Love You More(55)

One evening, over roasted chicken and a salad Dean tossed in a steel bowl, my phone lights up.

“Mind if I grab this?”

“Go for it.”

Phoebe’s face fills the screen. “Guess what?” she shouts.

“What?” I say.

“You’re supposed to guess!”

“Okay…you aced your math test?”

“Well, yeah,” she says. “But it’s bigger than that.”

“Tell me!”

“We got Hank!” she says, flipping the camera around. Hank’s sweet face appears, his tail wagging furiously.

“Oh my gosh! That’s amazing!”

“It’s the best thing ever!” she says.

Mick ducks into view, smiling.

I feel Dean tense beside me.

“I can’t wait to see him again,” I say.

“Only four more days!” Phoebe says.

We say goodbye and I set my phone down, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“They got a dog,” I say.

“Fun.” He spears a piece of chicken, his gaze dropping.

“Are you annoyed?”

“Not annoyed,” he says. “Just a little concerned.”

“About?”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m on board for custody—not joint custody.”

I bite my lip and nod.

“I’m sorry, Billie—but I’m not comfortable co-parenting with your ex.”

“I get it.”

“I hope I don’t sound like a dick?”

“Not at all. That’s totally fair.”

Dean nods, looking relieved, then stands to clear the dishes.



* * *



— Later on the sofa, he drapes an arm around me, and I lean into the curve of his shoulder. After a beat, I turn to look up at him, catching the dark sweep of his lashes, the sharp line of his jaw, the almost black of his eyes.

He comes closer, then kisses me. Heat blooms behind my ribs—desire braided with relief.

“It’s been too long,” he says.

“I know,” I whisper, already breathless.

He stands, then scoops me up from the sofa, carrying me to his bedroom. We shed our clothes and slip under the covers. As he kisses my neck, I arch into him. He answers with a deeper kiss. We breathe, foreheads touching, the moment gathering. Then he looks into my eyes and eases into me, slow and sure.

Afterward I rest my head on his chest, and for a moment I forget everything but him.



* * *



—

The next day, Mick calls on my way to work. The words joint custody linger.

“Question,” he says. “What do you think about getting Phoebe a phone?”

“I take it she’s been asking?”

“More like begging.”

“Before or after you got her a dog?” I ask, smiling.

“Before, after, during,” he says with a laugh. “Says she needs it more than ever so she can send you pictures of Hank.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“It would really help with day-to-day stuff,” he says. “And there’s a safety issue, too.”

“Both good points.”

“So you think I should do it?”

“That’s a tough one. I know Erin was holding out—but I get the safety and convenience factors.”

“What if we get her a phone but don’t allow social media?” he asks.

“Or get her a flip phone.”

“Or a BlackBerry,” he says with a laugh.

I smile, remembering the click of keys and tiny trackball of my old BlackBerry, the voicemails from Mick still trapped inside.

“So what do you think?” he asks. “A phone with no socials and content restrictions?”

“That sounds like the right compromise.”

“Cool. Thanks for the consult, Dr. Wright.”

“Anytime.”

We say goodbye as I tuck my phone away and return to my New York world.



* * *



— Over the next couple of days, my phone won’t stop buzzing. Videos of Hank, Phoebe’s goofy selfies, the occasional shot of Mick—half-bewildered, caught in the frame.

I answer with heart emojis, LOLs, and glimpses of my New York life—the 1 train tunnel, my cappuccino and biscotti at a café table, a stethoscope coiled on my desk.

At one point, Phoebe starts a group chat with Mick. Everything stays light, but each ping sends a flicker of unease through me.



* * *



— The night before our flight to Wisconsin, Dean takes me to Cafe Luxembourg, a Parisian-style bistro on the Upper West Side. The rain pours down as we duck in off West 70th. The ma?tre d’ whisks away our umbrellas and jackets, then guides us past the bar to a cozy banquette. Frank Sinatra drifts overhead, mingling with the low hiss of the espresso machine.

As we sip Sancerre and chat about our rehearsal dinner plans—a sunset clambake—I almost feel like my old self again.

Then, in the middle of dinner, Dean’s face grows serious as he leans across the table.

“Bellevue asked me to interview for trauma director,” he says.