Five Feet Apart(41)

Two hundred miles per hour. Wow. Good thing I don’t have allergies, or we’d all be done for.

“No saliva also means no kissing.” She takes a deep breath, looking right at me through the camera. “Ever.”

I exhale, nodding solemnly. That’s a major bummer. The thought of kissing Stella is . . . I shake my head.

My heart rate practically triples at just the thought of it.

“Our best defense is distance. Six feet is the golden rule,” she says, before bending over to pick up a pool cue from next to her bed. “This is five feet. Five. Feet.”

I glance over to the cartoon drawing of us, the red bubble letters jumping out at me. “FIVE FEET AT ALL TIMES.”

Where the hell did she get a pool cue?

She holds it out, staring at it with remarkable intensity. “I did a lot of thinking about foot number six. And, to be honest, I got mad.”

She looks up at the camera. “As CFers, so much is taken away from us. We live every single day according to treatments, pills.”

I pace back and forth, listening to her words.

“Most of us can’t have children, a lot of us never live long enough to try. Only other CFers know what this feels like, but we’re not supposed to fall in love with each other.” She stands up, determined. “So, after all that CF has stolen from me—from us—I’m stealing something back.”

She holds up the pool cue defiantly, fighting for every one of us. “I’m stealing three hundred and four point eight millimeters. Twelve whole inches. One fucking foot of space, distance, length.”

I stare at the video in total admiration.

“Cystic fibrosis will steal no more from me. From now on, I am the thief.”

I swear I hear a cheer somewhere in the distance, rallying in agreement with her. She pauses, looking directly into the camera. Looking directly at me. I stand there, stunned, jumping as there’s three loud knocks on my door.

I yank open the door and there she is. Live.

Stella.

She holds the pool cue out, the tip of it touching my chest, her full eyebrows rising in challenge. “Five feet apart. Deal?”

Exhaling, I shake my head, her speech from the video already making me want to close the space between us and kiss her. “That’s going to be hard for me, I’m not gonna lie.”

She looks at me, her eyes intent. “Just tell me, Will. Are you in?”

I don’t even hesitate. “So in.”

“Then be at the atrium. Nine o’clock.”

And with that, she lowers the pool cue, spinning around and walking back off to her room. I watch her go, feeling excitement overtaking the doubt sitting heavy in the pit of my stomach.

I laugh as she holds up the pool cue in victory like at the end of The Breakfast Club, smiling back at me before going inside room 302.

I take a deep breath, nodding.

Cystic fibrosis will steal no more from me.





CHAPTER 17


STELLA


“Why didn’t I pack anything nice?” I cry to Poe, who is leaning against the doorway helping me. I sling pajamas and sweatpants and baggy T-shirts out of my drawers as I desperately search for something to wear tonight.

He snorts. “Right. Because you usually pack for a hot hospital romance?”

I pull out a pair of skimpy, silky boxers, eyeing them. I couldn’t. Could I? I mean, it’s this or a pair of baggy flannel sweatpants I got as a hand-me-down from Abby.

“I’ve got nice legs, right?”

“Don’t even think about it, ho!” he says, giving me a look before the both of us burst out laughing.

I think of my friends on their last night in Cabo, and for the first time since I got here I don’t wish I were there. I wish they were here, helping me get ready. If anything, I’m glad I’m not miles away right now.

I look over at the clock on my bedside table. Five o’clock. I have four hours to figure something out . . . .

*

I walk through the doors of the atrium, noticing a vase filled with white roses. I snag one, bending the stem until it snaps, and put it behind my ear. Glancing at my reflection in the glass of the door, I smile, nervously giving myself a quick once-over. My hair is down, the front tied back with the ribbon from the pop-up flowers from Will, and I’m wearing the skimpy silk boxers and a tank top, despite Poe’s laughter.

I look pretty nice considering I pulled it together from the worst date wardrobe in history.

It is nice to know that Will definitely likes me for me. I mean, he’s pretty much exclusively seen me in pajamas or a hospital gown, so he clearly isn’t in this for my good looks and impeccable Fall 2018 Hospital Collection wardrobe.

I fix the blue latex gloves on my hands, double-checking that the Cal Stat is still hanging off the strap on my portable oxygen.

Sitting down on a bench, I look through a side door leading to the children’s playroom, a wave of nostalgia hitting me. I used to sneak in here to play with the non-CFers growing up. Well, and Poe. The atrium hasn’t changed much through the years. The same tall trees, the same brightly colored flowers, the same tropical fish tank right by the doors, where Poe and I got in trouble with Barb for throwing donut crumbs to the fish.

The atrium may not have changed much since I’ve been coming to Saint Grace’s Hospital, but I sure have. I’ve had so many firsts at this hospital, it’s hard to count them all.