Chapter 10
That first year, I went home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, soaking up lots of quality time with Mick. He also managed three visits—long weekends filled with love, sex, and coffee in bed. But at the end of each, standing on the curb with his arms around me, the goodbye was brutal.
Summer arrived just in time. I landed a research assistant position at UW–Milwaukee, working on a clinical outcomes study in the cardiology department.
It wasn’t glamorous—just tedious data entry: patient age, BMI, ejection fraction, medication regimens, all funneled into a chaotic spreadsheet that looked like no one had touched it in years.
But the mindlessness of it was a welcome break.
Back in Wisconsin, I could breathe again.
I relished the slow pulse of a midwestern summer—skies stretched flat to the corn horizon, cicadas sawing at dusk, the smell of fresh-cut grass.
I slept in my old bed with the windows open, waking to birdsong and the rustle of leaves.
I devoured my mom’s cooking, watched Brewers games with my dad, and hung out with my friends.
But the best part of being home was time with Mick. We reclaimed our rituals, slipping back into the ease of our college days.
By August, I felt grounded and restored, more determined than ever to make our relationship survive the distance.
On our last night together, he gave me a greeting card. The front had an illustration of a couple, arm in arm, staring up at a full moon. On the inside, he’d written: One down, three to go. Love you more, Mick.
—
And just like that, I was back in the city, adjusting to a new pace all over again.
Our second-year classes shifted to systems-based blocks: cardiology, pulmonology, endocrinology, neurology.
Facts became pathways, pathways became patients.
We were expected to connect the dots and think like doctors—all in anticipation of Step 1, the infamous exam at the end of the year.
Our three-digit score would impact everything—from our specialties to our residency matches.
It hovered over every conversation, every lecture, every stressed-out AIM chat and group email thread.
Mick, as always, was my cheerleader.
“You’re going to kill that test, Billie,” he’d say. “You’ll have your pick of any program in the country.”
By “pick,” I knew he meant Madison. He never said it outright, but it was there in his voice—in the version of the future he sometimes let slip. The one where I moved back. The one where we got a place together. The one where this distance was only a memory—an obstacle we’d overcome.
Part of me wanted that version, too. But deep down, I was starting to wonder if the only part of that version I wanted for sure was Mick.
—
By October, I felt impossibly behind. Every day became a sprint that began before sunrise and ended sometime after midnight. Mick and I still exchanged voicemails and text messages, but the time between our substantive phone conversations stretched longer.
One night, we had a scheduled 10:00 phone date. But I lost track of time in the library, and when I finally looked at my phone, it was after eleven. Four texts waited in my inbox.
Just tried you.
Still up?
Guess not.
Good night, Bill.
I stepped out of the library and called him back. He picked up on the second ring, his voice thick with sleep.
“Hey,” I whispered, pacing on the sidewalk. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“No worries,” he said through a yawn. “We’ll catch up later. Tomorrow maybe.”
“Definitely,” I said, even though I knew that tomorrow would look a lot like today.
—
In February, Mick planned a visit for Valentine’s Day weekend, booking a boutique hotel in SoHo. I was so excited—until our neuro block got extended and our exam moved to the following Monday. I told Mick I could study by the fire. It would be cozy.
But a few days before his visit, I panicked. The material was dense—brainstem tracts, cranial nerves, and a sea of diagrams that all looked the same. I was going to need Lesli to help me sort through it.
I called him and said, “This weekend is looking worse by the minute. I think we should reschedule.”
“I don’t mind if you have to study the whole time,” he said. “I just want to be with you.”
“I know, but it just feels like a waste of your money. Especially given those ridiculous Valentine’s rates.”
“It’s never a waste of money to see you.”
“You don’t understand. I need to be in the library. Like the whole time.”
A beat of silence.
“You’re right,” he finally said. “I don’t understand.”
—
Things got tense after that. Nothing explosive, nothing dramatic. Just a series of missed calls, half replies, and hasty good nights. A slow erosion of what used to feel effortless.
Then, one Friday in March, there was a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and saw Mick. I flung the door open as he held up a bouquet of flowers and a bag of cheese curds. He looked so handsome, so familiar.
I laughed at the cheese curds, pulling him inside. “Get in here,” I said.
He set his gifts on my kitchen counter and gave me a long kiss. Within seconds, we were undressing and tumbling into bed. The sex was amazing, but halfway through, I remembered a question I wanted to ask a professor. My body faltered before my mind caught up.
Afterward, he traced my collarbone. “What happened back there?”
“What do you mean?”
“When we were having sex…I feel like you went somewhere else.”
“Just for a second,” I whispered.
“Is everything okay? With us?”
“Of course,” I said.
He rolled over, propping himself onto his elbows, staring into my eyes. “You know that little yellow house you love off East Wisconsin Avenue?”
I nodded, remembering the drive when I spotted it.
“It’s for sale.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah. Maybe I should buy it. If you match at UW—it would be perfect for us.”
My heart skipped a beat, though I wasn’t sure exactly why. “Can you imagine?” I murmured.
“Yes,” he said. “I actually can.”
—
Later that evening, he asked what I wanted to do for dinner.
“Something easy,” I said.
