Love You More(16)

Long after Erin was gone, the emptiness lingered, heavy and pressing. Nothing would ever be the same. That much was certain.



* * *



— A few days later, my parents drove me the sixty miles west to Madison. My dorm was an old brick building with creaky elevators and cinder-block walls.

My dad made multiple trips down to the cars while my mom buzzed around my room, hanging clothes and making the bed. Their energy was exhausting and comforting at once.

When my roommate, Emma-Claire, arrived, it started to feel real. She was a prep school girl from Atlanta—all glossy hair, designer sneakers, and polished poise. I had a hunch we weren’t going to be close, but I told myself to keep an open mind. And anyway—it didn’t really matter—I had Mick.

By midafternoon, I was itching for my parents to leave, just to pull off the Band-Aid and get the inevitable tears over with. I walked them down to the parking lot, sticky with sweat, my ponytail drooping, my new University of Wisconsin T-shirt clinging to my back.

My mom hugged me first. “You’re going to do great, honey,” she whispered.

My dad pulled me in next. “We’re proud of you, kiddo.”

We lingered for a few seconds, and when my dad started to tear up, I lost it.

“Please tell Gus how much I love him,” I said, wishing he were with us and not away at soccer camp.

“We will,” my dad said.

We hugged and kissed one final time.

As soon as they were gone, I made a beeline for Mick’s dorm. I found him in the lobby, looking scruffy and adorable. I told him my parents had just left.

“Well,” he said, grinning. “Looks like you’re stuck with me now.”

I laughed, my homesickness instantly evaporating.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” I said.

“Believe it,” he said.

He grabbed my hand, and we walked across campus. Around us, students lugged boxes and music blasted from windows, everything messy, loud, and perfect.





Chapter 8


That first semester, Mick and I fell into a Madison rhythm—Babcock ice cream and pitchers of beer on the Terrace, walks on State Street, and late-night study sessions at Memorial Library. Our Saturdays revolved around the ritual of Badger football. We tailgated in a sea of red, then crammed into Camp Randall with our new friends and eighty thousand others. At the end of the third quarter, “Jump Around” blasted over the sound system, and we all went nuts, laughing and shouting and clinging to one another as the bleachers shook beneath our feet.

The only thing missing was Erin. Our lifeline became our flip phones, their tiny green screens glowing with metallic ringtones that sounded like tin cans rattling. We talked constantly, updating each other on every nuance of our lives. I followed all the intricacies of rush, then Erin’s breathless excitement pledging Chi Omega, while I shared every detail of my relationship with Mick—how wildly, impossibly in love we were.

She visited Madison several times during those early months, joining the fervor of football games and charming everyone at the bars. Afterward, we curled into my twin bed and whispered long into the night.

In late November, Mick and I road tripped the four hours up I-94 to Minneapolis for the Paul Bunyan’s axe rivalry: Minnesota versus Wisconsin. When we got there, Erin was waiting on the steps of her sorority house, bouncing on her toes.

She gave us a big hug as we got out of the car. “About time you visited!” she said, grabbing me by the hand as Mick trailed behind us.

The house buzzed with energy. Erin swept us from room to room, introducing us to a rotating cast of girls whose names blurred together, everyone warm and curious and talking at once. It felt like a small, self-contained world, filled with inside jokes and shared history.

That night, Erin took us to a frat party. Lucy, who had joined another sorority, came with us. A few drinks in, Erin was off and running, doing keg stands, dancing on tables, and flirting with boys. It was fun to see her in her element, but it wasn’t the night of connection I’d hoped for.

By midnight, after Lucy had peeled off, Mick and I said our goodbyes.

“You’re leaving? Already?” Erin said.

“We’re pretty beat from the drive,” Mick said. “Do you want to join us for breakfast before the game?”

“Sounds good,” she said, hugging us goodbye.

Early the next morning, Erin called in a drunken frenzy—someone had broken into their sorority house and stolen a bunch of their stuff.

When Mick and I got there, we found Erin with a group of girls staring at the empty space where a TV and stereo had once been.

“I just know it was those frat boys from Wisconsin,” Erin said. “They were acting really shady in the parking lot last night.”

One of Erin’s sisters suggested calling the police.

Erin shook her head, marching toward the front door. “Let’s see if the geniuses parked nearby.”

We all trailed her into the lot, where she scanned the rows of cars like a detective.

“Well, well, well,” she murmured, eyes narrowing as she peered into a beat-up Subaru with Wisconsin plates.

Sure enough, there in the backseat of the car, half-covered by a tarp, was a flat-screen television. Erin turned, strode across the lot, and snatched up a rock.