Love You More(42)

I guide her out of the truck and into the house.

Inside, Joan sits at the kitchen table in a pale blue nightgown, looking lost in the dim light.

“I’m sorry we kept you up,” I say. “Let’s get you and Phoebe up to bed.”

“I still have to do the dishes,” she says, gesturing toward the spotless sink.

Mick and I exchange a glance.

“We’ll worry about the dishes tomorrow,” I say.

She nods, then slowly stands.

I take her hand, guiding her toward the stairwell, Phoebe on the other side of me.

“Do you want some help?” Mick asks under his breath.

“I’ve got it,” I say.

He gestures toward the family room. “I’ll wait down here.”

Upstairs, Phoebe changes into pink flannel pajamas. I turn down her covers as she goes to brush her teeth in the hall bathroom.

When she comes back, she says, “I didn’t floss. Is that okay?”

I think of Erin—chaotic, but oddly diligent about flossing.

“Yes. You can skip tonight.”

As Phoebe climbs into bed, my heart aches. Her mother was buried this morning—she shouldn’t be sleeping alone.


Keep a few stories in reserve.

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“Hey, Feebs?”

She blinks up at me.

“Maybe you should sleep in Gram’s bed? Keep her company.”

“Good idea.” Her voice wobbles, but she lifts her chin.



* * *



— Down the hall, Joan is already nodding off. Phoebe crawls in beside her, her curls fanning across the pillow.

“Will you sit with me until I fall asleep?”

I nod, tucking the covers up to her chin, then sitting on the edge of the mattress.

Her eyes flutter shut. I stay still, waiting until her breath grows deep and even.



* * *



— When I return to the family room, Mick looks up from his phone.

“They’re both asleep,” I say.

He nods.

“You think it’s okay to leave them alone for the night? I could go home and get my things.”

“I think they’ll be fine as long as one of us comes back first thing in the morning.”

“I will,” I say.

He nods, then asks if I want a lift back to my house.

“Yes, please,” I say.



* * *



—

When we pull into my parents’ driveway, Mick puts the truck in park but doesn’t kill the engine. He turns toward me, his face unreadable.

“What a day,” he says.

“Feels like three.” I sigh, thinking about Phoebe—and the long road ahead.

“It really does,” he says.

We sit in a heavy silence before he clears his throat and says, “Any more thoughts about the custody thing?”

My chest tightens. It’s an impossible question. “I want to be here for her—so much—but I just don’t know if I can work it out.” I stop, thinking of Dean, knowing I need to talk to him first.

Mick flinches, a cloud falling over his face.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“Nothing,” he says, staring out the front window.

“What’re you thinking?”

“It just…feels familiar.”

“What do you mean?”

“It brings back memories,” he says. “Moving back—not moving back.” His voice is calm, but there’s something brittle underneath.

“Oh,” I say, the parallel snapping into focus. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, meeting my gaze. “Just don’t lead me on again.”

The words sting, knocking something loose inside me. Part of me wants to defend myself, but this doesn’t feel like the moment to relitigate our past.

“I’m not doing that,” I say.

He nods but doesn’t reply.

When it becomes clear he isn’t going to, I take a deep breath and say, “You know, I think we’re both exhausted and need to get some sleep.”

“Yep,” he says, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Good night, Billie.”

I study his profile for one final second, then unfasten my seatbelt and open the door, sliding out of the truck.

As I make my way to the front porch, his headlights stretch my shadow long across the yard.





Chapter 25


I wake up disoriented, then remember where I am. I roll onto my back, Mick’s words from last night surfacing at once: Don’t lead me on again.

I tell myself not to dwell on it. It’s not the time to be thin-skinned.

I check my phone and see a missed call from Dean. We’ve exchanged a few texts since the funeral, but we still haven’t spoken. I send another, promising to call in a few. He hearts the text.

The familiar hum of childhood fills the house: the clink of breakfast dishes, the cadence of my parents’ voices.

I wash up, then head downstairs, hesitating in the kitchen doorway. My mom putters by the sink while my dad sits at the table in his old gray robe, the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel spread open before him.