CHAPTER 7
Graduation arrived on a warm June night. Floodlights hummed over
the football field and folding chairs fanned across the turf beneath
a red-and-white stage.
Paul was our valedictorian, and I was salutatorian, my GPA just one hundredth
of a point shy of his. As I listened to his speech, I felt the
sharp sting of second place. For a moment, I wondered if I’d made a
mistake turning down Yale, but when Mick’s name was called, I got
goose bumps, remembering the first time I heard his full name said aloud
during roll call of math class.
I watched with pride as he strode across the stage, shook our
principal’s hand, and collected his diploma to whistles and applause.
There was a beat as he scanned the crowd.
Our eyes locked.
His face lit up.
My heart soared.
—
That night, my parents hosted a small party for the neighborhood
graduates. It wasn’t fancy: a red plastic tablecloth on the picnic table, a
cluster of Mylar balloons, and a Costco sheet cake. The adults gathered
on the patio, and my friends and I moved into the yard. We drank beers
from the cooler while our parents pretended not to notice.
Mick showed up later, after stopping by another party. I watched as
he said hello to my parents, then joined us around the firepit. It had been
ages since he’d hung out with my friends. I took his hand in mine as the
group stared at us in surprise.
“So,” I said. “Mick and I are dating now.”
Eliot looked at Erin. “Did you know?”
“Of course I did! And by the way—I called this four years ago!”
“Wow,” Sam said to Erin. “You really are a vault.”
She put on a smug smile, then raised her Solo cup. “To happy
endings!”
We all lifted our beers. Mick’s smile caught mine.
“And to next chapters,” he said, his voice low but certain.
The glow of the flames painted his face in amber, softening the sharp
lines I’d memorized years before.
—
That summer felt enchanted—like one long golden hour. We spent
weekends at the lake, went to Brewers games, and hung out on Erin’s
porch. Sometimes, the three of us would just drive around, Mick and I
holding hands up front while Erin rode in the middle backseat, belting
out ballads like “Purple Rain” and “End of the Road.”
One night, we made a late run to Taco Bell, sitting in the parking lot
eating and talking.
“Ever think about getting a tattoo?” Erin asked.
“It’s crossed my mind,” Mick said.
I looked at him, surprised. He didn’t seem like a tattoo guy. “What
would you get?”
“Maybe Maeve’s initials.”
“That’s so sweet,” Erin said.
“Yeah,” I said, laughing. “I can’t fathom getting my brother’s
initials.”
“What about you?” Mick asked Erin.
“I’d love to get something cute and small like a shooting star or a
butterfly,” she said. “What about you, Billie?”
“I doubt I’d ever get one. It feels…too permanent. What are the
chances I’m going to want the same tattoo now that I’d want at thirty or
forty?”
“Forty?” Erin said. “Why are you worrying about forty? We’ll be so
old by then it won’t matter.”
It was one way Erin and I differed. I was making decisions for my
forty-year-old self. She was living in the moment.
Later that night, as we curled up in her bed for one of our last
summer sleepovers, she sighed and said, “I wish I’d gotten into
Madison.”
“Minnesota will be great. You and Lucy will have a blast.”
“I know, but it won’t be the same. You’re like a sister to me.”
“Once you pledge, you’ll have a hundred sisters.” I smiled.
Erin sighed again and said, “I’m serious, Billie. I’m sad.”
My mind raced, trying to think of something comforting to tell her,
knowing I’d feel the same if I were going to college without Mick or her.
“Remember what you told me on the first day of high school? On the
bus ride home?”
“No. What brilliant advice might that have been?”
“You said to try new things, put yourself out there, don’t play it safe,”
I said, paraphrasing.
She smiled faintly. “Gosh, I was wise.”
“You sure were. Still are. And I think we need to follow that advice
now,” I said. “Whatever we do, we need to give it our all. Make the next
four years count.”
“Just promise we’ll always be close.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Pinkie swear?” she said, holding up her hand.
“Pinkie swear,” I said as we linked our little fingers.
—
The night before Erin left for college, she, Mick, and I sat on her porch
with a deck of cards, a bottle of Malibu, and three shot glasses. Erin kept
trying to teach us some convoluted drinking game, while Mick and I kept
deliberately messing it up. Eventually, we were all doubled over with
laughter.
For a second, I looked at her face in the soft lamplight—her freckles
glowing, her hair wild—and I wanted to grab hold of the moment, stretch
it out, keep it from slipping away.
The next day, she and I stood in her driveway under a heavy gray sky.
Joan’s car was packed to the gills with pillows, storage bins, and laundry
baskets filled with clothes. Erin shifted from foot to foot, her mouth
twisting like she was trying to hold everything in.
“I guess this is goodbye,” she said.
“Only for now,” I said, blinking fast.
We hugged hard. Her shampoo smelled fruity and sweet.
“We’ll talk all the time,” I said. “I mean it.”
We hooked pinkies one final time before she climbed into the front
seat, where Joan had been patiently waiting.
I watched as the car pulled away, arms dangling at my sides,
wondering how I could already feel homesick when I was still home.
Long after Erin was gone, the emptiness lingered, heavy and
pressing. Nothing would ever be the same. That much was certain.
—
A few days later, my parents drove me the sixty miles west to Madison.
My dorm was an old brick building with creaky elevators and cinderblock walls.
My dad made multiple trips down to the cars while my mom buzzed
around my room, hanging clothes and making the bed. Their energy was
exhausting and comforting at once.
When my roommate, Emma-Claire, arrived, it started to feel real. She
was a prep school girl from Atlanta—all glossy hair, designer sneakers,
and polished poise. I had a hunch we weren’t going to be close, but I told
myself to keep an open mind. And anyway—it didn’t really matter—I
had Mick.
By midafternoon, I was itching for my parents to leave, just to pull
off the Band-Aid and get the inevitable tears over with. I walked them
down to the parking lot, sticky with sweat, my ponytail drooping, my
new University of Wisconsin T-shirt clinging to my back.
My mom hugged me first. “You’re going to do great, honey,” she
whispered.
My dad pulled me in next. “We’re proud of you, kiddo.”
We lingered for a few seconds, and when my dad started to tear up, I
lost it.
“Please tell Gus how much I love him,” I said, wishing he were with
us and not away at soccer camp.
“We will,” my dad said.
We hugged and kissed one final time.
As soon as they were gone, I made a beeline for Mick’s dorm. I found
him in the lobby, looking scruffy and adorable. I told him my parents had
just left.
“Well,” he said, grinning. “Looks like you’re stuck with me now.”
I laughed, my homesickness instantly evaporating.
“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” I said.
“Believe it,” he said.
He grabbed my hand, and we walked across campus. Around us,
students lugged boxes and music blasted from windows, everything
messy, loud, and perfect.
T
CHAPTER 8
hat first semester, Mick and I fell into a Madison rhythm—Babcock
ice cream and pitchers of beer on the Terrace, walks on State Street,
and late-night study sessions at Memorial Library. Our Saturdays
revolved around the ritual of Badger football. We tailgated in a sea of
red, then crammed into Camp Randall with our new friends and eighty
thousand others. At the end of the third quarter, “Jump Around” blasted
over the sound system, and we all went nuts, laughing and shouting and
clinging to one another as the bleachers shook beneath our feet.
The only thing missing was Erin. Our lifeline became our flip phones,
their tiny green screens glowing with metallic ringtones that sounded like
tin cans rattling. We talked constantly, updating each other on every
nuance of our lives. I followed all the intricacies of rush, then Erin’s
breathless excitement pledging Chi Omega, while I shared every detail of
my relationship with Mick—how wildly, im
