Love You More(84)

“God, Mick,” I say, relief washing over me. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says.

We sit in silence as I work up the courage to ask the question that’s been on my mind for weeks. “How does Lena feel about all of this? I assume she knows everything?”

“I never told her.” He bites his lip. “And anyway, we broke up.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

He gives me a half smile. “Are you, though?”

My cheeks warm. “Well, I want you to be happy…”

“Oh, I’m happy,” he says in a low voice. “Very happy.”

He holds my gaze, then leans in the smallest fraction—so small I could be imagining it. The air between us tightens, that familiar gravity pulling, until we both blink at the same time and break the spell.

Mick exhales. “I should probably go.”

“Yeah,” I say, leaning back and taking a long breath.

He pushes himself up. I rise a half beat behind him, and we walk to the door.

“Well,” he whispers, turning to face me for one brief second. “Good night, Wilhelmina.”

“Good night, Mickey,” I whisper back.

My heart stutters as I watch him step out the door, then down the driveway. He turns once and gives me a nod before climbing into his truck.

After he’s gone, I sit on the front stoop, letting the warm night air settle around me. The cicadas buzz so loudly it feels like a curtain of sound. Above the yard, the moonless sky is clear, the stars sharp and bright.





Chapter 51


Nobody knows I’m coming today—not my parents, not Lesli or Greer, not Mick. It’s something I need to do for myself. And for Erin.

I step into the courtroom and take a seat in the back row, watching as a somber couple files past me. I assume they’re his parents. I feel a stab of pity for them, but it fades when I spot Russ slouched at the defense table. He looks smaller than I remember, his shoulders rounded, his hair thinning.

The judge enters. We all rise.

He settles behind the bench, peers over his glasses, and begins in the deliberate cadence I’ve come to associate with Wisconsin courtrooms—measured, restrained, relentless. He lays out the case history: the charge of homicide by intoxicated use of a vehicle, Russ’s blood alcohol content, the guilty plea. Dates. Statutes.

Facts stripped of feeling.

He shuffles his papers, looks up, and says, “The court will now hear victim impact statements.”

I nearly lose my nerve. Then I think of Erin, and my legs straighten.

I step forward, my shoes echoing on the tile.

When I reach the podium, I don’t look at Russ. I keep my eyes on the judge and clear my throat.

“My name is Billie Wright,” I say. “I was Erin’s best friend, and I am now her daughter’s legal guardian.”

I take a deep breath. “Erin was generous. She was funny. She loved fiercely, and she trusted people. I think that’s part of why this is so difficult to accept—that her life ended because someone didn’t protect her.”

I press on. “Erin didn’t get another sunrise. Her daughter, Phoebe, didn’t get another bedtime story. She didn’t get the chance to kiss her mother goodbye.”

I let that sit.

“This case isn’t about a single moment on a road at night. It’s about years of grief and absence—a mother burying her child and a little girl growing up without her mother. No punishment can undo that, but it should reflect the weight of what was taken.”

I step back and return to my seat, eyes lowered.

After that, Russ gives a brief statement—a halting apology filled with trite phrases.

Next, it’s the judge’s turn. He talks about accountability. About sentencing goals: punishment, deterrence, protection of the public. He names Erin. He names the damage.

And then: ten years.

The words land without drama. No gasp. No collapse. Just a number, spoken aloud, then written down.

Russ lowers his head, like he’s bracing against a strong wind. When the deputy places a hand on his arm, he stands. As he’s led away, he doesn’t look back.

The judge adjourns and I head straight for the door.



* * *



— Back in the car, I take out my phone. There’s a text from Phoebe, asking if we can have breakfast for dinner.

I write back: Sure. Pancakes or eggs?

She replies: Both, please!!

I slip my phone back into my purse, knowing that justice has been served—at least in the way the system understands justice.

But nothing about today fills the space Erin left behind. Nothing about it makes Phoebe’s grief any lighter. That work lives somewhere else entirely—in small acts of love, in the ordinary days we’re building around her, in the ways we keep her mother’s memory alive.





Chapter 52


It’s Saturday morning of Labor Day weekend. Eliot and Anna pull into the driveway, windows down and music blasting. Phoebe bursts onto the porch with her overnight bag. The three of them are headed to Chicago, to meet up with Sam and Lucy for a getaway planned around Phoebe: the Shedd Aquarium, the Lincoln Park Zoo, Navy Pier, and a river cruise.

I assumed Mick and I would be going too, but my friends insisted we take the weekend off from “parenting.”