Chapter 42
I fall asleep before takeoff and don’t wake up until the plane thuds down on the runway at LaGuardia.
I text Dean that I’ve landed and invite him over for dinner.
Would love that, he writes back.
As I get into my Uber, the sky splits open, rain slamming the windshield.
Midwest rain is cozy—an excuse to hunker down. Here, it’s just gross—black water pooling at curbs, the stench of wet wool and diesel, hot-metal steam rising from subway grates.
When we finally pull up to my building, I dash into the lobby, soaked in an instant, leaving a trail of water all the way to the elevator.
Inside my apartment, I kick off my shoes and head straight to the bathroom, peeling off my clothes and stepping into the shower. The hot water bites, then settles, soothing me, at least on the surface.
For the next few hours, I distract myself with laundry, mail, and inbox triage—anything to keep my thoughts at bay.
At one point, I check my phone and find a wall of words from Mick: Billie, I’m so sorry for what I did, but I need you to understand that it meant nothing to either of us.
We should have told you, but we were both ashamed and just wanted to bury it.
Erin loved you too much to tell you. She was just trying to protect you. I hope one day you can forgive me.
I shake my head, muttering as I type: You don’t lie to the people you love.
Ellipses appear—and then: Sadly, sometimes you do.
Part of me wants to hurl the phone across the room. Another part wants to understand what happened. Neither wins. I just sit there, staring at the screen.
I hear the lock turn and put my phone down.
Dean steps inside, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
He sets it on the floor, water beading on the nylon, then crosses the room.
I stand, and he pulls me into a long hug.
I rest my head on his shoulder, and for a moment, the storm in my head quiets.
“How was the rest of your trip?” he asks as we separate and sit down.
“Ugh,” I say. “I have a lot to tell you.”
I turn toward him and take a deep breath. “So last night, I started to worry about our decision to move Phoebe to New York.”
He nods.
“The more worried I got, the more I wondered what Erin would have thought of our plan.”
He nods again, a slight furrow in his brow.
“So I read her old journal, hoping it might give me some insight. It felt like the closest thing to talking to her again.”
Dean puts his hand on my leg. “And? Did you find anything?”
“Unfortunately not,” I say. “What I did discover is that she’d been hiding a huge secret from me.”
“What kind of a secret?” he asks.
I take a deep breath and say the words aloud. “She and Mick slept together. It was after we broke up—but still.”
“Jesus, Billie. I’m sorry. That’s tough.”
“That’s not even the worst part.” I meet his eyes. “There’s a chance that Phoebe could be his.”
Dean blinks. “Are you serious?”
I nod. “A small chance—but a chance.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
“Yeah. He insists he’s not the father. Erin said the same in her journal. She slept with someone else around the same time—some guy she always said was Phoebe’s father.”
“So Mick never took a paternity test?”
“Correct,” I say.
“Well, that needs to happen. Immediately.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But the certainty in his voice stings. I feel the door already closing.
“You agree, don’t you?” Dean says.
“I guess…”
“Billie, I know this situation is tough.” His eyes skim across the room before landing back on me. “But if you still want to be her guardian, we need to know for sure.”
“I do want that. And more important, I know she wants that.”
“Then we have to get those results.”
“And if she’s his?”
“Then she’s his.”
“And you wouldn’t…want her anymore?”
“It’s not a question of want. It’s a question of legality. If Phoebe has a living parent, the law recognizes that person. Not you. Not us.”
“What if we don’t get the test?” I say. “And we just assume Erin was right—that Phoebe’s not his?”
Dean looks at me like I’ve suggested something totally off the wall. And maybe I have.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he says. “I can’t live in that uncertainty. You might be able to. But I can’t.”
—
The next morning, I stare at Mick’s name on my phone. My thumb hovers, then I hit call. The line rings three times before he answers.
“Hello.” His voice is careful.
“Hi,” I say. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.”
I walk to the window and look out at the gray, rain-streaked city.
“I just don’t understand how you could let this whole thing go on,” I say. “The conversation with Joan, looking for the will, all the talk about where Phoebe will live—you let me fight for her while you were carrying this lie.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you—”
“You had more than a decade to figure that out.”
“I know,” he says. “I was wrong. So wrong.”
I take a breath. “I talked to Dean. I told him everything.”
“What did he say?”
“That we need a paternity test.”
“Okay,” he says. “We’ll get the test.”
“Thank you.”
“Billie?”
“Yes?”
“I promise I’ll make this right.”
I close my eyes. “Just get the test, Mick.”
—
Later that morning, I’m in the break room with Greer and Lesli, three mugs of coffee steaming between us. I’ve just given them the blow-by-blow of the weekend.
“It’s like the ground shifted under me,” I say.
“Wow,” Greer says. “You’re living in a full-on season finale.”
I smile. “If that’s the case, I better fire the writers.”
“Yeah,” Greer says. “This show sucks.”
“What will you do if she’s his?” Lesli asks, her face pinched with worry.
“Dean made it clear we couldn’t be her guardians.”
“Can you blame him?” Greer asks.
“No,” I say. “But part of me wishes he’d leave it alone, and we could just wait until Phoebe’s eighteen to talk to her. Then it would be up to her.”
“I get that,” Lesli says. “But from Dean’s perspective, I think that’s probably too much to ask. I mean—he could be raising another man’s child. A man who is still very much in the picture.”
“I know,” I say. “But she’s Erin’s child. That doesn’t just vanish if Mick’s her father.”
“Look,” Lesli says, touching my arm. “Whatever happens, we’ve got your back.”
“One hundred percent.” Greer takes a sip of coffee, smirking over her mug. “Just let me know if you need me to key his car.”
I laugh. “Mick drives a truck.”
“There’s a slight upcharge for trucks.” Greer grins.
—
Later, as I’m shutting down my office for the evening, my phone buzzes. Mick’s name flashes on the screen.
Mick: The appointment is next Wednesday. They said they will do a cheek swab on both of us. How should I explain this to Phoebe?
Me: Tell her the doctor wants to run a quick test to help answer some family health questions. Keep it simple. Don’t lie.
Mick: Great advice. Thank you.
I set my phone down and press my palms to my eyes, wishing there were a version of this where no one else had to get hurt.