Love You More(82)

Just after six, Mick’s truck pulls into the driveway.

He comes in quietly, explaining that he’s just here to pick up the rest of his things from the guest room, then disappears up the stairs.

When he returns, bag in hand, I can tell it’s a weighty moment for him.

Phoebe must feel it, too, because she clears her throat and says, “I’m going to miss you. And Cash.”

“We’ll still be around,” he says, patting her back. “You can’t get rid of us that easily.”

Phoebe smiles and returns to her project, as I follow Mick outside.

“I should tell you something,” I say, shifting my weight.

He nods, meeting my gaze.

“Dean and I broke off our engagement.”

“Shit, Billie,” he says. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks,” I say. “But it was the right thing.”

He studies my face, then nods. “If you need anything, I’m a phone call away.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I pause. “Maybe you could come over for dinner one night this week?”

“I’d love to,” he says. “Just let me know when.”



* * *



— The following days settle into a quiet rhythm: a hot breakfast, a walk to the bus stop, then back home to work remotely until it’s time to pick Phoebe up. In the evenings, I supervise her homework and make dinner. After we eat, we take Hank on a walk.

Occasionally, Mick joins us, and after Phoebe goes to bed, we discuss her care, finances, every detail imaginable—except the paternity test looming between us.



* * *



— Before I know it, school is out for the summer—the most blissful time of year for a child and, I discover, a guardian.

Mornings mean cereal bowls at the kitchen table, followed by Phoebe lounging on the sofa, reading her library books or watching cheerful sitcoms. Afternoons are for errands and outings—the library, volunteering at the Humane Society, swimming at the lake. In the evenings, after I clean up from dinner, I log in to my patient portal, answer emails, and schedule telehealth appointments. Phoebe sits at the table with me, slogging through math worksheets and grumbling that decimals don’t belong in summer break. I assure her she’ll thank me come fall.

Every few days, Phoebe and I visit Joan. We bring her flowers, cookies, and magazines. Some days she knows us; other times she mistakes Phoebe for Erin or forgets us altogether. But she always brightens when we walk into the room, wrapping her thin arms around her granddaughter like she’s holding on to something solid in the fog.

At least once a week, we go to my parents’ house for dinner. My dad grills brats on the patio while my mom and I sip wine and tell Phoebe stories about her mother. As dusk settles in, we watch bats skimming the rooflines, then—later still—fireflies blinking across the lawn.

Some nights, Phoebe and I hang out with Anna and Eliot, grabbing dinner at Seester’s or going to Brewers games.

Meanwhile, Mick remains consistent—watching Phoebe when I need time for myself and working through a punch list of to-dos around the house. From the kitchen window, I catch him in the yard, staring at the house with his hands on his hips, assessing a trouble spot only he can see.

One afternoon, the three of us run to the hardware store. Phoebe lingers in the aisle with the paint swatches, holding ocean blues and earthy greens against her palm.

“Gram’s front door could use a makeover,” she says.

“Good idea,” Mick says. “Pick one, and I’ll paint it.”

“How about this one?” she says, pointing to a light green swatch called Saybrook Sage.

“I love it,” I say, nodding.

Later, Hank and I sit on the front stoop, watching as Mick paints the door—forearms flexing, old T-shirt speckled with green, the back of his neck turning pink in the sun.

At one point, Phoebe brings him a glass of lemonade, telling him how good it looks. My heart lifts—more than it should for something as simple as a man with a paintbrush.



* * *



— One night as I’m getting ready for bed, my phone lights up with Dean’s name. I freeze, letting it ring three times before I answer.

“Hi,” I say, my heart racing.

“Hey,” he says. “How’s it going in Wisconsin?”

“Pretty good,” I say, drifting into the bathroom. “We’re settling into a routine.”

“That’s good. I’m happy to hear that.”

“Thanks,” I say, putting my moisturizer away so I can have something to do with my hands. “How about you?”

“Everything’s the same here,” he says, city sounds in the background. “Almost everything.”

“How’s the new job?”

“Good. Great. But it’s a lot more work.”

“I bet,” I say, wondering if I still have the right to feel proud of him.

He asks about my job, and I tell him I can do a lot of work remotely. “When Phoebe goes back to school, I’ll be coming to the city once a month for procedures.”

“Maybe one of those trips, we can grab lunch.”

“That would be nice,” I say, knowing it probably won’t happen.