CHAPTER 8
That 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, impossibly in love we were.
She visited Madison several times during those early months, joining
the fervor of football games and charming everyone at the bars.
Afterward, we curled into my twin bed and whispered long into the
night.
In late November, Mick and I road tripped the four hours up I-94 to
Minneapolis for the Paul Bunyan’s axe rivalry: Minnesota versus
Wisconsin. When we got there, Erin was waiting on the steps of her
sorority house, bouncing on her toes.
She gave us a big hug as we got out of the car. “About time you
visited!” she said, grabbing me by the hand as Mick trailed behind us.
The house buzzed with energy. Erin swept us from room to room,
introducing us to a rotating cast of girls whose names blurred together,
everyone warm and curious and talking at once. It felt like a small,
selfcontained world, filled with inside jokes and shared history.
That night, Erin took us to a frat party. Lucy, who had joined another
sorority, came with us. A few drinks in, Erin was off and running, doing
keg stands, dancing on tables, and flirting with boys. It was fun to see her
in her element, but it wasn’t the night of connection I’d hoped for.
By midnight, after Lucy had peeled off, Mick and I said our
goodbyes.
“You’re leaving? Already?” Erin said.
“We’re pretty beat from the drive,” Mick said. “Do you want to join
us for breakfast before the game?”
“Sounds good,” she said, hugging us goodbye.
Early the next morning, Erin called in a drunken frenzy—someone
had broken into their sorority house and stolen a bunch of their stuff.
When Mick and I got there, we found Erin with a group of girls
staring at the empty space where a TV and stereo had once been.
“I just know it was those frat boys from Wisconsin,” Erin said. “They
were acting really shady in the parking lot last night.”
One of Erin’s sisters suggested calling the police.
Erin shook her head, marching toward the front door. “Let’s see if the
geniuses parked nearby.”
We all trailed her into the lot, where she scanned the rows of cars like
a detective.
“Well, well, well,” she murmured, eyes narrowing as she peered into
a beat-up Subaru with Wisconsin plates.
Sure enough, there in the backseat of the car, half-covered by a tarp,
was a flat-screen television. Erin turned, strode across the lot, and
snatched up a rock.
“What are you doing?” one girl asked, appalled.
“Taking back what’s ours,” Erin said.
Before any of us could react, Erin hurled the rock through the
driver’s-side window. The crack of the glass rang out, sharp and final.
She reached in, unlocked the back door, and dragged the TV out into her
arms.
Mick took it from her as she returned to the backseat, digging through
fast-food wrappers and dirty clothes.
“Is the stereo there?” he asked.
“Nope. But I’ve got a solution for that,” she said, popping the hood
and yanking something loose while we all looked on in quiet awe.
Then she grabbed a scrap of paper and pen from the glove box,
scribbled a note, and slapped it under the wiper: If you want your
connector back, return the rest of our stuff.
“That should do the trick,” she said.
Sure enough, the entire haul was returned later that day.
“Never bet against Erin,” Mick said with a laugh.
“Never,” I said, smiling.
—
In February, Mick and I planned a weekend home together to see our
parents, Maeve, and Gus.
We arrived early Saturday morning during a snowstorm. After coffee
and breakfast with my family, we went to Mick’s house. Maeve was
already up, watching cartoons. She went into a frenzy when she saw her
big brother, hugging and kissing him while they both laughed.
I watched the two of them, remembering their visit to my candy shop.
It felt like a million years ago. Maeve was a teenager now, and according
to Mick had her prickly moments and moods, but there was no evidence
of that as she cuddled with her brother on the sofa.
At noon, Mick’s mom made her first appearance, joining us in the
family room with a cup of coffee and a faint boozy edge to her breath. In
the nearly five years I’d known Mick, I’d only interacted with his mom a
handful of times—so I wasn’t surprised when she called me Willie.
Mick’s shoulders stiffened. “It’s Billie, Mom.”
I smiled and told her that’s okay, my grandfather had called me
Willie, too.
“See?” Mrs. O’Leary said to no one in particular.
—
Our plan was to stay until Sunday, but the forecast called for more snow
after midnight. So we packed up the truck and said our goodbyes.
On the drive home, Mick was quiet. At one point, he turned down the
radio and glanced over at me. “I’m sorry about my mom.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I can’t believe what a shitty mother she is. Poor Maeve.”
