Love You More(77)

“I can’t wait to tell her.”

“That will be special.”

I search his tone for any warmth or enthusiasm but can’t find it.

“We’ll talk more when I get home?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “We should.”



* * *



— After we hang up, I clip on Hank’s leash and head for my old school bus stop. He trots beside me, tail high, nails clicking on the pavement. Within minutes, the bus pulls up, brakes squealing. The doors fold open with a hiss that takes me back in time. Phoebe is the first one off, her backpack bouncing against her spine. When she spots me, her whole face lights up.

“You’re here!” she shouts, running full tilt.

I laugh as she collides with me, her arms around my waist. For a second I can almost see Erin at the curb, coffee in hand, watching us with that amused little smile. For the first time since I found out about her and Mick, I don’t flinch at the thought of her.

Phoebe and I walk home side by side. She talks nonstop as Hank zigzags ahead of us, tugging on his leash. The afternoon feels ordinary in the best possible way—a bus stop, a dog, a little girl pressing close.

As we walk into the kitchen, she drops her backpack to the floor, and we sit at the table.

“So I have some good news,” I say.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I went to court today, and the judge said I get to be your temporary guardian.”

She gives me a grin.

“The only catch is we have to stay here for six months. After that, we have to get permission from the court to move to New York,” I say, keeping it simple.

“So you’ll be here all summer?”

“Yes. I need to go back to New York and get my things—then I’ll be here through Thanksgiving.”

“I’m so excited!” she says. “Will you stay in Gram’s room or the guest room?”


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“Where do you think I should stay?”

“I think Gram’s room is better. It’s bigger—plus it has a bathroom.”

“Well, then. Gram’s room it is!”

Phoebe smiles. “This is going to be so much fun.”



* * *



— Later that afternoon, Mick texts: Are you staying over with Phoebe or do you need me to come back?

I reply: I have an early flight, so it’s probably best I stay at my parents’.

He writes back: OK. I promised her a visit to the orchard later. You’re welcome to join us.

Thanks, but I think I’ll pass, I reply, knowing I’m not ready to step back into those rows of trees.

I set the phone down and remind Phoebe of her plans with Mick.

“Yeah. He says the apples are coming in!”

I nod, pushing the old images down.



* * *



—

Mick arrives at five-thirty, just as Phoebe is pulling on her shoes.

“Have fun,” I say.

She looks up at me, mid-tie. “You aren’t coming with us?”

“I think I’ll skip it this time.”

“Please come with us!” she says.

I bite my lip, feeling Mick’s gaze on me.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll come.”

At the orchard, rows of trees stretch out in orderly lines, branches thick with leaves. Small, hard green apples cling to the limbs like marbles. Underfoot, the ground has a slight give, patches of clover pushing through the dirt lanes. The trees feel familiar and watchful, their shadows stretching longer as the sun tips west.

“Summer’s right around the corner,” Mick says as we weave between the rows. His hand brushes a low branch, leaves rustling.

Phoebe runs a few steps ahead, arms out like wings, her curls bouncing.

I think of Erin, hoping she can see her daughter now.

We stop near a tree thicker than the others, one I recognize. The sight of it pulls me back so sharply I can almost feel the weight of Mick’s hands on my back, the press of his mouth against mine. The memory isn’t about longing so much as youth—and how simple everything felt back then, before love learned its sharper edges.

Phoebe pulls out a pocketknife. “Can we carve our initials here?”

“Where’d you get that?” I ask, playing the stern guardian.

“Mick’s truck,” she says, smiling.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

For a moment, no one speaks. Crickets start up around us, leaves whispering in the breeze. Phoebe bounces on her toes, expectant.

Mick helps her flip open the knife. “Slow. Angle the blade away from you.”

She nods, the blade scraping into the bark, the smell of raw wood rising. She carves a neat PC, then hands the knife to Mick. As he cuts an M, I think back to Erin’s journal, pushing back a wave of resentment.

When his O is done, it’s my turn.

Each stroke of my initials feels oddly ceremonial, as if I’m not just marking a tree but also binding us to something larger—to this place, to Phoebe, to whatever comes next.





Chapter 46


As we pull out of the orchard, the sun hangs low, turning the horizon gold. The truck rattles over the gravel, the rearview mirror catching the last gleam off the apple rows. Behind me, Phoebe hums, the tune half-formed, her forehead pressed to the window.