Love You More(43)

He looks up and smiles. “Hey, doc,” he says. “What’s a ‘temporary halt in breathing’? Five letters.”

“Apnea,” I say, sitting in my chair.

“That’s it,” he murmurs.

My mom turns and says, “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Want to pick your mug?” she asks, opening the cabinet filled with mismatched mugs dating back to the eighties.

“Surprise me.”

She selects a Shutterfly mug with a faded photo of my brother and me in front of the Disney World castle, then pours me coffee, setting it on a place mat before me.

“How was last night?” she asks, joining us at the table.

I sigh. “It was okay. Mick and I took Phoebe to his place for dinner. She needed a change of scenery.”

“That was a good idea,” my mom says.

I nod and take my first sip of coffee, grateful it’s strong. “So—big news from Joan yesterday.”

My parents look at me.

“She told Mick and me that Erin wanted us to have custody of Phoebe,” I say, hearing how odd it sounds.

“Both of you?” my mom asks.

I nod.

“As in…joint custody?” she says.

“That’s not completely clear.”

“How do you feel about that?” my mom asks.

“It’s complicated. I have to talk to Dean.”

“So if you did this, would you move back?”

“I don’t know. It would be hard to uproot our lives and careers. But Mick and I agree that Phoebe needs to stay put.” I pause. “There’s a lot to figure out.”

“What does Mick say?” my mom asks.

“He’s up for it.”

“What if you both want to do it?” my dad asks.

Their questions are fair, but it’s starting to feel like an inquisition.

“I really don’t know,” I say.

“Can I ask one more thing?” my mom says.

I nod.

“What if you want to do it, but Dean isn’t on board?”

I stare at her, blinking, hearing her real question beneath the words.

“He’s my fiancé,” I say. As if that explains everything.



* * *



—

Not long after, I’m walking down the street to Joan’s. The sky is blue, the air sharp but not as cold as yesterday. I pick up my pace, as if speed could push away thoughts of Erin underground.

When I walk into Joan’s house, I find her and Phoebe in the family room watching Jennifer Garner amid the pastel world of 13 Going on 30. Erin and I saw it at the theater, then bought the DVD a year later. We watched it so many times that we memorized the lines.

Thirty, flirty, and thriving, I think—the phrase landing sideways.

“Morning, girls!” I say.

Joan looks up and smiles from her rocking chair.

“Morning, Billie,” Phoebe says, her voice still scratchy with sleep.

On the coffee table in front of her is a plate of waffles, piled high with whipped cream.

I sit on the sofa beside her, watching the early 2000s magic spill across the screen.

When she’s finished her waffles, Phoebe snuggles against me. Her pajamas smell like fabric softener. I take her hand in mine, staring down at her small fingers. I try to picture Erin’s little-girl hands, but they stay just out of reach. Then, suddenly, it comes back—the smattering of freckles, her deep cuticle beds, and what she called “squoval” nails.

When the credits roll, Phoebe mutes the television and asks if we can go shopping.

“Of course,” I say. “Maybe we can go to the library and check out some books, too?”

Phoebe nods.

“Why don’t you change and then we can go?”

“Okay,” she says, getting up and running out of the room.

I glance at Joan, still staring at the TV, then clear Phoebe’s plate and juice glass from the coffee table. I carry them to the sink and load the dishwasher, the movement grounding.

Remembering my promise to call Dean, I fish my phone out of my bag, then head for the porch. As I dial his number, I catch myself hoping it goes to voicemail. I tell myself it’s better to have this conversation face-to-face—not over a hurried call.

On the third ring, Dean answers. “Good morning,” he says, the low murmur of his conference in the background. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing okay,” I say.

“I’m glad your eulogy went well,” he says.

“It did. I somehow got through it without crying.”

“I’m proud of you,” he says, and I can hear in his voice how much he means it.

“Thank you.”

“So what’s your plan for today?” he asks.

“Phoebe and I are about to go shopping.”

“That’s good. Doing normal stuff helps.”

“We’re trying.”

“What time do you get in tomorrow?”

“Around four. You?”

“Earlier. But I’ll come back and pick you up.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

“Thanks, Dean,” I say. “See you soon.”