Love You More(86)
When we finally break apart, it’s slow and reluctant, our foreheads still touching as we catch our breath.
Somewhere behind us, an apple drops from a branch and thuds softly on the ground—the sound small but certain, like a season turning.
Epilogue
Three years later
Phoebe stands in front of her closet, frowning in concentration. She pulls a red-striped sundress off a hanger, then turns to me, holding it up. “Do girls in New York wear Old Navy?”
“There isn’t one kind of girl in New York,” I say. “If you love it, pack it.”
She nods and passes it to me. I fold it on my lap, then tuck it into the open suitcase at my feet.
“Just remember you’ll be wearing a uniform to school—so you won’t need as many clothes,” I say. “And you’ll still have your room here. We can grab more things on visits.”
She sighs, then tugs two pairs of jeans from a stack in the closet. “These are too short, anyway,” she says, tossing them to the floor.
Mick appears in the doorway, a box under one arm. “You girls making any progress?”
“Yes,” Phoebe and I say in unison.
“Okay,” he says, his eyebrows lifting as he surveys the bags lined up by the door. “The truck’s filling up fast. Just so you know.”
“We’ll cut it down a bit,” I say.
He nods, then turns to go, whistling as he walks back down the hall.
I glance around the room—posters taped to the walls, paperback novels lining her shelves, an easy chair covered with stuffed animals—and think back to the day, a little over two years ago, when we sold Joan’s house and Phoebe and I moved in with Mick.
By then, we were a couple—tentatively, secretly—Phoebe’s therapist advising us to wait until our relationship “felt solid” before we told her about us.
“It’s already solid,” Mick said later, his blue eyes holding mine.
He was right, but my gut told me to wait a bit longer. So the two of us kept up the act, sleeping in separate bedrooms and stealing time together once Phoebe left for school. As hard as it sometimes was, the secrecy made everything feel a little giddy—like we were back in high school.
Then, one Saturday night while the three of us watched a movie, Mick slipped up, putting his hand on my leg. I quickly pushed it away, but Phoebe caught it immediately.
“Busted!” she said, laughing. “You weren’t fooling anyone anyway.”
My parents and friends were just as happy when we shared our news. Like Phoebe, they weren’t surprised. What did catch them off guard was the next part: We were moving to New York after Phoebe finished the school year.
“Mick’s actually leaving Wisconsin?” my mom asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s up for an adventure. And the orchard’s in good hands—he’s made some terrific hires.”
“What will he do in the city?” my dad asked.
“He’s figuring it out,” I said, thinking of his grad school applications and the second act awaiting him.
Phoebe holds up a pair of ballet flats, pulling me back to the present. “What about these?”
“Very versatile. I’d take them,” I say before standing and heading for the door. “Keep plugging away. I’ll be back in a few.”
“Kk,” she says, then calls out to her speaker: “Alexa, play ‘Bejeweled.’?”
* * *
—
I find Mick in the kitchen, tossing perishables into the trash can. He glances up, then rounds the island toward me.
“She’s so excited,” I say.
“So am I,” he says, kissing my forehead and pulling me into his arms.
I lean against his chest, flooded with gratitude—for him, for Phoebe, for the life we are building together.
* * *
— We’ve come a long way since that first six-month court order. After it expired, the three of us went back to court, and a judge granted Mick and me joint custody of Phoebe.
By then, a paternity test had confirmed that Mick wasn’t Phoebe’s biological father. Mostly, I felt relieved that we wouldn’t have to sit her down and reframe her whole story, explaining her mother and Mick’s mistake and the betrayal of keeping that truth buried for so long. There was a pang, too, for what a different result might have given her—a biological father she already loves. But deep down, I knew the test meant nothing. It only confirmed what we already knew—on paper and off, we were already a family.
As Mick turns back to cleaning out the fridge, my gaze falls on a handwritten note from Sophie Cohen, saying she’s been cancer-free for a year—and she’s expecting a baby in December.
I’ve already written back to congratulate her. I also shared that she was one of the women who inspired me to freeze my own eggs. Lately, Mick and I have been talking about trying, and while we don’t know what the future holds, it feels good to have that safety net.
No one has inspired me as much as Phoebe. Caring for her these past few years hasn’t always been easy—her adolescent stubbornness has definitely shown up. Yet in my entire life, nothing has brought me more joy. She has made me kinder and stronger all at once—a version of myself I didn’t know was possible—and given my life deeper meaning than I ever could have imagined.