Love You More(50)

A few hours later, Mick pulls into the driveway with a light honk.

It’s time to go.

I hug and kiss Joan goodbye, telling her I’ll be back soon.

She nods, a blank look on her face, as Phoebe steps forward.

“I’m going to the airport, Gram,” she says. “Be good.”

Joan smiles.

We swing by my parents’ house, and as Mick loads my bag into the truck, my parents hug me in the driveway.

“Text when you get through security—and when you land,” my dad says, as if I were flying alone for the first time.

“I will,” I say as Mick and I climb back into the truck.

As we pull out of the neighborhood and turn onto the main road, I look out my window, choking up. The faint funk of silage sneaks through the truck’s air vents. Farm fields unspool into interstate, barns giving way to billboards for cheese curd outlets and roadside fireworks warehouses. Phoebe is quiet in the backseat, her arm around Cash, the cab settling into a taut silence.

When we reach the terminal, Mick eases to the curb, shifts into park, then hops out to get my bag. I unclip my seatbelt, slide out of the truck, then open the back door and give Phoebe a quick hug.

“I’ll call you tonight,” I say, keeping my voice light. “And I’ll see you in less than two weeks.”

She nods, eyes solemn.

“I love you, Feebs,” I say, realizing it’s the first time I’ve said it all weekend.

“I love you, too,” she says.

I lean in to give her one more hug, then close her door and turn to face Mick.

“Remember. Whatever you decide, I’m here,” he says.

His words land like a promise—not pressure—and I nod, grateful.

We hesitate, both of us leaning in just a fraction as if contemplating a hug. But we don’t. I glance over and find Phoebe watching us from the window. I tap the glass and blow her a kiss before rolling my bag through the sliding doors.

An hour later, the plane takes off. Every moment puts more miles between me and my hometown. As I scan the patchwork of green and gray below, I picture Joan watching television on her sofa, my parents puttering in the kitchen, Phoebe and Mick driving back from the airport in his Chevy. The white-noise hum of the jet engines is soothing, but my thoughts won’t settle. They drift between the past and the present until I finally nod off.

When I wake up, the light has shifted. The digital map on my screen shows we’re somewhere over Ohio—in the middle, neither here nor there.





Chapter 29


Two hours later, I’m on the curb at LaGuardia, scanning the line of cars for Dean’s Range Rover. He spots me, hops out, and jogs toward me.

“Hey, baby,” he says, giving me a quick kiss.

“Hi, honey,” I say.

He takes my bag, rolls it to the open trunk, and sets it inside.

We slide into our seats and buckle up.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” I say.

“Of course,” he says, pulling away from the curb and merging into traffic.

“I missed you,” he says, resting his hand on my thigh.

“I missed you, too,” I say.

I lean back in my seat as the city rises up ahead, the skyline coming into view.

“Tell me about your conference,” I say.

I want to hear about it—but I also want to postpone talking about my weekend.

I try to follow as Dean talks about chairing a plenary session on emergency response systems, moderating a panel of international surgeons, and discussing national trauma guidelines with hospital administrators. But his words sound muffled, as if he’s speaking through glass.

“So how are you doing?” Dean asks as we turn onto 125th Street, a thread of concern running under the lightness.

“I’m okay,” I say. “But there’s a lot to talk about.”

“Oh?” he says, glancing over at me.

“Can you come up?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says.

A few minutes later, Dean pulls into a space in front of my building. He grabs my bag from the back and follows me up the stairs to my lobby, then into the elevator.

Once we’re in my apartment, he gives me a long hug. I press my face into his sweater, breathing him in.

When he lets go, I see worry in his eyes.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

I shake my head, realizing that I never had lunch.

“Want me to order?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

He walks over to my couch, perches on the edge, and starts scrolling on his phone.

“What are you in the mood for?”

I shrug. “You pick.”

He nods, keeps scrolling, then settles on Italian.

“I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay?” I say, wondering why I sound so formal.

“Of course,” he says. “Take your time.”

After my shower, we eat quietly on the sofa, paper bags rustling as we unwrap containers: house salads, chicken piccata, linguine with red sauce.

I can tell he’s waiting for me to open up, and I ease into it, telling him about Joan’s health, Erin’s condo, Phoebe’s spelling bee—everything but the question of custody.

“When’s the spelling bee?” he asks. “I’d love to go with you.”