Love You More(79)

I pick up my phone, checking for a missed call or text from Dean, knowing he’s not happy with me.

I text him: I’m home. Can I see you tonight?

He replies quickly: Yes. My place at 7?

I’ll be there, I text back, telling myself everything will be okay as soon as I see him.



* * *



— I arrive at Dean’s at exactly seven. Oscar greets me in the lobby with his usual grin and a fist bump. I smile, then step into the elevator. I watch the numbers climb as I press my thumb against my ring.

When the elevator doors open to Dean’s apartment, he is standing right there, barefoot, in scrub bottoms and a gray T-shirt.

“Hi,” he says, giving me a tentative hug.

“Hi,” I echo, my voice thin.

We stand there a beat too long before he steps back to let me in.

“Have you had dinner?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie, in no mood to eat.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Just water, please.”

He fills two glasses from the fridge, then hands me one, gesturing toward the living room. “Let’s sit.”

We walk over to the sofa, my stomach tightening. We take our usual places, knee to knee, but the distance between us feels wider than the Hudson. He takes a long drink, then sets his glass on the coffee table.

“So. Six months,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“When do you leave?”

“Monday,” I say, remembering my promise to Phoebe.

“Okay.”

A siren climbs and fades outside. He looks at me, but his eyes are distant.

“Please say something.”

“I don’t know what to say.” His voice catches. “This hurts, Billie.”

I grab his hand and squeeze. “It’s only six months.”

He stares at me.

“Dean. I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” he says. “Love isn’t the problem.”

“What’s the problem?” I whisper.

“The fact that you’re doing this, knowing he could be her father. That means something.”

“Phoebe needs me,” I say. “She needs me now.”

He nods, but it doesn’t feel like agreement.

“Is there any chance you could come with me?” I ask.

“I can’t do that,” he says quietly. “I accepted the chief of trauma position.”

He gives me a pointed look, and I hear what he’s not saying: We’re making decisions solo now, not together.

“Congratulations.” The word feels small against the enormity of his accomplishment. “That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Hopefully I’ll become Phoebe’s permanent guardian, and we can join you here. Like we planned.”

“About that.” He takes a deep breath. “Over the past couple days, I’ve had some clarity.”

Dread slides through me.

“Clarity?”

“I can see how intertwined you and Mick are—”

“We aren’t intertwined.” My voice comes out too fast.

“Yes, you are. He’s your partner in this—not me.”

“That’s not true.”

“C’mon, Billie. You know I’m right. And look—I’m not even saying you’re doing the wrong thing. I understand what she means to you, and that you feel you need to be there.” He exhales. “But I told you how I felt about you being the temporary guardian. And you did it anyway. It’s just too much.”

My heart stutters. “What are you saying?”

“I think we need to call off our engagement,” he says, his voice soft but certain.

The words wash over me.

I stare down at my ring, remembering the moment he slipped it on my finger, ocean breeze on our faces, joy in his eyes.

“Please, Dean,” I whisper. “Can’t we just put any decisions on hold for six months?”

He bites his lip, then shakes his head. “I know how painful this is. For both of us. But be honest with yourself. Does our engagement still feel right to you? Do you think this is the way to begin a marriage?”

The answer has been in my chest for days; I just haven’t wanted to name it.

“Maybe not,” I finally say, tears spilling over.

“It’s not, honey,” he says, shaking his head. “I love you, but it’s not.”

I wipe my eyes as he continues.

“Who knows? Maybe down the road we can try again. But I can’t be here waiting for the result of a paternity test while my fiancée spends her days with another man—a man who could be the father of the child she’s caring for.”

I stare at him, hearing the heavy truth of it.

“We tried to work this out,” he says. “But we keep missing each other.”

“I know,” I say, tears sliding down my face.

“We have to call things off.”

After a long moment, I twist my ring until it slides free. I try to hand it to him, but he shakes his head.

“Just leave it there,” he whispers, pointing to the coffee table.