“Well, she seems like a happy kid.”
“Think how much better off she’d be with a decent mother—”
“She must have done something right,” I said softly. “Just look at
how you turned out.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Look at me.”
Words gathered, but I only reached across the seat and squeezed his
arm.
—
The next two years sped by in a dreamy blur, and before we knew it, we
were seniors. Mick and I—along with four of our friends—rented a place
on Mifflin Street. The siding flaked off like dandruff, the porch furniture
came from three different Craigslist posts, and the pine floors creaked
with every step, but it was ours—chaotic, cramped, and perfect. We
technically had separate rooms (my parents would have flipped
otherwise), but Mick slept in my twin bed every night. We moved
through our days as a unit. His presence felt like home—steady and
calming.
Yet beneath the contentment was a familiar pulse of dread. At 3:00
a.m. I’d lie awake, counting the months left while the radiator ticked like
an anxious metronome. Graduation loomed and another choice waited. A
countdown neither of us dared voice.
—
That spring, I was accepted to four med schools and quickly narrowed
them down to Wisconsin and Columbia. The choice was stark. Stay here
with Mick and my people and enjoy in-state tuition, or leap into an
unknown city, alone, with a mountain of debt.
To celebrate my acceptances, Mick took me to our favorite restaurant.
We sat in the corner booth, sipping champagne and sharing a ribeye.
“To Billie, the future Dr. Wright,” he toasted. His voice rang proud
but carried a note of forced lightness.
When we got back home, my bed was covered in light blue swag. A
stuffed lion was propped against my pillows. A Columbia hoodie draped
across the duvet cover. A mug with a tiny crown logo, and a single sheet
of notebook paper scrawled in blue Sharpie: If you can make it there, you
can make it anywhere.
My breath hitched.
“Mick! What is all of this?”
“You know.”
“But I haven’t chosen—”
“Yes, you have. You’ve known since the day you got the letter.”
I shook my head, a lump in my throat.
“Billie, you turned down Yale. You can’t turn down Columbia.”
“Of course I can,” I said in a shaky voice.
“You’d regret it. You know you would.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Can you come with me?” I whispered, already knowing the answer.
He sat beside me, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wish I could,” he
said. “But you know I promised Maeve I’d come home. And my job at
the orchard—”
I nodded.
“But I’ll be making money. I’ll visit a lot,” he said, putting his arm
around me. “And we’ll see each other over all your breaks.”
I nodded again, blinking back tears.
“It’s only four years,” he said. “We’ll make it work.”
—
The next day, I called Erin to tell her the news. I dreaded the
conversation. She’d just accepted a PR job in Madison and was counting
on being my roommate.
As soon as she answered the phone, she launched into an update
about a great two-bedroom apartment she’d found in Eagle Heights. Her
voice was bright and rapid.
When she finally took a breath, I said, “That all sounds so wonderful,
but—”
“Oh, shit. You’re going to Columbia, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “It was such a hard decision. But Columbia is
better for residency placement—”
“I get it,” she said with a long sigh. “You have to do you.”
“You’ll visit me in New York,” I said. “We can do Broadway shows,
go to cool bars—”
“Yeah. That’ll be really cool,” she said. “Congratulations. I’m so
happy for you.”
“Thank you, Erin,” I said.
The silence that followed stretched wide and uneasy.
“What did Mick say?”
“He thinks it’s the right call.”
“So you’ll do the long-distance thing for four years?” she asked, her
voice laced with soft skepticism.
“That’s the plan.”
“I don’t know, Bill. People move to big cities and change,” she said.
I paused, feeling confused. She was always the one who told me I
could do anything, throwing caution to the wind. I told myself she was
just disappointed. It was understandable.
“That won’t happen,” I said. “I’ll always be me.”
“Just…don’t forget us, okay?” Her voice cracked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
After we hung up, I lay on my bed watching the ceiling fan turn. I
thought about Mick and Erin—our shared geography and memories
stitched together.
My phone rang, interrupting my sadness. It was Erin.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I said.
“Look. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not being more supportive.” She paused. “I’m so proud of you,
Billie. And I know you and Mick will make it work.”
“Oh, Erin. Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot.”
“New York City will be a blast.”
“I doubt that,” I said with a laugh. “I don’t think anyone says that
about med school.”
“Well, it’ll be a blast when I visit you,” she said, the smile back in her
voice.
