Page 20 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“A ride on what, your shoulders?” I can’t help but laugh as I picture him carrying me the seven or so miles to the rental place in Surry, though if anyone has the shoulders for it . . .

“Come on. I’ll show you.” He gestures for me to follow him, and I do.

He leads me outside to the carriage house. The roof is fully caved in at the center and crumbling at the edges, but the walls are mostly intact, with dusty, curtained windows facing the house, a buckled garage door splintering onto a gravel driveway, and a locked door on the south side. I haven’t bothered looking inside, assuming all I’d find were rusty tools and old gardening equipment. My grandmother wouldn’t have stored anything as valuable as her work out here, and if a car is inside, it won’t be drivable. Not with so much of the roof collapsed on top of it.

Pulling keys from his pocket, Dylan opens the side door and flips a switch, turning on a bare bulb that’s fastened to the wall and miraculously still functioning. While I watch from the doorway, he steps inside and pulls a tarp off a motorcycle that’s tucked in the available space near the wall. I don’t know the first thing about motorcycles, but it looks old and simple, without fancy parts or anything that’s been recently shined. The kickstand’s rusty. The canvas saddlebags at the back are weathered and frayed. The bulbous curves of the olive-green fenders and headlight give the vehicle a ’40s or ’50s feel, possibly because it’s actually that old.

“I had no idea this was in here,” I say.

“I don’t use it often, but it’s handy if I need to get somewhere that’s too far to walk.”

“Don’t tell me it was Iris’s.”

“No, it’s mine, but she liked riding on the back.” He ducks around the front, setting aside the tarp before running a hand over a cracked leather seat that’s a snug fit for two.

My grandmother never mentioned a motorcycle, not that I can recall, but I can easily imagine her riding behind Dylan. Zane Scarlett and his creator, flying down a highway together, with smiles on their faces and the wind whipping their hair. The bike’s no pirate ship, and they were probably in modern dress, but even my grandmother could be practical sometimes.

Dylan picks up two helmets, assesses them, dusts off the smaller one, and hands it to me.

“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?” he asks. “Or driven one?”

I shake my head as I try on the helmet. “Should I be nervous?”

“No,” he says. “You should trust me.”

Weirdly? I do.

Three hours later, after making a reservation at the truck rental place and creating a thorough list of packing supplies, Dylan and I are on the way to Surry, and I share a new interest with my grandmother. The sun and wind on my face remind me of brisk afternoons sailing the ship with her, and the evergreens flash past so close, I keep reaching out to try to touch them, catching air instead. There’s something so pure, so sensory about moving fast through open air, whether on a boat or on a bike. My mind goes quiet while my body takes over. I watch the world fly past me instead of working so relentlessly to carve out a meaningful, rewarding place within it. I feel something I don’t need to analyze or define. I just am. Joyful. Simple. Free.

And yet, I can’t help the growing awareness that I’m straddling Dylan’s bike with my thighs bracketing his hips, my chest pressed against his back, and my arms looped around his waist. Usually, I’m drawn to nerdy academic types who wax intellectual about schadenfreude or the zeitgeist. I once agreed to a second date solely because a guy knew the difference between a cabriolet and a curricle. I’m pretty sure I’ve never slept with anyone who had a gym routine, let alone someone who runs for multiple hours every morning and whose happy trail decorates a bestseller. But I haven’t had many opportunities to be close to a man, and while Harrison and Noah were both great in bed, neither was affectionate. I like physical contact. I like a good hug or a lazy, entangled morning snuggle. I like how my body feels pressed up against Dylan. But I don’t know what to do about that, other than ensure neither he nor my siblings ever find out.

Safely tucking those thoughts away where I hope even I can’t find them, I force myself to focus on the task at hand, or rather, the many tasks at hand. We soon reach Surry, where we pick up a rental truck, and where the sixty-something clerk flirts shamelessly with Dylan, causing him to flush, stammer, and promptly escape to the parking lot. This suggests I’m not the only one he runs away from, a piece of information I find oddly comforting.

Dylan follows me on his bike to the general store, where he pushes a cart while I load it up with packing supplies. It’s another small but kind act, one I can’t help but notice. Like the lights he left on, no one has ever pushed a cart for me, or even gone shopping with me, and while I could easily complete this part of my task list on my own, I like that I don’t have to. I like that he’s standing nearby to suggest the easy-tear tape and remind me to grab bubble wrap for the fragile items. I like that he smiles when I make a joke about offloading my booty. I like that he recognizes the song playing over the speakers, and he tells me an interesting story about how the band got their first record deal. I like that I’m not doing everything alone.

Back at the house, we pack up the goods, load the truck, and drop everything off at the post office. Before leaving Blue Hill, I offer to make a nice dinner as thanks for Dylan’s help.

“No need,” he says. “I’m fine with—”

“Dylan. Seriously.” I scold him with a look. “No one likes boiled pasta and red sauce that much. Especially not red sauce with only the barest hint of flavor.”

He opens his mouth, another protest ready to fall from his lips.

“I dare you,” I say before he can decline again.

He frowns at me. “What if I was going to pick truth next?”

I smother a laugh. Sort of. “Were you?”

His frown deepens, his gaze stern. I hold a challenge in my own gaze, refusing to be the first to budge. If he wants to go head-to-head in stubbornness, he’s in for a close fight.

“Can I at least buy us wine?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, an easy concession.

His frown softens and he almost—almost—smiles.

“Okay,” he says. “Then I accept your dare.”