Page 38 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Do I get a truth in exchange?”

“I’ve coughed up a lot of truth already tonight.”

“Not enough for me to give you open access to everything on my phone.”

Dylan’s smile flattens out, but his eyes remain bright. He studies me. I study him.

“Fine,” he says at last. “One dare for one truth. Now hand it over, Flynn.”

Ugh. That gets me. He’s never called me by my last name before. No one has. It’s a personal Achilles’ heel. He could ask for my passcode right now, and I’d hand that over, too.

I grab my glass and knock back the contents. Then I give Dylan my unlocked phone, scooting close so I can see what he’s up to. I worry he’ll dig for embarrassing photos, but he opens the music app and searches my most-played songs. Snow Patrol, of course. Patty Griffin, for her lyrics about living too many miles from the ocean, the ones that’ve haunted me for the last seven years, beckoning me back with every word and every note full of longing. The Civil Wars for their aching duets. Irish ballads that break my heart. The three A’s: Aretha, Alanis, and Avril, because they all just get it. The rest are mostly pop and acoustic rock. Catchy, simplistic love songs Dylan probably finds in terrible taste, given his knowledge about music.

He holds the screen toward me, scrolling through the list.

“You connect to something in these songs,” he says. “And I don’t think it’s the history.”

“I mean . . . it could be,” I say, and Dylan laughs, which makes me laugh. “I don’t usually admit to loving some of this stuff. How did you know what was on here?”

His brows shoot up in surprise. “You don’t realize you hum when you work? When you peel wallpaper, when you cook, when you pull weeds, when you sit at your laptop, checking your email, and when you stand on the back porch and watch the waves come in at sunrise?”

“When did you see me watching the waves at sunrise?”

“I may have glimpsed you once or twice, on my way out for a run.”

I take a moment to let an image form in my mind. Me getting up early with a steaming mug of tea in both hands, looking out over the painted ocean and pink-tipped islands, assuming I was alone, but now Dylan’s there, too, if only for a moment. Maybe the image should unsettle me or make me feel like my privacy was violated, but he didn’t interrupt or invade my space. He didn’t use what he witnessed to make fun of me. He simply saw me. And heard me, apparently.

“No, I didn’t realize,” I say through a wince. “About the humming.”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he says. “I just suspect you understand more than you think you do. Maybe not here.” He taps my forehead. “But here.” He sets a hand on my chest.

I close my eyes and remind myself to breathe. All he’s done is touch me, gently, carefully placing his palm so he’s not even grazing my breasts. But the tenderness is killing me.

I have to tell him. I will tell him. I’ll open my eyes and admit I have a raging crush and I’m desperate to kiss him even if saying so obliterates the beautiful friendship we’ve built and ruins any chance of writing these books together because it’ll be way too awkward now and in fact he has to move out because I’ve made him uncomfortable living with me so he’ll pack up his pasta, his motorcycle, his decomposing running shoes, and his sweet and gentle heart and . . .

Goddammit! No. It’s too much to lose.

Dylan’s hand slips away, thank god, allowing me to catch my breath.

“I’ll, um, I’ll think about it,” I say. “The books. Cowriting. I’ll think about it.”

“It’s not the rousing hell, yes! I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.”

I inch up a shrug. “It’s pretty far out of my comfort zone.”

“I’ve been stuck at chapter three for over six years. It’s out of my comfort zone, too.” He hands me my phone, and I set it aside, face down. “I’ve given this a lot of thought since we found the notebooks. Finishing the story as Iris intended. I think we can do it if we do it together.”

Together. Such an ordinary word. It has no right to punch me in the heart like this.

“Guess I should hurry up and finish reading the last few books,” I say.

“Only because I can’t wait to tell you about—”

I spin his way and slap my hand over his mouth. “No spoilers!”

He laughs as he draws my hand away from his face. “I’m only teasing.”

I scold him with my eyes, but I don’t try to make it convincing. “You’re the worst.”