Love You More(29)

I took a photo, then sat in a vinyl chair by the window, watching the sky shift from slate to pink. The outside world was waking, yet in that room, time felt suspended. My body ached with adrenaline and exhaustion, but I didn’t want to sleep. I just wanted to stay in this stillness, where the miracle had happened and nothing else had intruded.

Doctor, friend, witness, daughter—all of those roles collided in me.

I thought about everything that had led to this moment: years of training, nights crying in supply rooms, friendships frayed and stitched back together. And now—this. A brand-new life. A baby girl.





Part Two





Chapter 17


It’s hard to believe Phoebe came into the world more than eleven years ago—and that it’s been even longer since Mick and I broke up.

I dread calling him back, worried about what that conversation might stir.

But as I make my way down Broadway, the morning air sharp in my lungs, I know that isn’t the real reason. Good news sleeps in. Bad news doesn’t wait for daylight.

I stop at my usual bodega, the bells on the door jangling. I push inside, a blast of heat hitting my face. I grab a Perrier from the fridge, then veer toward the hot case instead of my standard Greek yogurt and berry parfait. I grab a foil-wrapped bacon-egg-and-cheese and bring everything to the counter.

“Switching it up?” the cashier deadpans as he scans the sandwich.

I smile and nod.

“Have a good one,” he says.

“You too,” I say, tucking the bag under my arm.

I step back into the cold, inhaling the scent of diesel. A delivery truck lurches past, hazard lights blinking.

At the corner, I catch the walk light and take the stairs underground. On the platform, a familiar busker is there, guitar case open at his feet, singing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” His voice is rough and a little off-key, but there’s something about the way he leans into the chorus that I love. It gets me every time. I swallow, swipe my card, and keep moving.

A train roars in, screeching to a halt. I board a crowded car and brace my foot against a pole. The doors close. The ground lurches.

I get out on 79th Street, quickly ascending the stairs before walking east, crossing Amsterdam, then Columbus. I reach our clinic—Hope Fertility—just off Central Park West. Always the first to arrive, I unlock the front door and step into the reception area, an oasis that feels more like a meditation center than a medical facility. I pause, inhaling the scent of eucalyptus and fresh linen. A small fountain whispers in the corner. Lesli and I thought the water feature was overkill—a bit too polished and way too expensive—but Greer insisted. I’m glad she did. It adds peace to a waiting room where anxiety is the overriding emotion for our patients.

I walk down the hall to my office. I power on my computer, set my sandwich on my desk, and open the bottle of Perrier, taking a long sip.

My phone stays in my bag.

I take a long breath, glancing up at my framed diplomas, then the photos on my bookshelves: one with my parents and brother, all of us bundled up in Green Bay Packers gear at Lambeau Field; another of Erin, Phoebe, and me, taken in the city when they visited me two years ago; and a selfie of Dean and me in Vail, snow swirling behind us.

I turn toward my monitor, checking the time. 7:15. Forty-five minutes until my first patient.

No more stalling. I reach under my desk, pull my phone from my bag, and go to my missed calls. I take a deep breath and tap Mick’s number.

It rings once.

Then: “Hi, Billie.”

“Hi, Mick.”

A short pause, then a sharp inhale. “Thank you for calling me back.”

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“No,” he says, his voice low. “I’m afraid not. Erin was in a car accident.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Is she okay?”

Another pause. I grip the edge of my desk, my stomach tightening.

“She didn’t make it, Billie,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

My mind rejects the words. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out—not even breath.

“Are you sure? How do you know?”

“It’s in the news. Cara posted the link on Facebook this morning.”

“A link to what?”

“The TMJ4 news clip. I didn’t want you to see it that way.”

My mind fills with questions that don’t matter. I ask them anyway.

“When?”

“Last evening. Around six.”

“Was she driving?”

“No. Russ was.”

“Where were they?”

“Leaving Rosa’s. On Atwood. He crossed a lane and struck a telephone pole.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Toxicology is pending.”

“So he made it?” I ask, heat rushing in where the numbness had been.

“Yes,” Mick says. “But he’s in the ICU.”

“How do you know?”

“I talked to Cara.”

I close my eyes, anger tangling with a sharp, useless guilt—I’d never told Erin how I really felt about Russ.

“Have you talked to Joan?” I ask, thinking of that call, a couple years ago, when Erin told me her mom had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s—the soft confusion, the missing words. How much worse it had gotten.