Love You More(6)

Instead, I heard a low voice. “Hi, Billie. It’s Mick.”

His voice was even deeper on the phone, and my heart raced.

“Hello,” I said. “How’d you get my number?”

“From Will Rader. Hope that was okay?”

“Sure. What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound breezy.

He said he had a question about the math homework. He asked it, and I answered, expecting him to say thanks and goodbye.

Instead, he asked me what I was up to—which segued into a nearly hour-long conversation about football, random high school gossip, the Silverado he was saving for by working at the orchard, and my part-time job at Sugarbell, a candy store in Hartland.

At one point, a piping voice cut in.

“Hold on,” he said.

A muffled exchange followed.

“Sorry,” he said when he came back on. “That was my little sister.”

A few seconds later, her laughter crackled through the line. Instead of kicking her out of his room the way I did with my brother, he brought her into the conversation, telling her that I worked at a candy store.

“Can we go?” I heard her ask.

“She’s not there now,” he replied. “But maybe sometime.”

“You’re so sweet to her,” I said.

“She’s my favorite person.”

I’d never heard anyone talk about a sibling like that.

“How old is she?” I asked.

“She’s eight. She has Down syndrome,” he said. “Do you have siblings?”

“One brother.”

“How old is he?”

“Ten. And he’s very annoying,” I said, thinking that in addition to our age difference, my brother, Gus, was a complete slob and a constant source of noise pollution.

Mick laughed. “Yeah. Younger siblings can be tough. But they’re worth it. Right, Maevie?”

“Right, Mickey!”

“Mickey, huh?” I teased.

“Don’t start, Wilhelmina,” he said, a smile in his voice.



* * *



— After that night, Mick and I had regular phone conversations. We talked about anything and everything, from religion to movies and music.

On Friday nights, I sat in the bleachers with my friends, the smell of popcorn and wet leaves drifting through the crisp night air, my eyes glued to Mick. I held my breath every time he touched the ball. I loved when he scored a touchdown, but the part I liked best was the way he’d calmly hand the ref the ball. No swagger or showboating.

We rarely talked on the weekends, so I had to wait until Monday in math class to congratulate him.

“Great game,” I’d say.

“Thanks,” he’d reply, modest as ever.

I’d follow up with commentary on specific plays. Sometimes he’d give me the behind-the-scenes scoop: what the coach said in the locker room, the trash talk on the field.

Later that fall, Arrowhead played in the Division 1 state championship game. It went down to the wire. Four seconds left. Down six. Fourth and goal. Mick got the handoff. Gripping Erin’s arm, I watched as he leapt into the air, over two defensive linemen. For one second, we celebrated. Then, as he hit the ground, the ball popped out of his arms. Around me, the crowd fell into stunned silence. Mick stayed there, sprawled on the ground, clutching his helmet in disbelief.

Later that night, I called to console him.

“Hello,” he answered.

“Hi. It’s me,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“Not really. I can’t believe I lost the game for us.”

“It was only one down,” I said. “What about your sixty-yard run? That was amazing.”

“Thanks,” he said. “But there’s no excuse to drop the ball like that.”

I didn’t know what to say, so we sat in silence for a few more seconds. Then he told me he was going to take an Epsom salts bath. “I feel like a truck drove over me,” he added.

I blushed, picturing him in the tub, his body under suds.

“Okay,” I said. “I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thank you, Billie,” he said. “I appreciate you calling.”

My heart clenched. “You’re welcome,” I said.



* * *



— After that, our phone calls grew longer, and when it got really late, we spoke in whispers that felt like secrets.

One night, he told me about the day he came home from school to find his mom catatonic in a rocking chair and his father crying—something he’d never seen before. They’d just come back from a doctor’s appointment. There was fluid on the back of Maeve’s neck, a marker for Down syndrome.

“It was like someone had died,” he said.

“Wow,” I breathed, wishing I could jump through the phone and hug him. “That must have been a shock.”

“It was. Then, for the rest of the pregnancy, my mother went into prayer mode. As if she could change Maeve in the womb. Make her ‘normal.’ It was really tough to watch.”

I stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

“Then she was born, and the moment I held her, I knew she was perfect.” He paused. “It’s so weird to think back on that now. What were we so devastated about? How could we have been so clueless?”