Love You More(87)

Sometimes, when she laughs a certain way or sweeps her curls off her face, I catch a flash of Erin. Every time, it feels like a small miracle—proof that love doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It just finds new ways to live on.

The following morning, after breakfast with my parents, we stop by Maeve’s coffee shop. When we walk in, she’s behind the counter, taking an order. She glances our way, does a double take, then grins.

When we get to the front of the line, she says, “You’re late.”

“By two minutes!” Mick laughs.

“That’s still late.” Maeve smirks. “What can I get you?”

We order two coffees and a smoothie. As she rings us up, her colleague steps forward and says, “I’ll take it from here, Maeve. You can take your break now.”

“Okay. Thank you,” she says, slipping out from behind the counter.

“So New York is a very big city,” Maeve says after we’re all seated at a table. She gives Phoebe an earnest look. “You need to be careful.”

Phoebe nods. “I will.”

We talk for a few minutes until Mick’s name is called.

“I got it!” Maeve says, hurrying to the counter.

Mick watches her. I reach across the table for his hand and give it a squeeze.

A beat later, Maeve returns with our drinks balanced in a cardboard tray. She sets it on the table and says, “Break’s over. Time to get back to work!”

Mick stands and gives her a long hug. “I’m proud of you, Maevie,” he whispers.

“I’m proud of you, Mickey,” she says, pulling back. “Come back soon!”

“We will,” Mick says, blinking back tears.

We get back in the truck with our drinks and start our long drive east. At the edge of town, we pass the Waters. Joan is no longer with us, but we still talk about her often.

Mick drives with one arm slung over the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, while Phoebe sits in the back with the dogs, earbuds in, listening to music and scrolling through Instagram.

Mick and I chat as I keep my eyes on the road, watching the highway signs change, each one bringing us a little closer to our new life. Every now and then, I glance at him, taking in the details—the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates, the suntan edging his cheekbones—and I’m struck by how right this all feels.

We drive all day and into the evening, finally stopping for the night at a Comfort Inn near Rochester. After sharing a pepperoni pizza, we crawl under the covers, Phoebe in one bed, Mick and I in the other.

Long after they’ve both fallen asleep, I’m still awake, replaying the last few years—some things decided by judges and juries, the rest by quieter choices in kitchens and bedrooms and orchards.

I let the past recede and turn to the chapter we’re starting in the two-bedroom Upper East Side apartment we closed on just a few weeks ago. Mick and I chose it mostly for its proximity to the school that Dean, of all people, helped Phoebe get into. I wouldn’t call us friends, but we’ve kept in touch, and it feels nice not to have written each other off. Sometimes life’s circles don’t close neatly—they overlap, forming something unexpected but whole.

When I finally drift off to sleep, it’s with the comforting weight of Mick’s hand resting against mine.



* * *



— The next day, we visit Niagara Falls.

Mist rises off the gorge, dampening our faces as we grip the railing. Phoebe leans against it, and Mick pulls her back, wrapping his arm around her shoulders before snapping a selfie of our little family.

My mind flashes back to the last time Mick and I were here— nearly fifteen years ago—how I clung to him, terrified of losing him, the ground beneath me always threatening to give way.

But now, with Phoebe sandwiched between us and water crashing in my ears, I feel anchored, shaped by loss and longing, yet somehow whole.

Finally, I know who I am: a girl from small-town Wisconsin, a New Yorker by choice, Phoebe’s protector, Mick’s person—forever—whether or not we ever marry or have a baby.

A faint rainbow arcs through the mist. Phoebe points at it, her laughter spilling into the roar.

I let it wash through me like a vow—a reminder that home isn’t a pin on a map.

It’s love. It’s belonging.

And at last, I’ve found both.





acknowledgments


I’m deeply grateful to my editor, Jennifer Hershey, and my agent, Brettne Bloom. They are not only brilliant professionals but dear friends. From the earliest glimmer of an idea through every turn of the story, their insight has shaped and sharpened this novel. I feel very lucky to have them in my corner.

A heartfelt thank you to my biggest supporters: Mary Ann Elgin, Sarah Giffin, and Nancy LeCroy Mohler. Their love—along with Nancy’s tireless edits—has been a constant through more than two decades of my publishing journey.

I’m thankful to my family and friends, especially those who contributed to this book: Jennifer New, Allyson Jacoutot, Julie Portera, Lesli Gaither, and Alex Elgin.

I’m so appreciative of the extraordinary people at Penguin Random House—Scott Shannon, Kim Hovey, Kate Gomer, Melissa Folds, Sophie Normil, Elena Giavaldi, Emily Isayeff, Taylor Noel, Pamela Alders, Danielle Maldonado, Angela McNally, Loren Noveck, Alissa Theodor, Amanda D’Acierno, Marissa Secreto, Brittanie Black, Amber Beard, Abby Nutter, and Lara Ameen—for their creativity and commitment.