Love You More(22)
— Lucy’s wedding invitation arrived in early May, a pale envelope with gold-embossed script. I stared at the June date, processing that she was getting married three days before Step 1.
When I showed the invitation to Lesli, she winced. “Oof. That sucks.”
“I can’t go, right?”
“I wouldn’t. We’ll be in cram mode.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’ve been friends with Lucy since we were five. I feel like I have to go. A quick in and out.”
Lesli nodded, and I booked my flight with the best intentions.
* * *
— But when the week of the wedding finally came, I knew I couldn’t manage it. I was too behind, too panicked. It felt like Valentine’s Day all over again.
I called Lucy first.
“I understand,” she said. “We’ll celebrate soon.”
Erin didn’t take the news so well.
“Are you fucking serious?” she said.
“I know it sucks, but I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice!” Her voice rose, sharp and certain, while mine shrank to silence.
“Look, Billie. I get that what you’re doing is hard. Harder than I can even imagine. And I’ve tried to be supportive. We all have. Especially Mick. But missing Lucy’s wedding is a bridge too far. You’re not just skipping a wedding. You’re skipping us.”
Her words landed like a punch. It wasn’t fair—and yet it was.
“I’m sorry, Erin,” I said. “I just can’t afford a bad score.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Well, I hope it’s all worth it.”
* * *
— Mick was my final call—and his reaction felt the worst: a simple “okay.”
“I’m really sorry to bail on you,” I said.
“I know you are.”
“After this test, things will be different.”
The words sounded hollow even to me.
* * *
— The day after the wedding, Anna sent me a Snapfish album full of photos: Lucy and her groom walking back up the aisle; Sam and Erin grinning on the church steps; she and Eliot raising champagne glasses on the beer hall balcony of South Second. There was one I kept returning to—a shot of Lucy and Adam’s first dance. In the background, I could see Mick, standing alone at the edge of the dance floor.
* * *
— The night before my exam, Mick called to wish me good luck.
“You’ve got this,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” he replied.
I hung up, trying to remember the last time he’d said “more.”
* * *
— The next day, after eight grueling hours of testing, I stumbled out of the Prometric center into June humidity, my head buzzing with adrenaline. A knot of classmates was conducting a postmortem. I walked past them, feeling freer with every step. For the first time in months there was no next flash card waiting.
I took out my phone and saw that I’d been offered a summer research assistantship in New York, working with one of the top attendings at NYU Langone.
A second later the phone rang.
It was Mick.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Hard to tell,” I said. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
“Me too,” he said, his voice sounding lighter than it had in weeks—so light I couldn’t bear to tell him the rest of my news.
* * *
— It took three days to work up the courage to tell him.
“Congratulations,” he said, his voice flat.
“I don’t have to take it—”
“Yeah, you do. And don’t worry—I expected this.”
The words hung like smoke.
“Mick. I’m sorry—”
“I know you are, Billie. But it’s time we face reality.”
“What do you mean, ‘reality’?”
“We’re growing apart. The distance is killing us. And now you’re not even coming home this summer.”
“But I’ll be back for a few weeks—”
“A few weeks isn’t a relationship.”
I sank onto the edge of my bed, heart racing. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying it might be time to give up.”
“But we’ve made it almost two years. That’s halfway.”
“Halfway to what?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
“You have no idea where you’re going to do your residency—and something tells me it won’t be here.”
“It might be,” I said.
“Might isn’t enough.”
“Please, Mick. We can do this.”
“I don’t think we can,” he said softly. “God, Billie, I don’t want to say this, but I think—I know—it’s time.”
My vision blurred. “Can I at least see you when I get home?”
“Of course,” he said. “We owe it to ourselves to say goodbye in person.”