CHAPTER 31
The days click by one chart at a time, and the nights compress into
quiet hours—shared meals, low lights, bedtime rituals. Meanwhile,
Mick and I trade a stream of texts about logistics, legalities, and
day-today details of Phoebe’s life. Most evenings, the two of them FaceTime
me at bedtime so I can tell her good night.
One evening, over roasted chicken and a salad Dean tossed in a steel
bowl, my phone lights up.
“Mind if I grab this?”
“Go for it.”
Phoebe’s face fills the screen. “Guess what?” she shouts.
“What?” I say.
“You’re supposed to guess!”
“Okay…you aced your math test?”
“Well, yeah,” she says. “But it’s bigger than that.”
“Tell me!”
“We got Hank!” she says, flipping the camera around. Hank’s sweet
face appears, his tail wagging furiously.
“Oh my gosh! That’s amazing!”
“It’s the best thing ever!” she says.
Mick ducks into view, smiling.
I feel Dean tense beside me.
“I can’t wait to see him again,” I say.
“Only four more days!” Phoebe says.
We say goodbye and I set my phone down, meeting Dean’s eyes.
“They got a dog,” I say.
“Fun.” He spears a piece of chicken, his gaze dropping.
“Are you annoyed?”
“Not annoyed,” he says. “Just a little concerned.”
“About?”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m on board for custody—not joint
custody.”
I bite my lip and nod.
“I’m sorry, Billie—but I’m not comfortable co-parenting with your
ex.”
“I get it.”
“I hope I don’t sound like a dick?”
“Not at all. That’s totally fair.”
Dean nods, looking relieved, then stands to clear the dishes.
—
Later on the sofa, he drapes an arm around me, and I lean into the curve
of his shoulder. After a beat, I turn to look up at him, catching the dark
sweep of his lashes, the sharp line of his jaw, the almost black of his
eyes.
He comes closer, then kisses me. Heat blooms behind my ribs—
desire braided with relief.
“It’s been too long,” he says.
“I know,” I whisper, already breathless.
He stands, then scoops me up from the sofa, carrying me to his
bedroom. We shed our clothes and slip under the covers. As he kisses my
neck, I arch into him. He answers with a deeper kiss. We breathe,
foreheads touching, the moment gathering. Then he looks into my eyes
and eases into me, slow and sure.
Afterward I rest my head on his chest, and for a moment I forget
everything but him.
—
The next day, Mick calls on my way to work. The words joint custody
linger.
“Question,” he says. “What do you think about getting Phoebe a
phone?”
“I take it she’s been asking?”
“More like begging.”
“Before or after you got her a dog?” I ask, smiling.
“Before, after, during,” he says with a laugh. “Says she needs it more
than ever so she can send you pictures of Hank.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“It would really help with day-to-day stuff,” he says. “And there’s a
safety issue, too.”
“Both good points.”
“So you think I should do it?”
“That’s a tough one. I know Erin was holding out—but I get the
safety and convenience factors.”
“What if we get her a phone but don’t allow social media?” he asks.
“Or get her a flip phone.”
“Or a BlackBerry,” he says with a laugh.
I smile, remembering the click of keys and tiny trackball of my old
BlackBerry, the voicemails from Mick still trapped inside.
“So what do you think?” he asks. “A phone with no socials and
content restrictions?”
“That sounds like the right compromise.”
“Cool. Thanks for the consult, Dr. Wright.”
“Anytime.”
We say goodbye as I tuck my phone away and return to my New York
world.
—
Over the next couple of days, my phone won’t stop buzzing. Videos of
Hank, Phoebe’s goofy selfies, the occasional shot of Mick—halfbewildered, caught in the frame.
I answer with heart emojis, LOLs, and glimpses of my New York life
—the 1 train tunnel, my cappuccino and biscotti at a café table, a
stethoscope coiled on my desk.
At one point, Phoebe starts a group chat with Mick. Everything stays
light, but each ping sends a flicker of unease through me.
—
The night before our flight to Wisconsin, Dean takes me to Cafe
Luxembourg, a Parisian-style bistro on the Upper West Side. The rain
pours down as we duck in off West 70th. The maître d’ whisks away our
umbrellas and jackets, then guides us past the bar to a cozy banquette.
Frank Sinatra drifts overhead, mingling with the low hiss of the espresso
machine.
