Love You More(83)

We chat for a few more minutes before he says, “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“I miss hearing your voice,” he says.

“I miss yours, too.”

We say goodbye.

For a long moment, I stand at the sink, phone still in my hand, marveling at how quickly someone can turn into a stranger.





Chapter 50


The summer speeds by, and before I know it, we’re in the dog days of August.

One morning, Mick suggests a lake day—just the three of us. We load the truck with beach towels and a cooler, then climb in, Phoebe sitting in the back with Cash and Hank. Mick’s arm drapes along the bench seat, his fingers brushing my shoulder when we hit a bump. The radio plays “Free Fallin’,” and for a moment it feels like we’re eighteen again.

As we pull into the parking lot of the public beach, the lake stretches wide, shimmering in the sun. A long dock juts out beside the sand, its boards silvered from years of barefoot summers. The air smells of sunscreen and charcoal smoke, laughter carrying from a nearby picnic table. Phoebe sprints onto the beach, then down the dock, doing a running dive.

“It feels so good!” she squeals as she surfaces.

Mick and I wade in, the water biting cold around our knees. By the time it reaches our waists, Mick swears under his breath, then splashes me while I shriek. Phoebe treads water, laughing like this is the best show she’s ever seen.

A beat later, Mick ducks underwater. He emerges right beside me, water beading on his shoulders. A low, traitorous flutter moves through me. I remind myself I no longer owe Dean loyalty, but the muscle memory is still there.

After a quick swim, we stretch out on the dock to dry. Phoebe lies on her back, listening to music with Mick’s earbuds, while Hank and Cash sprawl in the nearby shade.

Mick hands me a can of Coke from the cooler. For a while, we just sit there—sun on our shoulders, the lake lapping against the pilings. It feels like old times—but also new.

As we watch, Cash goes for another swim. Hank creeps along the water’s edge. Mick makes a joke about him needing doggy swim lessons. It’s a throwaway line, but the way he says it loosens something in me, and we start laughing.



* * *



— That night, after we’ve returned home and Phoebe’s gone to bed, Mick suggests a beer on the back porch. I agree, and he grabs two bottles of Amstel Light from the fridge. We settle onto the wicker sofa, our knees not quite touching.

“So. How do you think Phoebe’s doing?” Mick asks.

“Better than expected,” I say. “Every few days she has a good cry, which feels healthy. I picked up a book on parenting through grief at Boswell’s. It says not to avoid the subject.”

He nods and takes a long drink. “Any progress on getting her to talk to a therapist?”

“Not yet. I think I’ll give her a little more time before I bring it up again. The school year seems like a better time. I can talk to her guidance counselor.”

“And how’s she feeling about school starting?”

“She’s getting excited. We’re going back-to-school shopping tomorrow, and the other day she had a friend over—a really nice girl—so that feels hopeful.”

He takes another sip. “And you? How are you holding up with everything you’re juggling?”

“Pretty good. The telehealth appointments are working out really well. People love the convenience,” I say. “And after Labor Day, I’d like to start going back to New York once a month for procedures. Would you be able to cover for me?”

“Of course,” he says.

I smile, suddenly shy. “I think we make a good team.”

“Yeah, we do.” He taps the neck of his beer bottle against mine before we both take a drink.

A beat of silence passes before his expression turns rueful. “Is there a reason you haven’t mentioned the paternity test?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been trying to enjoy the summer.”

“I get it.” His brow furrows. “Just so you know, I’m ready when you are.”

I try to speak, but the words stick in my throat.

How do I explain that I can want Phoebe to have a father so fiercely—yet still be terrified of what it would mean if she’s his? My role in her life would inevitably change. At the very least, she’d be living with him instead of me.

“I really appreciate that, Mick,” I finally say. “But I’d like to wait a bit longer, if that’s okay?”

I wait for him to ask why, relieved when he doesn’t.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “And if the test says I’m her father, it doesn’t have to change anything. Not right away.”

I stare at him. “Wouldn’t you want her to live with you?”

“I’d love to have her, of course. But you could still be her home base. I’d be her father in every other way.”

“Really?” I say, overwhelmed. “She could still live with me?”

“Yes. She loves you.” He pauses. “A therapist might even recommend we wait to tell her the truth. She’s dealing with enough right now. I just want what’s best for her—and you.”