Love You More(17)

“What are you doing?” one girl asked, appalled.

“Taking back what’s ours,” Erin said.

Before any of us could react, Erin hurled the rock through the driver’s-side window. The crack of the glass rang out, sharp and final. She reached in, unlocked the back door, and dragged the TV out into her arms.

Mick took it from her as she returned to the backseat, digging through fast-food wrappers and dirty clothes.

“Is the stereo there?” he asked.

“Nope. But I’ve got a solution for that,” she said, popping the hood and yanking something loose while we all looked on in quiet awe.

Then she grabbed a scrap of paper and pen from the glove box, scribbled a note, and slapped it under the wiper: If you want your connector back, return the rest of our stuff.

“That should do the trick,” she said.

Sure enough, the entire haul was returned later that day.

“Never bet against Erin,” Mick said with a laugh.

“Never,” I said, smiling.



* * *



— In February, Mick and I planned a weekend home together to see our parents, Maeve, and Gus.

We arrived early Saturday morning during a snowstorm. After coffee and breakfast with my family, we went to Mick’s house. Maeve was already up, watching cartoons. She went into a frenzy when she saw her big brother, hugging and kissing him while they both laughed.

I watched the two of them, remembering their visit to my candy shop. It felt like a million years ago. Maeve was a teenager now, and according to Mick had her prickly moments and moods, but there was no evidence of that as she cuddled with her brother on the sofa.

At noon, Mick’s mom made her first appearance, joining us in the family room with a cup of coffee and a faint boozy edge to her breath. In the nearly five years I’d known Mick, I’d only interacted with his mom a handful of times—so I wasn’t surprised when she called me Willie.

Mick’s shoulders stiffened. “It’s Billie, Mom.”

I smiled and told her that’s okay, my grandfather had called me Willie, too.

“See?” Mrs. O’Leary said to no one in particular.



* * *



— Our plan was to stay until Sunday, but the forecast called for more snow after midnight. So we packed up the truck and said our goodbyes.

On the drive home, Mick was quiet. At one point, he turned down the radio and glanced over at me. “I’m sorry about my mom.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I can’t believe what a shitty mother she is. Poor Maeve.”

“Well, she seems like a happy kid.”

“Think how much better off she’d be with a decent mother—”

“She must have done something right,” I said softly. “Just look at how you turned out.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Look at me.”

Words gathered, but I only reached across the seat and squeezed his arm.



* * *



— The next two years sped by in a dreamy blur, and before we knew it, we were seniors. Mick and I—along with four of our friends—rented a place on Mifflin Street. The siding flaked off like dandruff, the porch furniture came from three different Craigslist posts, and the pine floors creaked with every step, but it was ours—chaotic, cramped, and perfect. We technically had separate rooms (my parents would have flipped otherwise), but Mick slept in my twin bed every night. We moved through our days as a unit. His presence felt like home—steady and calming.

Yet beneath the contentment was a familiar pulse of dread. At 3:00 a.m. I’d lie awake, counting the months left while the radiator ticked like an anxious metronome. Graduation loomed and another choice waited. A countdown neither of us dared voice.



* * *



— That spring, I was accepted to four med schools and quickly narrowed them down to Wisconsin and Columbia. The choice was stark. Stay here with Mick and my people and enjoy in-state tuition, or leap into an unknown city, alone, with a mountain of debt.

To celebrate my acceptances, Mick took me to our favorite restaurant. We sat in the corner booth, sipping champagne and sharing a ribeye.

“To Billie, the future Dr. Wright,” he toasted. His voice rang proud but carried a note of forced lightness.

When we got back home, my bed was covered in light blue swag. A stuffed lion was propped against my pillows. A Columbia hoodie draped across the duvet cover. A mug with a tiny crown logo, and a single sheet of notebook paper scrawled in blue Sharpie: If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.

My breath hitched.

“Mick! What is all of this?”

“You know.”

“But I haven’t chosen—”

“Yes, you have. You’ve known since the day you got the letter.”

I shook my head, a lump in my throat.

“Billie, you turned down Yale. You can’t turn down Columbia.”

“Of course I can,” I said in a shaky voice.

“You’d regret it. You know you would.”

I sat on the edge of the bed.

“Can you come with me?” I whispered, already knowing the answer.

He sat beside me, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wish I could,” he said. “But you know I promised Maeve I’d come home. And my job at the orchard—”