Love You More(31)

Later, I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognize myself. My face is too pale, my eyes too wide. Mascara has smudged under one eye, giving me a haunted look.

I splash water on my face, to no effect.

The door creaks open, and I see Lesli in the mirror.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I turn to face her, trying to form the words: Erin is dead.

I nod, but I can’t speak.

Her forehead creases, and I can tell she knows something terrible has happened.

“Let me know if you want to talk about it,” she says, her voice low and calm.

“Thank you,” I say.

She taps my arm before ducking into a stall.



* * *



— After my last patient leaves, I summon the courage to look at my phone, finding text messages and voicemails from my mom and my brother, Sam and Eliot, Anna and Lucy. I tell myself I need to call them back—at least text—but it’s too daunting.

So I call Dean, always my safest place to land.

“Hey,” he says, a sizzling sound in the background.

“Where are you?”

“Making dinner.”

“You’re already home?”

“Yeah. Slow day. People seem to be making good decisions out there.”

Erin flashes in my head—followed by Russ and his decisions—and I get a wave of nausea.

“You still coming?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be there soon.”



* * *



— I usually take the subway down to Times Square, hop the Q to 63rd, then walk a block to Park Avenue. Dean thinks it’s ridiculous, insisting that I should always take a taxi. But the frugal midwesterner in me can’t resist a $2.90 tap.

Tonight, though, the subway feels impossible. I call an Uber—even springing for a Black car. Seconds later, it glides up to the curb. I climb in, lean back, and do everything I can to keep my mind blank.

Twenty minutes later, we turn onto Park Avenue, then pull up to Dean’s building. I thank my driver and step out.

Oscar, my favorite of Dean’s doormen, booms from the marble lobby, “Evening, Doc!”

“Hi, Oscar,” I manage.

“How many lives did you save today?”

“None,” I say, forcing a smile. “That’s Dean’s territory.”

“Ah, yes!” Oscar clasps his gloved hands. “You create the lives!”

“I try,” I say, giving him another smile.

Oscar laughs as I step inside the elevator.

When the doors open to Dean’s penthouse apartment, I inhale the scent of leather and caramelized garlic. Jazz murmurs low. Bill Evans. Before Dean, I thought listening to jazz was pretentious. Now I get it.

I hang my coat in the hall closet, then walk to the kitchen. Dean has already changed into his “home scrubs” and is standing barefoot at the stove, stirring marinara sauce. He rests the spoon on the counter at a perfect right angle before turning to face me.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

“A little bit,” I say, though my stomach is a stone.

He pauses a beat, then says, “Did you call your ex?”

I nod.

He scans my face. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“Not yet,” I say, eyeing the bottle of open wine on the counter. I turn to get a glass, then fill it before sitting at the kitchen island.

Dean lowers fresh linguine into boiling water. He turns the flame down on the stove and rounds the island.

“Hey,” he says gently, staring into my eyes. “Talk to me.”

My fists clench in my lap.

I take a deep breath and force the words out. “Erin was in a car accident last night.” I pause, looking down, and repeat Mick’s words. “She didn’t make it.”

“Fuck,” Dean says, his arms around me instantly, folding me into the tightest hug.

When we separate, I give him the details like a reporter. Facts are all I can manage right now.

He exhales hard when I get to the part about Russ.

“I should’ve told Erin what I really thought of him. I had so many chances—it might’ve saved her life.”

“No,” he repeats, his dark eyes fierce. “She wouldn’t have listened. People make their own choices, in their own time. You can’t do this to yourself.”

“It’s not just Russ. There are so many things that could’ve stopped this from happening,” I say, my mind spinning through the endless causes and effects. “I almost called her yesterday. And then I didn’t—”

“Billie. Listen to me. This is not your fault.”

I meet his eyes. It doesn’t fix anything—but it steadies me.



* * *



— After dinner and dishes, we curl up on the couch and turn on the television, The Bear spilling its usual chaos. Halfway through, I get up to use the bathroom, checking my phone on the way back to the sofa.

There’s a text from Mick. I open it and read: Service Friday—Queen of Apostles. Hope you’re hanging in there.

My stomach drops. Queen of Apostles is Erin’s parish—where I watched her float down the aisle in a white dress for her first communion.