Free In Five Years: A Novel by Rebecca Serle Page A

I am, in fact, ensuring another never comes to fruition.
    Instead, I say this:
    “It’s time, David. We fit together, I love you. What more do you need? I’m ready, and I’m sorry it took me so long.”
    And that’s true, too. As true as anything is.
    “Just that,” he says. His face looks happier than I’ve seen it in years.
    He takes my hand and, despite the three feet now between the couch and the coffee table, he leads me deliberately, slowly, into the bedroom. He nudges me back gently until I’m just perched on the bed.
    “I love you, too,” he says. “In case it wasn’t obvious.”
    “It is,” I say. “I know.”
    He undresses me with an intention that hasn’t been there in a long time. Usually when we have sex, we don’t do a lot of mood-setting. We’re not particularly imaginative, and we’re always pressed for time. The sex David and I have is good—great, even. It always has been. We work well together. We communicated early and often and we know what works. David is thoughtful and generous and, although I’m not sure I’d call us ambitious, there is a certain competitive edge to our lovemaking that never lets it feel stale or boring.
    But tonight is different.
    With his right hand, he reaches forward and begins to unbutton my shirt. His knuckles are cool, and I shiver against him. My shirt is an old, white button-down J.Crew. Boring. Predictable. He’ll be met with a nude bra underneath. Same old. But what’s happening here tonight feels anything but.
    He keeps unbuttoning. He takes his time, threading the silk knobs through their eye slits until the whole thing comes undone at the waist. I shimmy my shoulders until it’s off and falls to the floor.
    David puts one hand on my stomach, and with the other he threads a thumb into the seam of my skirt. He holds me in place as he unzips it. This is less of a slow burn. It comes off in one swoop, falling into a puddle at my feet. I stand up and step out of it. My bra and underwear don’t match. They’re both Natori, although the bra is nude cotton and the underwear is black silk. I dispense with both and then push him down onto the bed. I lean forward over him, my breast grazing the side of his face. He reaches out and bites it.
    “Ow!” I say.
    “Ow?” He puts both hands on my back and runs them down slowly. “That hurt?”
    “Yes. Since when are you a biter?”
    “Since never,” he says. “Sorry.”
    He reaches out and kisses me. It’s a slow and deep kiss, meant to recenter us. It works.
    David is working on his shirt—his hands on the buttons. I put mine over his and stop him.
    “What?” he asks. He’s out of breath, his chest straining.
    I don’t say anything. When he tries to stand, I put my hands on his shoulders and nudge him back down.
    “Dannie?” He whispers.
    I answer by guiding his hand to my stomach and then down, down until I feel that concave spot that makes me inhale. I hold his hand there. He looks at me—first confusion, then recognition dawning as I press his hand back and then forward, back and then forward. I take my hand away from his and grab on to his shoulders. He’s breathing along with me—and I close my eyes against the rhythm, his hand, the incoming collapse that is mine, and mine alone.

    Afterward, we lie in bed together. We’re both on our phones, looking up venues.
    “Should we tell people?” David asks.
    I pause, but what I say is: “Of course. We’re getting married.”
    He looks at me. “Right. When do you want to do it?”
    “Soon,” I say. “We’ve waited so long already. Next month?”
    David laughs. It’s a sincere laugh, guttural—the kind I love from him. “You’re funny,” he says.
    I put down my phone and roll to him. “What?”
    “Oh, you’re serious? Dannie, you’re not serious.”
    “Of course I am.”
    He shakes his head. “Not even you could plan and execute a wedding in a month.”
    “Who says we have to have a wedding?”
    He raises his eyebrows at me,