I say.
“It’s incredible. It’s beautiful. I could never. I would never—It’s home.”
“I know,” she says.

I want her to be here. I want us to cook in this kitchen, making a mess of
materials, running to the corner store because we don’t have vanilla extract or
cracked pepper. I want us to play in that closet, to have her make fun of

everything I want to wear. I want her to sleep over, tucked in that bed, in safety,
ensconced here. What could happen to her under my watch? What bad thing
could touch her if I never, ever looked away?

But I understand she will not be. I understand, standing here now, in this
manifestation of both dream and nightmare, that I will be here, in this home she
built me, alone. I am here because she will not be. Because she needed to give

me something to hold on to, something to protect me. A literal roof over my
head. Shelter from the storm.
“I love you,” I tell her. Fiercely. “I love you so much.”

“Dannie,” she says. I hear her through the phone. Bella. My Bella. “Forever.”

Aaron leaves. I wander through the apartment, running my fingers over every
surface. The green tile of the sink, the white porcelain of the tub. A claw-foot. I
go through the kitchen—the cabinets stacked with pasta, wine, a bottle of Dom

chilling, waiting, in the refrigerator. I go through the medicine cabinet, with my