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.
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, self-contained 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.