Love You More(21)

One night, we had a scheduled 10:00 phone date. But I lost track of time in the library, and when I finally looked at my phone, it was after eleven. Four texts waited in my inbox.


Just tried you.

Still up?

Guess not.

Good night, Bill.

I stepped out of the library and called him back. He picked up on the second ring, his voice thick with sleep.

“Hey,” I whispered, pacing on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“No worries,” he said through a yawn. “We’ll catch up later. Tomorrow maybe.”

“Definitely,” I said, even though I knew that tomorrow would look a lot like today.



* * *



— In February, Mick planned a visit for Valentine’s Day weekend, booking a boutique hotel in SoHo. I was so excited—until our neuro block got extended and our exam moved to the following Monday. I told Mick I could study by the fire. It would be cozy.

But a few days before his visit, I panicked. The material was dense—brainstem tracts, cranial nerves, and a sea of diagrams that all looked the same. I was going to need Lesli to help me sort through it.

I called him and said, “This weekend is looking worse by the minute. I think we should reschedule.”

“I don’t mind if you have to study the whole time,” he said. “I just want to be with you.”

“I know, but it just feels like a waste of your money. Especially given those ridiculous Valentine’s rates.”

“It’s never a waste of money to see you.”

“You don’t understand. I need to be in the library. Like the whole time.”

A beat of silence.

“You’re right,” he finally said. “I don’t understand.”



* * *



— Things got tense after that. Nothing explosive, nothing dramatic. Just a series of missed calls, half replies, and hasty good nights. A slow erosion of what used to feel effortless.

Then, one Friday in March, there was a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and saw Mick. I flung the door open as he held up a bouquet of flowers and a bag of cheese curds. He looked so handsome, so familiar.

I laughed at the cheese curds, pulling him inside. “Get in here,” I said.

He set his gifts on my kitchen counter and gave me a long kiss. Within seconds, we were undressing and tumbling into bed. The sex was amazing, but halfway through, I remembered a question I wanted to ask a professor. My body faltered before my mind caught up.

Afterward, he traced my collarbone. “What happened back there?”

“What do you mean?”

“When we were having sex…I feel like you went somewhere else.”

“Just for a second,” I whispered.

“Is everything okay? With us?”

“Of course,” I said.

He rolled over, propping himself onto his elbows, staring into my eyes. “You know that little yellow house you love off East Wisconsin Avenue?”

I nodded, remembering the drive when I spotted it.

“It’s for sale.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Maybe I should buy it. If you match at UW—it would be perfect for us.”

My heart skipped a beat, though I wasn’t sure exactly why. “Can you imagine?” I murmured.

“Yes,” he said. “I actually can.”



* * *



— Later that evening, he asked what I wanted to do for dinner.

“Something easy,” I said.

“I’d love to take you out. Someplace nice.”

“That sounds tempting, but I’m so tired. Would you mind if we stay in with a pizza and a movie?”

“That works, too,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

An hour later, I was in pajamas, curled up against him, watching Life of Pi. I fought to stay awake but couldn’t keep my eyes open.

Before I knew it, the credits were rolling, the TV bathing the room in soft blue light. For a second, I forgot Mick was even in town. Then I saw his flowers in a vase on the table.

I found him in bed, sound asleep.



* * *



— The rest of the weekend was pleasant on the surface—pancakes at a nearby diner, a walk in Central Park, a visit to the Guggenheim. But I could sense something off between us—a strange, out-of-sync feeling. Even our goodbye felt different, less like a pause and more like an ending we were postponing.

Things unraveled slowly from there. Unanswered text messages, missed calls, and distracted conversations.

One night, while I was listening to him tell a story about Maeve, he snapped at me. “Jesus, Billie. Do you ever not multitask when you’re on the phone with me?”

“I’m not multitasking,” I lied.

“I can hear you typing.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, shutting my laptop. “I promise I’ll try to be more present.”

He sighed into the phone, the silence stretching.

“I know you have a lot on your plate,” he finally said. “It’s okay.”

But I could tell it wasn’t.



* * *