Love You More(63)

Chapter 35


The next morning, I wake to a soft, persistent whine. When I open my eyes, Hank is sitting beside the bed, tail thumping against the carpet.

“Hi, you,” I say, patting his head before rolling over to find the other side of the bed empty.

My conversation with Dean drifts back, a pit settling in my stomach.

I slide out of bed and find him downstairs on the sofa, already dressed.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning,” he says, his expression gentle.

“Did Hank already go out?”

“Yes. And I fed him.”

“Thank you.” I sit on the sofa beside him, close enough to touch. But I don’t.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says.

“Me too,” I say.

“I don’t want to make any excuses,” he says. “I didn’t handle things in the best way. I was feeling insecure.”

His vulnerability lands differently than it did last night. I lean into him.

“It’s okay,” I say. “This is an incredibly stressful situation. I know you’re doing the best you can.”

He kisses the top of my head. “I changed my flight. I’m leaving today.”

I look at him, startled.

“I just think it’ll be easier for you to sort things out without me here.”

I nod, knowing that’s probably true. “Will you be able to make the wedding?”

He shakes his head. “No. But it’s okay. I need to catch up on some work anyway.”

“I’m sorry you’re missing it—and it ended up being like this.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “I got to meet Phoebe and be here for her big win. That was special.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“I mean it.”

“What time is your flight?” I ask “Two. I’m keeping my appointment at Froedtert Hospital, too.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I’m still very serious about moving here, if that’s what you decide.”

“Thank you.”

Dean hesitates. “Can you just do me one favor?”

I nod again.

“Can you just…keep an open mind about New York?” he asks.

I take a slow breath. “Okay. Maybe a change of scenery would be good for her,” I say, thinking of how her face lit up when Dean mentioned New York—like someone had opened a window.

“Only if it feels right to you,” he says.

I nod, promising I’ll give it real thought and discuss it more with Phoebe.

“Thank you,” he says. “That means a lot.”

We sit there a moment longer, my head on his shoulder, staring at the blank TV.

After breakfast, Dean’s Uber pulls into the driveway. I follow him to the door.

He hugs me, then kisses my forehead. “Bye for now,” he says. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

I nod. “Let me know how Froedtert goes.”

“I’ll call as soon as I’m finished.”

I kiss him once more before he’s out the door. His suitcase wheels click down the front walk.

I stay rooted in the doorway, watching as the car backs out and disappears down the street. Hank presses against my leg, as if sensing my worry. I reach down and scratch between his ears, then step back inside, closing the door behind me.

I head into the kitchen, realizing it’s been years since I’ve been alone in this house. The coffeepot sits half-full on the counter. I rinse the mugs and slide them into the dishwasher.

My frustration toward Dean has evaporated. What’s left is the simple truth: He’s trying to do the right thing while still wanting a future he can picture.

Hank noses my hand, nudging me forward.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s go.”

I clip on his leash and lead him out the front door, toward Joan’s house.

When I arrive, Mick is sitting at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad.

He looks up at me and says, “Russ was charged.”

“Thank God,” I say, feeling a rush of relief so intense I nearly cry. “What was the charge?”

“Homicide by intoxicated use of a vehicle. His blood alcohol content was 0.12.”

I sit across from him.

After a pause, he says, “I’m sorry for letting things get tense last night.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say, walking a fine line between honesty and disloyalty. “None of this is easy.”

“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”

I sigh. “So I guess I’ll start looking for that paperwork.”

“You want a hand?”

“No, thanks,” I say. “You need a break from this place.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I haven’t been to the gym in two weeks.”

“Go,” I say, shooing him.

He stands, grabs his keys, then pauses. “Call me if you find anything.”



* * *



— After Mick is gone, I go upstairs to check on Joan and Phoebe. The bedroom curtains are open a crack, the light slanting across the carpet in pale gold stripes. Joan is on her side, Phoebe curled against her, hair tangled, cheek pressed into the pillow, her small hand tucked beneath her chin. They are both sound asleep.