Love You More(38)

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“Same!” Anna says.

“What about you?” I say, looking at Mick. “Do you have a favorite memory?”

“Well, it’s probably not a favorite—but it was classic Erin,” he says, pausing.

We all lean in as he continues. “The time she enlisted me to help her move and promised me she didn’t have ‘that much stuff.’ It turned into nine hours, two parking tickets, and a dresser stuck in a stairwell.”

“Pivot!” Sam shouts.

“Exactly,” Mick says. “And she had the nerve to tell me she thought I was good at geometry.”

“Classic Erin,” I say, smiling.

The stories keep coming, one on top of another.

But eventually the laughter fades, and what’s left is the space where she should be.



* * *



—

Over the next couple of hours, people start to peel off. The house quiets in slow increments—chairs scraping back, hugs at the door, voices dropping to murmurs. I hover near the kitchen, keeping one eye on the hallway, waiting for Phoebe.

At one point, Mick steps in beside me. “Got a minute?”

I hesitate, then say, “Sure.”

He looks around, scouting a spot.

I suggest the porch.

He nods, and a moment later, we’re back on one of the main stages of my childhood. It looks smaller than I remember, the white wicker furniture gray with age, as if a million summer afternoons have pressed themselves into the dusty cushions.

We sit on the sofa, staring at the scruffy backyard and the sun-bleached fence.

Silence stretches before I settle on the first neutral topic that comes to mind. “So how’s Maeve these days?”

He smiles, his shoulders relaxing, as I feel some of my own tension ease.

“She’s great,” he says. “She moved into a group home with about a dozen other residents. She’s very happy there.”

I nod. “Does she still work at the movie theater?”

“No. She’s at a coffee shop now. And she has a boyfriend. One of her housemates.”

“Do you approve?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s great. Treats her like gold. And get this—he’s seven years younger!”

“Go, Maeve!”

“I told her she was ‘robbing the cradle’ and now she says it all the time.” He laughs.

“Do you think they’ll get married?” I ask, rubbing my ring with my thumb.

“I can see it.” He pauses. “And I hear congratulations are in order for you?”

“Thank you,” I say, my shoulders tightening again. “What about you? Are you in a relationship?”

He nods.

“Anyone I’d know?”

“No. She moved here about a year ago for a job.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a high school math teacher.”

“Hopefully not as tough as Ms. Sprinkman.”

Mick laughs and shakes his head. “You were so dramatic about that class.”

“We can’t all be math whizzes.”

“Okay, Dr. Wright.”

We both smile and the air shifts, something tender and familiar threading between us.

A quiet moment later, Joan appears in the doorway, frail and uncertain. Mick jumps up to help her down the step and over to the chair across from us. She lowers herself into it, her hands trembling.

“The service was beautiful,” I say.

“Thank you,” Joan says with a faint smile. She takes a deep breath and looks at me. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.” Her voice is surprisingly lucid. “Both of you.”

Mick and I exchange a quick glance, then wait for her to continue.

“Erin wanted you to have custody of Phoebe.”

I go still, questions surging: Did Erin have a will? Or was this just something she said in passing? Did she contemplate joint custody—or only one of us?

“We’re honored,” Mick says, his voice careful.

“Very honored,” I say, the word custody echoing in my ears.

“So you’ll do it?” Joan says.

Mick and I exchange a glance before he says, “Yes. We’ll be here for her. Whatever she needs.”

“Thank you.” Joan presses her lips together. Then her expression clouds, as if a curtain is being drawn closed. “Well, I better go.”

Mick jumps up to help her, while I stay seated, frozen.





Chapter 22


Mick returns to the porch and drops into the chair across from me. He runs his hands through his hair, then leans back, eyes flicking over my face. “Wow,” he says.

“I know,” I say, still reeling, while also wondering why custody of Phoebe never occurred to me before now. Maybe I just couldn’t see past the funeral.

“Did Erin ever mention anything to you?” Mick asks. “About her wishes?”

“No. Never,” I say, thinking that Erin was an eternal optimist who never prepared for the worst. “Do you think she meant joint custody? Or an either/or type thing?”

“No idea,” Mick says.

It crosses my mind that Joan could be mistaken. But it seems far more likely she’d forget an instruction than invent one.