Love You More(34)

“We’ll figure it out. Mom said Cara Rogers started a GoFundMe for Phoebe.”

“That’s nice,” I say. “But money is the least of our concerns right now.”

“I’m sure everyone will give in different ways,” my dad says. “You know what they say—it takes a village.”

I nod and stare out my window, grateful to be back in my village.



* * *



— As we walk in the back door, I inhale the familiar scent of my childhood home—pine cleaner, firewood, dog food. I feel a knot of belonging and estrangement I can’t untie, like slipping on an old coat: familiar but a bit too tight.

Henry, our thirteen-year-old Sheepadoodle, rounds the corner, tail wagging. I lean down to rub his ears as my mom appears behind him. She is dressed in one of her signature L.L.Bean ensembles—khakis, white turtleneck, and an oatmeal-colored fisherman sweater. Her wardrobe hasn’t changed much since the eighties—and tonight, it comforts me. She steps around Henry and wraps me in a long hug.

“I just can’t believe it,” she says as we separate.

“I know,” I reply, slipping out of my coat.

My dad takes it and hangs it in the closet, then heads upstairs with my bag while my mom and I go to the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

I shake my head as my phone buzzes inside my purse.

I pull it out and see a new text on the friend group chat—one that Erin started years ago. It’s surreal to see her name still on the thread. I can’t help wondering where her phone is. Was it destroyed in the accident? Bagged up as evidence? Or returned to Joan, intact, locked, and glowing with new messages?

I skim the last few texts—Lucy lamenting that there is no wake; Eliot explaining that Joan wasn’t up for one; Anna inviting us over to her place; Sam saying he won’t be arriving until tomorrow morning.

I type back: Not up to anything tonight but can’t wait to spend time together tomorrow.

I tap send, then type another text: Is this really happening?

Eliot replies with a broken heart emoji.

I stare at the screen for several seconds, then set my phone facedown on the counter.

“How about a cup of tea?” my mom asks.

“Or bourbon?” my dad says, joining us.

“That sounds more like it,” I say.

He nods and reaches up into a cabinet, pulling down a bottle of Woodford Reserve, still wrapped in a red ribbon from the holidays. He fills two glasses with ice, then opens the bottle and pours a shot into each.

When he hands me one, his hand trembles.

“To Erin,” he finally says.

“To Erin,” I echo.

Our glasses clink before we both take a sip. The bourbon burns, warmth filling my chest.

After a few more sips, I say, “I think I’m going to turn in for the night.”

“Okay, honey,” my mom says. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “It’s nice to be home.”

“It’s nice to have you home,” she says.



* * *



— When I open the door to my old room, I feel a wave of relief that my mom finally turned it into a proper guest room. The bed is neatly made. The walls are bare.

I close the door behind me.





Chapter 20


I wake with a start, rolling over to glance at the time on my phone: 6:15. Too late to try to go back to sleep, too early to get up.

I check my texts, surprised to see one from Dean that just came in, 4:10 a.m. Vegas time: Hang in there today. I know you’ll do a beautiful job honoring Erin. Wish I were there with you.

I immediately call him. “Why are you up so early?”

“Can’t sleep. I should be there with you.”

“No, you should be at your conference. But I’m glad you’re awake. I needed to hear your voice.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m scared, Dean.”

“I know.”

“What if I can’t get through my eulogy?”

“Then stop. Take a breath. Start again. No one’s grading you.”

“What will I say to Phoebe? I still haven’t talked to her—my calls go straight to Joan’s answering machine.”

“It doesn’t matter what you say—just that you’re there,” he says.

He sounds so certain that for a moment, I believe him.



* * *



— When I finally get up, my parents move around me like I’m made of glass, footsteps soft, voices lowered as they discuss the honey-baked ham my dad dropped off at Joan’s and my brother’s plan to meet us at the church with his girlfriend, Brooke.

My mom makes scrambled eggs and bacon, but I can only manage a piece of toast and a cup of coffee.

Then I head back upstairs to wrestle myself into my stiff black dress and tights.

When we get in the car, I slide into the backseat, folding my hands in my lap. My dad drives slowly, and I gaze out the window at the streets where Erin and I used to ride bikes. Finally, we turn into the church parking lot.

I take a deep breath, staring out the window at a white Audi pulling into the spot across from us. Two women step out—one with long blond hair, the other with a short, dark bob. They look about my age, but I don’t recognize them. Not from high school. Not from Erin’s social media. Once upon a time, Erin and I knew every corner of each other’s lives—every name, every face. That suddenly feels like a long time ago.