Page 44 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

It takes me a full week to finish reading Grams’s existing books, plus familiarize myself with the notes for A Siren Calls, plus make a plan for the weeks to come, but I do still love a good plan, and by the end of the day Sunday, I feel like I have a handle on what’s to come.

In Grams’s old office, above a waist-high bookshelf, large-scale calendar pages for November and December span the only wall not taken up with ocean-facing windows or floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Six a.m. to eight a.m. is blocked out nearly every day for Dylan’s run and workout and for me to complete tasks relating to my academic job search, loan applications, research on contractors, and anything else that simply needs to get done. Also, showers. Eight to eight thirty is breakfast. Eight thirty to twelve thirty is writing time, with a fifteen-minute break in the middle. We’ve allowed ourselves a full hour for lunch, though we both suspect we’ll often cut that time short. In the afternoons, I’ll sort antiques, manage eBay sales, and move forward with high-priority renovations while Dylan follows up on his undisclosed plans for the boat, pursues modeling and copywriting jobs, and picks up gig work if needed. Between jobs, he’ll help around the house. Carriage house demolition. Wallpaper removal. Making us dinner that isn’t pasta. Evenings are TBA. We’ll write if we can. Deal with other things if necessary.

Dylan already has four modeling gigs booked, all out of town, so those days are blocked out on the calendar. I’ve booked three video-call interviews, the Iowa and Colorado ones I heard about last weekend, plus another in Wichita, Kansas, which sounds as far from the ocean as I can imagine, but of the six jobs I applied for, it most closely fits my skill set and experience, and it’s the most likely to lead to an on-campus interview. My interviews are also on the calendar, along with Eleanor’s holiday party on December 20 and a few other appointments, like bank meetings, a dumpster drop-off, and a visit from the roofer scheduled for this Wednesday.

Everything’s color coded to help us make sense of it all as the calendar continues to fill in. Purple for cowriting. Green for Dylan’s appointments. Yellow for mine. Blue for breaks and meals. And a big multicolored starburst around December 28, when we have a remote meeting with Kate Sharpe, Iris Flynn’s literary agent for over thirty years. Dylan made the call, but he put it on speaker so I could listen in. Kate was elated to hear about the outlines and notes, and while she couldn’t guarantee she could sell our versions of the books to Iris’s publisher, she agreed that if we wanted a shot at it, we needed something on the page.

I only have one more call to make before my checklist for the week is complete, and I’ve been sitting on my bed for over an hour, phone in hand, scroll-stalling. The last dregs of sunlight are fading outside my window, and I can hear Dylan shuffling in the room next to mine, the one we stripped and painted buttery yellow this summer. His old one is no longer habitable, the room next to mine was in the best shape, and we no longer had a reason to camp out together. So, we swapped out the mattress, he moved his meager belongings in, and here we are, with him on the other side of a very thin wall and me pretending that knowledge doesn’t keep me up at night.

Okay. Enough stalling. I shake off my nerves and hit “Call.”

Riley picks up on the third ring.

“Wow. An actual phone call,” he says. “Is this for medical reasons? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m calling you as my brother, not my doctor.”

“Oh, god. What did Mom and Dad do now?”

“Nothing, other than make me feel bad about my life choices.”

“So, the usual?”

“Exactly.” I have to laugh at that, and then, while Riley listens with his characteristic quiet patience, I tell him about our parents’ recent visit and the argument we got into about the house. “I know you’re planning a wedding, and Mom and Dad have a point about the house not seeming worth the expense. So far, every banker I’ve talked to shared their opinion, especially since I have no assets or income, which has been super fun to hear over and over. But you know how I feel about this place. I’m not ready to give up on it yet. I just need some help before another storm hits, the damage gets worse, and Dylan and I have to sleep on the boat.”

Riley laughs under his breath. “Louisa would have a few thoughts about that.”

“You might notice I’m not using the group text.”

After another beat of soft laughter, Riley goes quiet. Seconds pass, and they are excruciating. I’ve never asked anyone in my family for money before, discounting my recent outburst with my parents. I’m too aware that my lack of money has been deemed a personal failure, and drawing attention to that failure is pretty much the last thing I want to do. However, given the low prospect of a bank loan and my lifelong distrust of the lottery, I’m out of options.

“I’ll pay you back,” I say when I can’t stand the silence anymore. “I’m only asking for a loan. Dylan and I are working on ways to bring in more income, but everything takes time.”

“I know,” Riley pushes through a rough exhale, and I can picture him dragging a hand through his always charmingly rakish hair. “It’s just, well, Mom and Dad said you might ask. Pretty sure they called all four of us. They said the sooner you saw reason and let the house go, the more likely you were to get your life back on track. They told us not to enable you.”

“They what?” I gasp out.

“I know. I know. It’s bullshit, but I’m not sure about getting in the middle of this. It’s not a good time to blow up the family. We just booked the wedding venue. Friends of theirs with that place right on the coast. Mom’s so excited. You should’ve heard her go on about the floral arch.”

“You told us you didn’t want an arch. Or floral anything.”

“Well, yeah, but you know Mom. She loves this stuff.”

I flop back on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, which is gloriously free of damage.

“She does,” I say. “And I get it. I shouldn’t have asked you for a loan. It’s my roof, my problem. Thanks for being honest. And kind. But, Ri? Don’t forget it’s your wedding, okay?”

Riley sighs, but after another awkward pause, we get each other laughing by imagining an extreme version of the wedding we both know our mother will plan every last detail of while Riley and Emil compliment each choice, afraid to offend her. Ice sculptures abound. Doves are released. Swans are procured. An eleven-course meal is catered, and everything has some kind of weird foam as a garnish. An entire orchestra passes by the dock on a barge bedecked with forget-me-nots. Drones fly overhead to create an outdoor balloon drop. Andrea Bocelli sings live.

The laughter helps, as does Riley’s ease with a bit of teasing. I can’t be mad at him for not pushing back against our parents, even while a small loan didn’t seem like too much to ask.

I call Eleanor after hanging up with Riley, though her disposable income is nowhere near his. She confirms that our parents got to her first, but she also transfers me $2,000 and suggests I call Haley and Louisa as well. I do, reluctantly, even though Haley has a kid on the way and Louisa has her own wedding to plan. They match Eleanor’s donation, and by the time Louisa’s comes through, Riley has sent me $4,000, likely pressured into it by our sisters, but I’m not about to turn it away. Together, with what I’ve already saved up, it’s enough to pay for the roof.

I’m left reeling in gratitude, no longer sure why I was so determined to move away from my family when I first applied for teaching jobs. I might never have a close relationship with my parents, but my siblings are way more supportive than I remember them being when we were growing up together. I suspect we were all wrapped up in our own pursuits, figuring out who we wanted to be, and I got so used to being compared to them, I started doing it to myself, wishing I was more extroverted, more likable, more attractive to boys, more drawn to interests that might make our parents proud. But that was never my siblings’ fault. Not once.

Even if I never get another teaching job, and Dylan and I fail at writing A Siren Calls, and the boat sinks as the house falls down around me while he waves goodbye on his motorcycle, off to star in the Netflix adaptation of The Baller’s Final Score (because that definitely needs to be made into a film), these months have brought me closer to my siblings. It’s enough to make up for missing my library and having anxiety dreams about my bank account balance.

It’s more than enough.