Love You More(18)

I nodded.

“But I’ll be making money. I’ll visit a lot,” he said, putting his arm around me. “And we’ll see each other over all your breaks.”

I nodded again, blinking back tears.

“It’s only four years,” he said. “We’ll make it work.”



* * *



— The next day, I called Erin to tell her the news. I dreaded the conversation. She’d just accepted a PR job in Madison and was counting on being my roommate.

As soon as she answered the phone, she launched into an update about a great two-bedroom apartment she’d found in Eagle Heights. Her voice was bright and rapid.

When she finally took a breath, I said, “That all sounds so wonderful, but—”

“Oh, shit. You’re going to Columbia, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “It was such a hard decision. But Columbia is better for residency placement—”

“I get it,” she said with a long sigh. “You have to do you.”

“You’ll visit me in New York,” I said. “We can do Broadway shows, go to cool bars—”

“Yeah. That’ll be really cool,” she said. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you, Erin,” I said.

The silence that followed stretched wide and uneasy.

“What did Mick say?”

“He thinks it’s the right call.”

“So you’ll do the long-distance thing for four years?” she asked, her voice laced with soft skepticism.

“That’s the plan.”

“I don’t know, Bill. People move to big cities and change,” she said.

I paused, feeling confused. She was always the one who told me I could do anything, throwing caution to the wind. I told myself she was just disappointed. It was understandable.

“That won’t happen,” I said. “I’ll always be me.”

“Just…don’t forget us, okay?” Her voice cracked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.

After we hung up, I lay on my bed watching the ceiling fan turn. I thought about Mick and Erin—our shared geography and memories stitched together.

My phone rang, interrupting my sadness. It was Erin.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said.

“Look. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not being more supportive.” She paused. “I’m so proud of you, Billie. And I know you and Mick will make it work.”

“Oh, Erin. Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot.”

“New York City will be a blast.”

“I doubt that,” I said with a laugh. “I don’t think anyone says that about med school.”

“Well, it’ll be a blast when I visit you,” she said, the smile back in her voice.





Chapter 9


That August, my dad rented a twenty-foot U-Haul, backing it into the driveway with the ease of someone who’d been maneuvering box trucks his whole life. My mom and I folded clothes into bags while Mick and my dad packed up the college furniture I’d been storing in the garage.

My dad planned on taking me, but Mick asked if he could drive me instead. Later, he joked that it felt like asking for my hand in marriage.

“Just take good care of her,” my dad said, clapping Mick on the back.

We left at dawn the next day, armed with coffee and a playlist Mick called “road-trip canon.”

Just past Gary, Indiana, the sky ripped open. Rain pummeled the windshield in sheets so heavy the wipers could barely keep up. Mick refused to pull over; instead, he turned up Fleetwood Mac, drumming the steering wheel like it was a perfectly sunny day.

Near Toledo, we stopped for the night at a dingy motel called Sunrise. With a faded comforter, a rattling AC unit, and the carpet mottled with stains, the whole place reeked of cigarettes and mildew. But it felt like part of the adventure. We picked up a bottle of wine from a gas station, ordered a pizza, and watched a random movie. I curled against Mick’s shoulder, tracing lazy circles on the inside of his wrist until we both drifted off.

The next day, we drove another five hours before detouring to Niagara Falls. It was more spectacular than I’d imagined. Spray soaked our hair and shirts, and the roar was so loud we had to shout to hear each other. A fellow tourist snapped our picture, Mick’s arm tight around my waist.

Afterward, we drove for a few more hours and checked into a quaint B and B in Utica. It was run by an elderly couple who told us their love story over Merlot and chicken piccata. Upstairs, in a room crowded with porcelain swans and lace doilies, we made love in one of the twin beds. I was still pretending the end wasn’t near.

But late the next morning, as we crossed the George Washington Bridge, I couldn’t pretend anymore.

“Do you think I made a mistake?” I asked, watching barges slide down the Hudson.

Mick reached for my hand, squeezing it. “Of course not.”

“I think I did,” I said, my stomach in knots.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he said. “You deserve this shot.”



* * *