Chapter 29
Two hours later, I’m on the curb at LaGuardia, scanning the line of cars for Dean’s Range Rover. He spots me, hops out, and jogs toward me.
“Hey, baby,” he says, giving me a quick kiss.
“Hi, honey,” I say.
He takes my bag, rolls it to the open trunk, and sets it inside.
We slide into our seats and buckle up.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” I say.
“Of course,” he says, pulling away from the curb and merging into traffic.
“I missed you,” he says, resting his hand on my thigh.
“I missed you, too,” I say.
I lean back in my seat as the city rises up ahead, the skyline coming into view.
“Tell me about your conference,” I say.
I want to hear about it—but I also want to postpone talking about my weekend.
I try to follow as Dean talks about chairing a plenary session on emergency response systems, moderating a panel of international surgeons, and discussing national trauma guidelines with hospital administrators. But his words sound muffled, as if he’s speaking through glass.
“So how are you doing?” Dean asks as we turn onto 125th Street, a thread of concern running under the lightness.
“I’m okay,” I say. “But there’s a lot to talk about.”
“Oh?” he says, glancing over at me.
“Can you come up?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says.
A few minutes later, Dean pulls into a space in front of my building. He grabs my bag from the back and follows me up the stairs to my lobby, then into the elevator.
Once we’re in my apartment, he gives me a long hug. I press my face into his sweater, breathing him in.
When he lets go, I see worry in his eyes.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
I shake my head, realizing that I never had lunch.
“Want me to order?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say.
He walks over to my couch, perches on the edge, and starts scrolling on his phone.
“What are you in the mood for?”
I shrug. “You pick.”
He nods, keeps scrolling, then settles on Italian.
“I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay?” I say, wondering why I sound so formal.
“Of course,” he says. “Take your time.”
After my shower, we eat quietly on the sofa, paper bags rustling as we unwrap containers: house salads, chicken piccata, linguine with red sauce.
I can tell he’s waiting for me to open up, and I ease into it, telling him about Joan’s health, Erin’s condo, Phoebe’s spelling bee—everything but the question of custody.
“When’s the spelling bee?” he asks. “I’d love to go with you.”
“In two weeks. On Friday.”
He pauses, frowning. “That’s Bobby’s wedding weekend.”
“Oh, shit,” I whisper.
He sets his fork down, aligning it parallel to the container lid, as if in a sterile operating field.
“It’s important, right?” His voice is tentative.
“It’s a big deal to Phoebe. And I already promised her I’d be there,” I say.
What I don’t add is that I want to be there—that I’d rather sit on a folding chair in an elementary school gymnasium than sip cocktails on a beach in St. Lucia with his medical school friends, as lovely as they are.
Dean exhales. “Okay,” he says. “She needs you there.”
I clear my throat. “There’s something else, too.”
He holds my gaze.
“Joan said that Erin wanted me to have custody of Phoebe.”
He nods, staring past my shoulder before finally meeting my eyes.
“Actually,” I say. “She wanted me and Mick to have custody.”
There’s a pause. One breath. Two.
“So…joint custody?”
“Or just one of us,” I say. “Joan wasn’t clear, so it’s hard to know exactly what Erin had in mind.”
“How do you feel?”
“I feel…honored but overwhelmed,” I say. “And a little scared.”
“So you said yes?”
“No. I said I had to talk to you.”
He leans back into the sofa, the cushions giving under his weight.
“So, what do you think?” I ask, holding my breath.
“I think…I’m in.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She can live with you until your lease runs out. Then you can move in with me. Or we could get a bigger place.”
I hesitate. “The thing is…I don’t think she should move here. I think we’d have to move there. She needs stability—not more change.”
“Oh,” he says.
“Would you be willing to consider a move like that? I know it’s a huge thing to ask.”
When he doesn’t immediately respond, my nerves spike, and I keep talking to fill the silence. “Mick said he’s willing to do it solo. So if you don’t want to do it, I understand.”
He looks at me, his face blank. “It’s a lot to consider—the idea of uprooting our lives.” He shifts closer, taking both of my hands in his. “But if that’s what she needs, and it’s what you want to do, then we’ll make it work.”
“Thank you, Dean,” I say, feeling a surge of gratitude and love for the man I’m going to marry.
“Of course.”
“The good news is, we have some time,” I say. “Mick is moving in with Joan and Phoebe for now.”
“That’s helpful.”
“Yeah, he’s been great.”
He studies my face, then says, “Are you sure you don’t want to let him do this?”
“I’m not sure about anything,” I say. “It’s all so surreal. A week ago, Erin was still alive.”
“I know,” he says. “It’s a lot.”
“Why don’t you take a few days and think about it?” I say. “I know it’s a huge decision.”
“Okay,” he says. “But ultimately, it’s your call. I’m with you—whatever you decide.”
“Thank you, Dean.” I rest my head on his chest, listening to the quiet thump of his heart. “I’m so lucky to have you.”