“I’d love to take you out. Someplace nice.”
“That sounds tempting, but I’m so tired. Would you mind if we stay in with a pizza and a movie?”
“That works, too,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
An hour later, I was in pajamas, curled up against him, watching Life of Pi. I fought to stay awake but couldn’t keep my eyes open.
Before I knew it, the credits were rolling, the TV bathing the room in soft blue light. For a second, I forgot Mick was even in town. Then I saw his flowers in a vase on the table.
I found him in bed, sound asleep.
—
The rest of the weekend was pleasant on the surface—pancakes at a nearby diner, a walk in Central Park, a visit to the Guggenheim.
But I could sense something off between us—a strange, out-of-sync feeling.
Even our goodbye felt different, less like a pause and more like an ending we were postponing.
Things unraveled slowly from there. Unanswered text messages, missed calls, and distracted conversations.
One night, while I was listening to him tell a story about Maeve, he snapped at me. “Jesus, Billie. Do you ever not multitask when you’re on the phone with me?”
“I’m not multitasking,” I lied.
“I can hear you typing.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, shutting my laptop. “I promise I’ll try to be more present.”
He sighed into the phone, the silence stretching.
“I know you have a lot on your plate,” he finally said. “It’s okay.”
But I could tell it wasn’t.
—
Lucy’s wedding invitation arrived in early May, a pale envelope with gold-embossed script. I stared at the June date, processing that she was getting married three days before Step 1.
When I showed the invitation to Lesli, she winced. “Oof. That sucks.”
“I can’t go, right?”
“I wouldn’t. We’ll be in cram mode.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’ve been friends with Lucy since we were five. I feel like I have to go. A quick in and out.”
Lesli nodded, and I booked my flight with the best intentions.
—
But when the week of the wedding finally came, I knew I couldn’t manage it. I was too behind, too panicked. It felt like Valentine’s Day all over again.
I called Lucy first.
“I understand,” she said. “We’ll celebrate soon.”
Erin didn’t take the news so well.
“Are you fucking serious?” she said.
“I know it sucks, but I don’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice!” Her voice rose, sharp and certain, while mine shrank to silence.
“Look, Billie. I get that what you’re doing is hard. Harder than I can even imagine. And I’ve tried to be supportive. We all have. Especially Mick. But missing Lucy’s wedding is a bridge too far. You’re not just skipping a wedding. You’re skipping us.”
Her words landed like a punch. It wasn’t fair—and yet it was.
“I’m sorry, Erin,” I said. “I just can’t afford a bad score.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Well, I hope it’s all worth it.”
—
Mick was my final call—and his reaction felt the worst: a simple “okay.”
“I’m really sorry to bail on you,” I said.
“I know you are.”
“After this test, things will be different.”
The words sounded hollow even to me.
—
The day after the wedding, Anna sent me a Snapfish album full of photos: Lucy and her groom walking back up the aisle; Sam and Erin grinning on the church steps; she and Eliot raising champagne glasses on the beer hall balcony of South Second.
There was one I kept returning to—a shot of Lucy and Adam’s first dance.
In the background, I could see Mick, standing alone at the edge of the dance floor.
—
The night before my exam, Mick called to wish me good luck.
“You’ve got this,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” he replied.
I hung up, trying to remember the last time he’d said “more.”
—
The next day, after eight grueling hours of testing, I stumbled out of the Prometric center into June humidity, my head buzzing with adrenaline.
A knot of classmates was conducting a postmortem.
I walked past them, feeling freer with every step.
For the first time in months there was no next flash card waiting.
I took out my phone and saw that I’d been offered a summer research assistantship in New York, working with one of the top attendings at NYU Langone.
A second later the phone rang.
It was Mick.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Hard to tell,” I said. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
“Me too,” he said, his voice sounding lighter than it had in weeks—so light I couldn’t bear to tell him the rest of my news.
—
It took three days to work up the courage to tell him.
“Congratulations,” he said, his voice flat.
“I don’t have to take it—”
“Yeah, you do. And don’t worry—I expected this.”
The words hung like smoke.
“Mick. I’m sorry—”
“I know you are, Billie. But it’s time we face reality.”
“What do you mean, ‘reality’?”
“We’re growing apart. The distance is killing us. And now you’re not even coming home this summer.”
“But I’ll be back for a few weeks—”
“A few weeks isn’t a relationship.”
I sank onto the edge of my bed, heart racing. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying it might be time to give up.”
“But we’ve made it almost two years. That’s halfway.”
“Halfway to what?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
“You have no idea where you’re going to do your residency—and something tells me it won’t be here.”
“It might be,” I said.
“Might isn’t enough.”
“Please, Mick. We can do this.”
“I don’t think we can,” he said softly. “God, Billie, I don’t want to say this, but I think—I know—it’s time.”
My vision blurred. “Can I at least see you when I get home?”
“Of course,” he said. “We owe it to ourselves to say goodbye in person.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
When we hung up, I sat frozen on the bed.
We’d been together six years, and we’d broken up in six minutes.
No fight, no tears. Just a slow, sad exhale.
Like slipping beneath the surface of a lake—cold, quiet, final.