Love You More(32)

I return to the sofa and show Dean the text.

“Should we book flights now?” he asks. “I need to cancel my conference.”

“Oh, shit. I forgot about Vegas,” I say, thinking of how much work he’s put into this trauma conference, where he is not only one of the keynote speakers but also one of the three organizers.

“It’s fine. Everyone will understand. And if they don’t…” He shrugs.

“No. You need to go to the conference—”

“Billie. She’s your best friend. Our maid of honor. I need to be there. I want to be there.”

“I want you there, too,” I say. “But I really think you should go to the conference. I can do this on my own. And honestly, I’d rather you meet all my people under happier circumstances.”

He nods, a pinch between his brows. “Whatever you think is best.”

I sigh. “I should probably return some texts. My mom’s been blowing me up.”

He nods and clicks the TV off, then rests his hand on my leg.

Over the next fifteen minutes, I text everyone back, promising I’ll call tomorrow. Then I scroll to Joan’s number, knowing this is the one conversation that can’t wait.

The phone rings three times before Joan’s ancient answering machine clicks on, her cheerful voice telling me to leave a message after the beep.

“Hi, Joan. It’s Billie,” I say, my heart pounding as I struggle to find the right words, knowing there are none. “I’m so sorry. Sending prayers to you and Phoebe. I love you both so much and will see you soon.”

A second later, Joan calls me back.

I brace myself and answer.

“Billie? Is that you?” Her voice is thin and shaky.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Joan. I’m so sorry.”

“I know, honey,” she says. For a moment I think she’s crying, but then I realize it’s just her ragged breathing. “Will you say something at the funeral?”

“Of course,” I say. “I’d be honored.”

“Erin loved you so much.”

“I loved her, too. She was like a sister.”

We sit in silence for an unbearable moment.

“Can I talk to Phoebe?” I finally ask.

“She’s asleep,” Joan says, her voice drifting, flat and far away. “Can she call you tomorrow?”

“Sure. Anytime,” I say. “But if she’s not up to talking, please just tell her how much I love her. And I’ll see her soon.”

“I will, honey,” Joan says. Then—hesitant—“You’ll come back, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be there.”



* * *



— That night, I lie next to Dean in the dark of his bedroom, my mind stuck on the moments I’ll never get to have with Erin. The phone calls. The laughs. The visits. I’d made my choice—New York over Wisconsin—believing there would always be more time. Now there won’t be.

I cling to the bright memories, touching each one like beads on a rosary—holiday visits, late-night talks, and our postcard weekend in New York two Decembers ago. She, Phoebe, and I ticked off every kid-favorite classic: ice skating under the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, a matinee of The Lion King, a pilgrimage to the American Girl store, and high tea at the Plaza Hotel.

We even squeezed in a visit to Serendipity, where Phoebe’s ice cream sundae melted faster than she could eat it. She looked up at me, chocolate sauce on her chin, and said, “One day, when I’m a grown-up, I want to live in New York, too.”

Erin threw her head back and laughed. “Here we go again! First I lose my best friend to New York—now my daughter!”

I rolled my eyes and said, “You haven’t lost me.”

“Kinda sorta,” she said, smiling.

“Well, I’m glad Billie lives here,” Phoebe said, spoon in the air. “This is fun!”

“Finally,” I said, smiling. “Someone who gets it.”

I push the memory away and cling tighter to Dean.





Chapter 19


The following evening, I board my flight to Milwaukee with a carry-on bag. The beginnings of my eulogy are handwritten on index cards tucked into my purse.

I return a flight attendant’s pleasant hello and make my way down the aisle. When I reach my row, I put my bag in the overhead bin, then slide into the window seat.

As we take off, the cabin tips upward and my mind flashes back a decade.

It was Phoebe’s first Thanksgiving. I was home for the holidays. After dinner, Erin and I took a walk around the neighborhood, pushing Phoebe in her stroller.

“You think you and Mick would ever get back together?” she asked, out of the blue. Her voice was careful, as if she’d been thinking about the question for a while.

“I doubt it. But sometimes I wonder—”

“Wonder what?”

“Wonder why we didn’t try harder.”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness.

I took a deep breath and said, “I might text him—ask if he’d like to get coffee.”

She raised a brow. “What’s the endgame? To restore your friendship or try again?”