Chapter 39
I cross the kitchen and drop into a chair, trying to name the low ache in my chest. Whatever it is has a tinge of déjà vu.
My gaze slides to the table. Erin’s journal is still there, exactly where I left it. The urge to read it is sudden—sharp as hunger. My fingers hover, hesitating the way you do before touching a photograph you’re not sure you’re ready to see.
I finally let my hand fall, feeling the warmth of the leather.
I think of today’s decision—the relief in Dean’s voice when I told him Phoebe wants to try New York. If I’m being honest, I could never really picture Dean here, landlocked and restless, surrounded by farmland, big-box stores, and long, flat roads. He’d have been miserable—maybe even resentful.
Yet my heart tugs—back to loons calling across the water. I think about the scent of the orchard on a crisp autumn day and the hush that comes with the first snow.
Doubt seeps in.
I tell myself that Erin trusted me to do what was best for her daughter. But what if I’m wrong? I know Phoebe thinks she wants to move, but who lets a child decide something so big? What if I’m letting Dean’s wishes influence my decision?
“Erin,” I whisper into the stillness. “Please tell me I’m doing the right thing.”
I stare at her journal, willing it to offer something—permission, absolution, a sign. Then I ease it open, careful not to break the spine.
I flip past Phoebe’s sonogram to Erin’s first entry, the opening sentence bursting with joy: It’s a girl!!!
I remember the day of that ultrasound, the moment she chose to share with me.
I turn another page, skimming. I see Cara’s name—something about a yoga class and a dinner out.
A few pages later, my own name jumps out.
I read urgently: I feel so close to Billie again. How lucky am I to have a best friend who’s an OB? It’s too perfect. If only she lived here.
I keep reading, hearing Erin’s voice in my head, soothed and undone at once.
Then, just as I’m about to close the book, my eyes catch on a single letter: M.
I talked to M. today. He’s panicking again, but I reassured him that there’s no way it’s him. It had to be the guy from Chicago. I pray that I’m right and that he’ll drop this. Forever.
I read the paragraph once, twice, then three times.
My breath turns shallow; my hands go cold.
I turn the page, bracing for what comes next, but Erin has moved on.
I read faster, turning the pages, searching for another M.
I finally spot one—right beside my name. Two dots. A line connecting them.
M. thinks I need to tell Billie what happened. We got into a huge argument, and I explained that there’s no way I can do that. It would ruin everything, and there’d be no coming back. It took a long time, but I made him promise he’ll never say anything.
Heat flares in my chest.
I snap the journal closed—hard, final—like the sound might erase my fear. But the words keep humming under the cover, lodging deep.
I press my hands to my eyes until stars bloom in the dark. Then I grab my phone from my purse.
My thumb hovers over Mick’s name. I tap his contact, my heart thundering in my ears.
“Billie?” he says.
“Hi. Can you come back? I need to talk to you.” The words rush out.
“Is everything okay?”
“Not really,” I say. “Please just come.”
“Okay. I’m on my way.”
I end the call without saying goodbye and count the minutes.
Finally, a knock.
I open the door and stare into his eyes like I might find the truth there.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I shake my head and walk to the table.
He follows me, and we take opposite chairs.
“I read Erin’s journal,” I say, nudging it toward him.
He looks down at it, then up at me. His eyes are unreadable.
“And?”
“And I have questions.”
He blinks, then nods. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Okay.”
“Are you M.?”
“Excuse me?”
“Erin wrote about someone called M. in her journal.” My voice catches. “And a secret she asked him to keep. Are you M.?”
“Billie.” His voice drops, a warning.
“Tell me the truth, Mick,” I say, my voice pitched so low it doesn’t sound like mine.
His throat works, like the answer is lodged there.
I take a deep breath. “Did you have sex with Erin?”
He looks down at the journal, sitting between us like a live wire. His shoulders curve inward, bracing for impact.