Page 55 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

Amelia: What do you think they grow in Kansas?

Philippa: Fair point. Withdrawing my application now

Amelia: I met a woman at a conference last year who I think was at UKW. Let me reach out to her and see if I can get the scoop. Hang tight. And dream of creepy corn mazes

Philippa: I’ll be trembling in terror until I hear back

I pocket my phone and watch the snow-covered landscape fly past outside the frost-cornered window. Maine really is gorgeous in the winter. Cold but gorgeous, with its rolling hills blanketed in pristine white. Grams’s house is totally snowed in, so Dylan couldn’t give me a ride to the nearest bus station. I had to walk the two miles to Blue Hill with my overnight bag, knee-deep in snowdrifts, before I could grab a cab to the bus. I almost told Eleanor I couldn’t make it to her holiday house party, but it’s a family tradition, and I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t find a way to get there. You should’ve hired a plow, bought a sleigh, learned to teleport, sold the damned house already so you lived in a place with more public services. Not worth it.

I invited Dylan to come with me, but he said he’d only hang out awkwardly in corners, and he didn’t want me to feel responsible for him when I should be free to spend time with my friends and family. I’d feel similarly if our situations were reversed, and I have no interest in repeating patterns that were so destructive in his marriage, so I didn’t push, but I can’t help wishing he was here, sharing a playlist and a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Amelia: Forgot to ask. Any updates on the pirate king?

Philippa: How did you know I was just thinking about him?

Amelia: I’ve seen those book covers. Even I’m often “just thinking about him”

I smile at that, though lately I’ve been pretending those covers don’t exist.

Philippa: He’s still avoiding me. I’m still hating it

Amelia: You guys haven’t talked about the Moment yet?

Philippa: Getting Dylan to talk about anything is a long game

Amelia: I still think you should’ve kissed him

Philippa: I still think I misread him

Amelia: Or you read him perfectly but he’s tired of the people he loves leaving him so he’s doing everything he can to not get more attached if you’re leaving him, too

I frown at my phone, considering this possibility, not for the first time. I didn’t tell Amelia we were working on a manuscript together, since Dylan and I agreed to keep it a secret, but I described the tension between us and provided an abbreviated version of his history with his parents and his ex-wife. I needed to talk to someone, and I knew if I told any of my siblings, they’d all hear about it and show up on my doorstep to investigate en masse.

Philippa: I’ve been teasing him about how often he wears his favorite sweater. He told me this week it’s his only sweater. I’m such an asshole. Attachment can’t be the issue

Amelia: Or it is the issue and also, now you know what to get him for Christmas

Philippa: He’s getting a plywood shed for his motorcycle. Rahul brought everything over on Tuesday. Says he can bang it together in a day once we clear a space for it

Amelia: Do you know what Dylan’s getting you?

Philippa: He’s getting my boat rebuilt. He’d better not get me anything else

Amelia: Crowdsourcing your boat repairs isn’t a Christmas present

Philippa: It’s a Christmases for a hundred lifetimes present

Amelia: Fine. But take some mistletoe home with you. You never know unless you try

Philippa: That’s patently untrue. And could lead to a lot of sexual harassment charges

Amelia: Whatever. Your call. Better go. I have a pile of finals to grade and I still need to plan next term’s classes. If I don’t get to it, I’ll be working straight through the holiday “break.” You should think very, very, very, Very hard about reentering academia

Philippa: Sorry. Good luck. Thinking about you. Happy holidays. Xo

I pocket my phone again and let my thoughts drift as we pass snow-covered farmland, iced-over electrical lines, and weighed-down evergreens that belong in a Dr. Seuss illustration. Maybe Amelia’s right about Dylan, and maybe I should take his cue and avoid getting attached if I might move away. Except, of course, I’m already attached. So attached. Even thinking about a permanent goodbye makes me feel like I’m being torn in two, not in a poetic way but in a medieval-torture-device way. As a historian who’s done some serious deep dives into the Dark Ages, I know a few things about medieval torture devices. This is not an analogy I make lightly.