Love You More(81)
“Thank you,” I say, my throat tight.
As we walk, I realize how much they’ve been my ballast—and how much I’ll miss having them in my daily life.
We pass the boathouse, then head north to the wide promenade of the Mall, strolling beneath the cathedral of elms. Gravel crunches underfoot, light filtering in, the city noise held at bay.
Chapter 49
And just like that, I’m back at the Milwaukee airport, only this time with three bags instead of one.
My dad pulls up to the curb, elbow hooked over the door. He gives me a wave, then pops the trunk. By the time I’ve reached for one suitcase, he’s already beside me, lifting the other two.
“Holy cow! What do you have in here—bowling balls?” he asks, grinning under his Brewers cap and sunglasses.
A short laugh slips out of me, more nerves than humor. I’ve yet to tell my parents about my broken engagement, and I couldn’t dread it more.
After my luggage is loaded into the trunk, we climb into the car and look at one another.
“It’s been a long time,” he jokes.
I smile, then look out my window, thinking that for the first time in my adult life, I’m not following a careful script. The next six months are set, but the contours of my future are fuzzy. And yet, I feel lighter than I have since Mick told me about Erin’s accident—like something heavy has finally been set down.
* * *
— About forty-five minutes later, my dad pulls into Joan’s driveway. We haul the bags to the front porch, and I let us in with my key. Nothing about the house has changed, but carrying my belongings inside makes it feel different. Even Hank seems to register the change, sniffing at my bags as if taking inventory.
“Where do you want these?” my dad asks.
“Joan’s old room,” I tell him. “Follow me.”
He hoists the largest two bags, and I take the third, leading him up the stairs.
As we head back down, he asks if I’m hungry. “Mom can rustle something up.”
“I’m okay. I want to unpack a bit, but I’ll stop over before I have to meet the bus.”
“Sounds good,” he says, reaching over and squeezing my shoulder. “It’s great to have you home.”
“It’s good to be home,” I say.
* * *
— After my dad leaves, I put my toiletries in the bathroom and hang a few things in the closet. Then I go straighten Phoebe’s room, smoothing her comforter and closing her drawers. I pull the dirty clothes out of her hamper and start a load of laundry. When there’s nothing left to do, I head down to my parents’ house.
“She’s back!” my mom says as I step into the kitchen.
My dad is already pouring lemonade into three glasses.
A moment later, we’re at the table with sandwiches, chips, and potato salad, making easy conversation.
Finally, I make myself say it. “Dean and I broke up.”
My mom freezes, her hand hovering over her plate. “Oh, Billie.”
I keep my eyes down, willing myself not to cry.
“Because of this situation?” she asks.
“In part,” I say, even as I realize that it’s not part of the reason—it’s the whole of it. If Erin hadn’t died, Dean and I would still be planning a wedding together. We’d be as happy as we ever were.
The loss settles low inside me, tender and sore.
“He didn’t want you to take care of Phoebe?” my dad asks.
“It’s not that,” I say, instinctively protecting him. “He was on board with custody until he got a big promotion at work—and in the end, he couldn’t see himself living here.”
I know I’m leaving out a huge part of the story—but it’s too private to share, even with my parents.
“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” my dad says. “I know this isn’t how you pictured things going. But your mom and I are so proud of you for stepping up like this. I know Erin would be, too. When the doubt creeps in, please try to remember that.”
“I’ll try,” I say. “Thank you, Dad.”
* * *
— Later that afternoon, Hank and I head down the street to meet Phoebe at the bus stop. When she spots me, she smiles and keeps walking—no sprint, no collision, just a quick hug and an easy certainty that I belong where I’m standing.
As we walk back toward the house, I clear my throat. “Hey, there’s something I want to tell you.”
Phoebe looks up at me.
“Dean and I decided not to get married.”
She keeps walking. “Is it because of me?”
“No. Absolutely not. This was between Dean and me. You didn’t cause it.”
“Are you sad?”
“Yes—but I’ll be okay.”
She thinks for a few seconds, then says, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I say. “So glad.”
* * *
— When we get home, Phoebe kicks off her shoes and plays with Hank while I make her a snack of apple slices and peanut butter.
When she finishes eating, we work on her science project— a poster comparing freshwater ecosystems with hand-drawn diagrams, photos, and captions explaining which plants and animals thrive in each environment.