As we sip Sancerre and chat about our rehearsal dinner plans—a
sunset clambake—I almost feel like my old self again.
Then, in the middle of dinner, Dean’s face grows serious as he leans
across the table.
“Bellevue asked me to interview for trauma director,” he says.
My stomach dips. “When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“You have a lot on your mind already,” he says. “And I don’t want
this to muddy the waters.”
“This is huge, Dean. Congratulations.”
“It’s just an interview.”
“But if you get it—”
“I know,” he says, then sighs. “It would be hard to turn down.”
I nod, feeling a tiny muscle jump in my cheek.
Dean reaches across the table and takes my hands. “But you come
first. You and Phoebe.”
I want to believe him.
“In the meantime,” he says, his voice brightening, “we have a
spelling bee to attend.”
I squeeze his hands and find a smile.
—
The following morning, Dean and I land in Milwaukee. My parents are
on a cruise for their anniversary, so we rent a car. Dean drives as I watch
the landscape slide past—the sky still winter-gray, the trees just
beginning to shimmer with new leaves. He’s quieter than usual, and
every few minutes, I glance over at him.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just a few nerves.”
I look at him, surprised. “Nerves about what?”
“The future.”
I want to reassure him, say something light—but I’m nervous, too.
“I know what you mean,” I finally say. “It’s a lot to take in.”
“Yeah. But it’s good to be here,” he says, smiling. “I’m finally seeing
you in your natural habitat.”
I laugh. “My natural habitat?”
“Yeah. Midwestern Billie.”
As we approach Wauwatosa, I point out the window. “That’s the exit
for Froedtert Hospital.”
“I’m visiting tomorrow.” He gives me a sideways glance.
“You are?”
“Yep. I’m meeting with the chief of surgery and the CMO.”
I reach over and rest my hand on his leg—a silent thank-you.
—
We turn into my old subdivision. Dean’s gaze takes inventory: fresh
asphalt, perfect lawns, Mrs. Rader’s terra-cotta pots filled with red
geraniums. I take it all in through his eyes, growing quiet.
“Very nice,” he says.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
“Yes. The sky feels bigger here,” he says, shading his eyes. “Bigger
and brighter.”
Nowhere to hide, I think, as we turn onto my parents’ street.
“Second house on the right, maroon door,” I say.
“I can almost picture a little Billie turning cartwheels in the front
yard,” he says, pulling into the driveway.
“How’d you know?” I smile.
We get out of the car and head for the front porch. I fish the spare key
from the fake rock in the flower bed and unlock the door.
We walk in, and I give him the thirty-second tour: living room to the
left, dining to the right. In the back of the house: family room, kitchen,
powder room, laundry room.
We land in the kitchen. I wash my hands and ask Dean if he’s hungry.
“A little.”
“I’ll make sandwiches,” I say, remembering my mom’s text about
cold cuts in the fridge.
Dean perches on a barstool, scrolling through emails while I assemble
turkey and Swiss cheese sandwiches with lettuce and tomato slices. I
slide his plate across the counter and take the stool beside him.
Dean murmurs thanks, takes a first bite, and continues scrolling.
As we eat, a sudden flash of memory comes to me: Mick and me in
this very spot, laughing with my mom.
I glance at the microwave clock—12:07. Less than two hours until
the spelling bee.
Once we finish, I put both plates in the dishwasher and ask Dean
what he wants to do.
“Go for a walk? Power nap?”
“Power nap,” he says with a yawn. “Definitely.”
I smile. “The Midwest is already slowing your pulse.”
We carry our bags upstairs to my old room, then strip down to our
underwear and slip under the covers.
Dean sets his alarm then curves his body around mine. He kisses the
back of my neck before settling his head against the pillow. Within
minutes, his breathing turns into a low snore.
I lie there, eyes open, reading through my texts.
Phoebe can’t use her phone during school hours, so our last exchange
was early this morning. I reread it—Good luck, see you soon from me; I
can’t wait to see you from her.
Just as I’m about to set the phone down, a ping from Mick: You
make it in okay?
Yes. We just got here, I text, then pause, realizing I’d never
mentioned that Dean was coming, too.
Mick catches it immediately: We?
I swallow, then text, Dean’s here with me.
I stare at my phone, watching ellipses appear, then vanish.
