Five Feet Apart(62)

That breath is my favorite part of the whole video. There’s no struggle. No wheezing. It’s perfect and smooth. Effortless.

“Safety, security, comfort, all in the gentle caress of a finger, or the brush of lips on a soft cheek,” she says, and I look up from my iPad to the crowded airport around me, people coming and going, heavy bags in tow, but even so, she’s right. From the long hugs at arrival, to the reassuring hands on shoulders in the security line, even a young couple, arms around each other, waiting at the gate, touch is everywhere.

“We need that touch from the one we love, almost as much as we need air to breathe. I never understood the importance of touch, his touch . . . until I couldn’t have it.”

I can see her. Five feet away from me, that night at the pool, walking to see the lights, on the other side of the glass that last night, always that longing between us to close the gap.

I pause the video just to take her in.

She looks . . . so much better than I ever saw her in person. No portable oxygen. No dark circles under her eyes.

She was always beautiful to me, but now she is free. She is alive.

Every single day I still find myself wishing I hadn’t left, reliving the moment of walking away, my legs like cement blocks, being pulled like a magnet back to her window. I think that pull, that hurt, will always be there. But all I have to do is see her like this to know it was worth it a million times over.

A notification appears on my screen from her app, telling me to take my midmorning meds. I smile at the dancing pill bottle emoji. It’s like a portable Stella that I always have with me, looking over my shoulder, reminding me to do my treatments. Reminding me of the importance of more time.

“You ready to go, man?” Jason says, nudging me as they open the door to start loading the plane to Brazil. I give him a big smile, down my meds dry, and slide my pillbox back into my backpack, zipping it up.

“Born ready.”

I’m finally going to see the places I’ve dreamed of.

I have a checkup in every city, which was one of three conditions my mom put in place before letting me go. The other two were simple. I have to send her as many pictures as possible, and Skype her every Monday evening, no matter what. Aside from that, I can finally live my life how I want. And, for once, that includes fighting right alongside her.

We’ve finally found common ground.

I stand, taking a deep breath as I pull the strap of my portable oxygen farther up on my thin shoulder. But the breath gets caught in my throat almost as soon as I inhale. Because through all the airport chatter and chaos, just above the rattling of the mucus in my lungs, I hear my favorite sound in the world.

Her laugh. It tinkles like bells, and I pull out my phone immediately, certain I’ve left the video playing in my pocket. But the screen is dark, and the sound isn’t tinny or distant.

It’s just a few feet away.

My legs know I should just go, board my flight, keep moving. But my eyes are already searching. I have to know.

It takes me about six seconds to spot her, and I’m not even surprised that when I do, her eyes are right on mine.

Stella was always the one to find me first.





CHAPTER 31


STELLA


“What happened to winging it, Stella? Doing it ‘Abby Style,’?” Mya says, nudging me playfully.

I glance up from my itinerary, laughing as I carefully fold it and put it into my back pocket. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” I smirk at her and Camila, proud of my Vatican City joke. “Get it? Rome?”

Camila laughs, rolling her eyes. “New lungs, but not a new sense of humor.”

I take a deep breath at her words, my lungs effortlessly expanding and contracting. It’s still so wonderful, I can hardly believe it. These past eight months have been bittersweet, to say the least. My new lungs are amazing, the physical pain of the surgery gradually giving way to a whole new life. My parents are back together, and we’re all finally starting to mend, too. Like my new lungs, it hasn’t fixed everything that’s broken. The losses of Abby and Poe are pains I don’t think I’ll ever fully get over. Just like I know that no matter what, some part of me will never get over Will. And that’s okay.

The pain reminds me that they were here, that I’m alive.

Thanks to Will I have so much more life to live. So much more time. Aside from his love, it was the greatest gift I could ever receive. And I can’t believe now that I almost didn’t take it.

I gaze around the airport at the high ceilings and the wide windows, excitement coursing through my veins as we walk to gate 17 for our flight to Rome. A trip I can finally take. To Vatican City and the Sistine Chapel and the first of so many things I want to do and see. It isn’t with Abby, and I certainly won’t be crossing off that one item on Will’s bucket list, but just going makes me feel closer to them.

I realize as we walk that I’m setting the pace, Camila and Mya following right behind. I would have keeled over from this much walking a few months ago, but now it feels like I could just keep going.

“Everyone in for a picture!” Mya says when we find our gate, holding up her phone as we squeeze together, smiling big for the camera.

After the flash we pull apart and I glance down at my phone to see a picture from my mom of my dad eating breakfast, his eggs and bacon in the shape of a sad face with the caption MISS YOU ALREADY, STELL! Send pictures!