Love You More(56)

My stomach dips. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You have a lot on your mind already,” he says. “And I don’t want this to muddy the waters.”

“This is huge, Dean. Congratulations.”

“It’s just an interview.”

“But if you get it—”

“I know,” he says, then sighs. “It would be hard to turn down.”

I nod, feeling a tiny muscle jump in my cheek.

Dean reaches across the table and takes my hands. “But you come first. You and Phoebe.”

I want to believe him.

“In the meantime,” he says, his voice brightening, “we have a spelling bee to attend.”

I squeeze his hands and find a smile.



* * *



— The following morning, Dean and I land in Milwaukee. My parents are on a cruise for their anniversary, so we rent a car. Dean drives as I watch the landscape slide past—the sky still winter-gray, the trees just beginning to shimmer with new leaves. He’s quieter than usual, and every few minutes, I glance over at him.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. Just a few nerves.”

I look at him, surprised. “Nerves about what?”

“The future.”

I want to reassure him, say something light—but I’m nervous, too.

“I know what you mean,” I finally say. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Yeah. But it’s good to be here,” he says, smiling. “I’m finally seeing you in your natural habitat.”

I laugh. “My natural habitat?”

“Yeah. Midwestern Billie.”

As we approach Wauwatosa, I point out the window. “That’s the exit for Froedtert Hospital.”

“I’m visiting tomorrow.” He gives me a sideways glance.

“You are?”

“Yep. I’m meeting with the chief of surgery and the CMO.”

I reach over and rest my hand on his leg—a silent thank-you.



* * *



— We turn into my old subdivision. Dean’s gaze takes inventory: fresh asphalt, perfect lawns, Mrs. Rader’s terra-cotta pots filled with red geraniums. I take it all in through his eyes, growing quiet.

“Very nice,” he says.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“Yes. The sky feels bigger here,” he says, shading his eyes. “Bigger and brighter.”

Nowhere to hide, I think, as we turn onto my parents’ street.

“Second house on the right, maroon door,” I say.

“I can almost picture a little Billie turning cartwheels in the front yard,” he says, pulling into the driveway.

“How’d you know?” I smile.

We get out of the car and head for the front porch. I fish the spare key from the fake rock in the flower bed and unlock the door.

We walk in, and I give him the thirty-second tour: living room to the left, dining to the right. In the back of the house: family room, kitchen, powder room, laundry room.

We land in the kitchen. I wash my hands and ask Dean if he’s hungry.

“A little.”

“I’ll make sandwiches,” I say, remembering my mom’s text about cold cuts in the fridge.

Dean perches on a barstool, scrolling through emails while I assemble turkey and Swiss cheese sandwiches with lettuce and tomato slices. I slide his plate across the counter and take the stool beside him.

Dean murmurs thanks, takes a first bite, and continues scrolling.

As we eat, a sudden flash of memory comes to me: Mick and me in this very spot, laughing with my mom.

I glance at the microwave clock—12:07. Less than two hours until the spelling bee.

Once we finish, I put both plates in the dishwasher and ask Dean what he wants to do.

“Go for a walk? Power nap?”

“Power nap,” he says with a yawn. “Definitely.”

I smile. “The Midwest is already slowing your pulse.”

We carry our bags upstairs to my old room, then strip down to our underwear and slip under the covers.

Dean sets his alarm then curves his body around mine. He kisses the back of my neck before settling his head against the pillow. Within minutes, his breathing turns into a low snore.

I lie there, eyes open, reading through my texts.

Phoebe can’t use her phone during school hours, so our last exchange was early this morning. I reread it—Good luck, see you soon from me; I can’t wait to see you from her.

Just as I’m about to set the phone down, a ping from Mick: You make it in okay?

Yes. We just got here, I text, then pause, realizing I’d never mentioned that Dean was coming, too.

Mick catches it immediately: We?

I swallow, then text, Dean’s here with me.

I stare at my phone, watching ellipses appear, then vanish.





Chapter 32


The Richmond School gymnasium smells of rubber mats, old socks, and cafeteria pizza. Rows of metal chairs line the basketball court, flanked by folding tables and PTO volunteers in cardigans. On the far wall, a paper banner reads: Waukesha County Spelling Bee—Welcome and Good Luck!