Love You More(75)

Dean blinks. “What if she turns out to be his?”

“Then the six months lapse, I come home, and he files for permanent guardianship.”

“Okay.” He frowns. “I just wish you’d talked to me before contacting a lawyer—”

“It all happened today—and I’m talking to you now.”

“Honestly, this feels more like you telling me.”

Conversation ricochets around us. Someone at the bar laughs too loudly. A blender whirs and stops.

“It’s only temporary,” I say.

“Right,” he finally says, his voice sad. “Temporary.”



* * *



— After Dean pays the bill, we walk back to his place. We don’t hold hands. We barely speak. The word temporary echoes: Temporary guardianship. Temporary fixes. Even my life in New York suddenly feels borrowed—time loaned against a future that keeps receding.



* * *



— On Monday morning, the court’s auto-reply pings: Hearing scheduled: this Thursday, 10:30 a.m., Waukesha County Courthouse. Virtual appearance permitted at the judge’s discretion.

Glenn emails me: Can you fly in Wednesday?

I reply yes, then forward the email to Dean. It feels easier than saying it out loud—like if I leave the words on a screen, the conversation can’t go off the rails.



* * *



— The next couple of days crawl by. I see my patients. Phoebe calls at night. Mick sends careful updates.

At home, Dean and I sleep side by side but not together. Once, I wake to find him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

The night before I leave for Wisconsin, I get in bed and curl against him. “Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he says. “I’m sad.”

It’s a gut punch. Anger I could handle; being the reason Dean is sad is almost unbearable. Yet I don’t waver.

“It’s only six months,” I say. “It’ll pass in a flash.”

“It’s not about the time apart. I hate that—but we can visit.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“I just feel like we’re on a slippery slope—and sliding in the wrong direction.”

“How can caring for Phoebe be the wrong direction?”

He sighs and tucks his arm around me. “Because, Billie, your ex-boyfriend might be her biological father.”

“We’ll get the test,” I say. “If she’s his, I’ll come home.”

Silence. Then—“Are you sure about that? You’ll step away from any custody if Mick is her father?”

I swallow hard. “Yes,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, some of the tension easing from his face.

A wave of fear kicks up. Will I really be able to keep that promise?

“Let’s just take this one day at a time,” I say, finally admitting to myself that I don’t want Mick to be Phoebe’s father, not because of him or Erin—but because I want to be the one building a life with her.





Chapter 44


On Wednesday evening, I fly back to Milwaukee, falling into my familiar routine: Dad waiting at arrivals. A snack in the kitchen with my mom. Bed.

Being this close to Phoebe without seeing her makes me miss her more than if I were still in New York, but Mick and I have decided not to tell her I’m in town until after the judge’s ruling.

The next morning, I grab the keys to my mom’s car, drive to the courthouse, and park out front. It’s a perfect June day—sunny and seventy, flags snapping in the wind.

Inside, I drop my purse in a plastic tray. The security guard waves me forward. Glenn meets me at the elevator, giving a brisk hello and a firm handshake. He’s impeccably dressed—slim navy suit, polished calfskin shoes, silver cuff links that flash when he checks his watch.

“This should be quick,” he says.

I nod, feeling my nerves kick up.

As we step off the elevator, I stop short when I see Mick, sitting on a wooden bench, hands clasped between his knees. He looks up, then rises to shake Glenn’s hand.

“I decided to come,” he says, giving me an uncertain smile. “I thought you might want backup.”

“Thank you,” I say, putting aside my anger.

A strange calm settles over me as I realize we’re in this thing together—at least for now.

We file into the courtroom—Glenn first, then me, then Mick. The room is smaller than I imagined, plain to the point of insult.

We slide onto a bench and wait as another case finishes.

I study the judge’s face, grateful she’s a woman. When our case is called, Glenn leads me to the table.

I sit while he stands. He clears his throat and launches in, smooth and practiced. He lists my name, my profession, my address—each detail flattened into the record. Then he outlines Erin’s death and Joan’s health decline. His tone softens when he shifts to our childhood friendship. He explains that I was there for Phoebe’s birth, a steady presence during her upbringing. He does not mention the issue of paternity.

The judge listens, her expression unreadable as she takes a few notes. My hands stay folded on the table, my engagement ring pressing into my skin like a warning.