Love You More(53)

“No. I just found it on OpenTable.”

Greer arches a perfectly groomed brow. “Let me guess—you filtered to three dollar signs or below.”

Lesli shrugs and laughs. “Guilty.”

It’s the two of them in a nutshell—practicality versus style—while I land somewhere in the middle.

As we walk inside, I’m firmly on Greer’s side. The restaurant has bad lighting, zero ambiance, and a faint smell of bleach.

Greer scans the hostess stand and says, “The menus are laminated. Hard no.”

“Since when is lamination a deal-breaker?” Lesli asks.

Greer ignores her, nodding toward a middle-aged man eating alone at the bar. “Look at his tinted glasses. He’s giving sex offender.”

“Jeez, Greer!” I laugh. “Give the guy a break.”

“Yeah, this place is fine,” Lesli says.

“I can tell you right now, sister—the martinis will not be fine,” Greer says.

“Vodka’s vodka,” Lesli says.

“Sorry. No can do,” Greer says, already heading for the door. “Life’s too short for mediocre martinis.”

Lesli and I exchange an amused look, then follow Greer as she scrolls on her phone.

By the time we’re back on the sidewalk, Greer has summoned an Uber.

“Where to?” I say.

“Dear Irving,” Greer says. “Rooftop at the Aliz Hotel.”

“Are we dressed for that?” Lesli asks, glancing down at her light-wash jeans and floral top.

“I am,” Greer says, smiling and eyeing Lesli’s feet. “Let’s just hope clogs are allowed.”



* * *



— A few minutes later, we’re stepping into a glam Art Deco bar with mirrored walls and a view of the Empire State Building. The room thrums with conversation and the soft clink of glass.

A chic hostess leads us to a table. We pass a woman with a loud, raspy laugh. Her head is tipped back, her drink raised midair. She sounds like Erin—that same bright energy spilling onto everyone around her.

I pull myself back to the present as we settle into plush velvet seating. A waiter appears who looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ.

“Sparkling or still?” he asks.

“Sparkling,” Greer says.

“Anything else to drink?”

“I’d love a Belvedere martini—dirty, extra-cold, blue cheese olives,” Greer says.

I copy her order while Lesli opts for a gin martini with a twist.

When our drinks arrive, Greer raises her glass. “To Lesli—may your martinis be arctic and your copays prompt!”

We laugh and clink glasses.

For the next few minutes, our conversation is light and easy. Lesli asks Greer about her date over the weekend.

“Promising—until he slid the check to midfield and said, ‘Do you want to go halfsies?’?”

“I thought you were a feminist,” I say.

“The bigger problem was his use of ‘halfsies.’?”

Lesli and I crack up.

“That and his micro-dick,” Greer says with a smirk.

“You slept with him after he made you go halfsies?” I ask, still laughing.

“I slept with him after I told him I did not, in fact, want to go halfsies.” Greer pivots, her expression turning serious. “So, Billie. How did your weekend go?”

“It went okay,” I say.

“It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about it,” Lesli says.

“It’s fine. I can talk about it.”

Everything spills out.

“Wow,” Greer says when I’m finished. “You’re actually thinking about leaving us?”

“That’s your first question?” Lesli says.

“Sorry. You’re right,” Greer says, nodding. “That was selfish.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I need honesty.”

“If you want more honesty—I think this is a dreadful idea,” Greer says.

“A dreadful idea to take care of a child who just lost her mom?” Lesli shoots back.

“A dreadful idea to move to Wisconsin.” She turns to me. “Your life is here. You’ve poured your heart and soul into our clinic.”

“I know,” I say. “And I know I’d be leaving you guys in a bind. But there’s a lot I could do from Wisconsin.”

“Such as?” Greer says.

“Plenty. ACOG guidelines allow telehealth. I could manage consults and cycles remotely. Counseling, treatment plans, med adjustments. The whole front end.”

“I guess,” Greer says, looking skeptical. “But egg retrievals?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. I could fly in for procedures, maybe once a month. Mick could take care of Phoebe while I’m gone.”

Lesli nods. “That could work.”

“Fine. But what about Dean?” Greer says.

“There’s plenty of trauma in Milwaukee,” I say.

“Yes, he could find work. But he’s a New Yorker, through and through. His idea of the boonies is Brooklyn.”

“I know,” I say. “And that part scares me.”