Love You More(59)

“No. His is farther out—and more of an orchard. He works there.”

“Is that why you broke up? Because he had to stay here?”

“It was more complicated than that.”

I think back to the conversation Mick and I had in Joan’s living room—and before that, to the one with Phoebe in Mick’s backyard. “We just wanted different things,” I say.

“Do you still want different things?”

“Yes,” I say. “I want you. He wants his girlfriend.” I smile.

Dean stops and pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where this insecurity is coming from.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” I say, nestling against him. “That’s my past. You’re my future.”

“Thanks,” he says, exhaling into my hair. “I needed to hear that.”



* * *



— When we get home, we settle onto the sofa to play backgammon. A few moves in, my phone buzzes with a text from Mick: Phoebe wants to sleep over at your place. With Hank. Wanted to check with you first.

I tip the screen toward Dean. “Cool with you?”

“Sure,” he says. “That sounds great.”

I give him a smile, then text: Would love to have them both. Anytime.

He thumbs-ups my message, and I set my phone facedown on the coffee table, trying to remember whose turn it is.



* * *



— After Dean beats me in back-to-back games, the doorbell rings. I find a pink-cheeked Phoebe on the porch with her duffel bag and Hank, his tail going a mile a minute. I glance beyond them to see Mick already backing out of the driveway. I lift my hand—a quick thank-you and goodbye—and he waves back.

Phoebe steps inside and follows me into the family room, Hank’s nails clicking in the foyer.

Dean is standing when we get there, hands tucked into his pockets. “Hey, champ,” he says.

Phoebe’s mouth tugs into a smile. “Hi.”

“How was the concrete?” he asks.

“Delish! You guys should’ve come. And we got to see Maeve at her coffee shop.”

“That’s nice,” I say, wishing Dean and I had been with them. “How’s she doing?”

“Great,” Phoebe says. “She was just named employee of the month. Her picture’s on the wall.”

“That’s amazing,” I say. “Good for her.”

“Who’s Maeve?” Dean asks.

“Mick’s sister,” I say.

Dean nods.

“So you’re not hungry?” I ask Phoebe.

“Not yet.”

“Anything you’d like to do?” I ask.

“Just chill here,” Phoebe says with a sigh, her eyes scanning the room. “Oh! You have a backgammon set.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Do you know how to play?”

“No. Is it hard?”

“Not for you,” I say, then turn to Dean. “She used to be in the chess club.”

“It’s way easier than chess,” Dean says. “I can teach you, if you’d like.”

“Sure!” Phoebe says, walking over to the sofa.

She sits beside him while I stand a few feet away.

Hank noses my knee, then flops at Phoebe’s feet while Dean sets up the board.

“Okay,” he says to Phoebe. “What color do you want?”

“Brown,” she says.

“Great choice. Brown has won the last two games.” He smirks at me.

I roll my eyes.

Phoebe smiles.

“Do you want all the rules up front, or should I teach as we go?” Dean asks.

“Teach as we go,” she says, bouncing on the sofa cushion.

“Got it. Beginner perk: you get first roll and one free do-over.”

Phoebe’s face lights up. “Deal,” she says, scooting a little closer.

I watch them, feeling my shoulders loosen a little.



* * *



— That evening, we pile into the rental car and head to Seester’s—a Mexican restaurant on Lake Pewaukee and one of Erin’s favorites. The patio is buzzing, the smell of lime and grilled fish riding the breeze. They don’t take reservations, and there’s a twenty-minute wait. I put my name on the list, and we drift across the street to the narrow, sandy beach. As gulls squawk overhead, Dean whistles a tune that could be “Piano Man.” I snap a few candids of Phoebe—her reflection skittering across the water.

By the time we’re seated, the sun is glazing the lake in liquid copper.

We order chips and guac, a cherry Coke for Phoebe, and two salt-rimmed margaritas on the rocks for Dean and me.

Conversation unspools easily—spelling bee recaps, Hank’s ever-growing trick repertoire, Phoebe’s school stories.

“What’s the latest with Cara’s daughter?” I ask.

“Still mean!” Phoebe says with a laugh.

“A leopard doesn’t change its spots,” I say.

After a beat, Dean asks Phoebe what she wants to be when she grows up. She looks thoughtful, twirling a straw wrapper around her finger. “I love science and animals, so maybe a veterinarian or wildlife biologist.”