Love You More(30)

“Not yet,” he says. “I’m going over there today.”

“Is Phoebe with her?” I ask, the implications crashing in.

Eleven years old. Her only parent gone.

“Yes.”

“Is that safe—given Joan’s condition?”

“Cara is staying there for now. I told her I’d call you.” A pause. “Do you want to call your crew, or do you want me to?”

“Would you do it, please?”

“Of course.”

“And my parents?” I say. “I can’t—”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Mick.”

“No problem,” he says. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear about funeral arrangements.”

“Thank you,” I say again.

We sit in silence for a few seconds, then say goodbye.

Too shocked to cry, I turn and look out my window, watching pedestrians pass by as if nothing has changed.

Yet everything has. Erin is no longer in the world. We’ll never have another conversation. I’ll never hear her voice again. Her laugh. Her opinions on everything. It is incomprehensible.

My mind races, trying to remember the last time I saw her in person. Thanksgiving. Over four months ago. Thank God for our FaceTime the night Dean and I got engaged. I’d called her after dinner, and she’d appeared in a sports bra and sweatpants, grinning even before I told her the news. When I held up my ring, she’d shrieked, “Oh my God! No way! It’s massive! You did good, Dean!”

“I can’t wait for you two to meet in person,” I said. “You’re going to love him.”

“I already love him! Let me talk to him!”

Dean crowded in next to me, and within seconds, they were talking like old friends. It was Erin’s way with people.

A few days later, I called her to pop my own question: “Will you be my maid of honor?”

“Oh, hell yes!” she said. “God—I know this is so third grade, but I was worried you’d pick Lesli.”

“Please,” I said, smiling.

“I’ll start planning your bachelorette party the second we hang up,” she said. “Milwaukee dive bars, plastic tiara, penis straws—the full cheesy package.”

I laughed.

“Warn your fancy friends.”

“Lesli isn’t fancy.”

“Greer is.”

“Don’t hold it against her.”

“Too late.”

We laughed, and then a quiet settled between us.

“I’m really happy for you, Billie,” she said, her voice going calm. “I remember when you were getting ready to move to New York. It was hard to see you go, but it always felt like exactly what you were meant to do. And now look at you. Big job. A guy who’s wild about you. You deserve all of it.”

“Thank you, Erin. That means a lot,” I said. “You’ve been there for every version of me.”

“I know there were moments when I got a little salty about you leaving.”

“A little?” I said, thinking of Lucy’s wedding.

“I know I can be bratty. But watching you build this life has been one of the best parts of mine.”

“Thank you, Erin,” I said quietly. “I’m just as proud of you—the way you’re raising Phoebe on your own. She’s an incredible kid.”

“Aw, thanks,” she said. “We’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

“Way better than okay,” I said.



* * *



— At eight o’clock sharp, there’s a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I call out.

Our nurse practitioner, Alex, introduces me to Sophie Cohen, my oncology referral.

I stand and say, “Hi, Sophie. I’m Billie. Come in.”

“Thank you.” She walks in, looking composed, almost stoic.

We shake hands. I offer to take her coat.

“No, thank you,” she says, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable.

We sit. I ask gentle questions. She tells me her story. Mammogram. Biopsy. Diagnosis. Treatment plan. Her desire to preserve her fertility.

When she finishes, I say, “I’m so sorry, Sophie. For all you’re going through.”

“Thank you.” She blinks back tears. “Am I crazy for thinking about fertility at a time like this?”

“Not at all. This is your life. Thinking about your future is exactly where your mind should be.”

She exhales, her shoulders dropping. “Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”

“Hope can be a lifeline,” I say. “It matters.”

Her eyes fill again. “I just want to be a mother. More than anything.”

I think of Erin. And Phoebe—the center of her entire world.

I will myself to refocus on Sophie. We discuss next steps. Logistics. Time lines.

When the appointment is over, and we are both standing at my door, I have a sudden urge to hug her. Instead, I close the door and sit back down. The tears finally come.





Chapter 18


The day passes in fragments—voices, lab results, worried faces. I counsel a woman through her first ultrasound. I discuss egg retrieval schedules. I scribble notes in margins. I adjust medication doses. My hands move; my voice carries on. But I’m somewhere else entirely.