Page 56 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

We’ve managed to eke out four more chapters of A Siren Calls, but they’re clunky and lack cohesion now that we’re taking turns as often as we’re writing together. This is Dylan’s preference, not mine, but whatever gets us through it. We only have a week left now to polish what we’ve written before we meet with Iris’s agent, Kate. If we can’t do the work and do it well, neither of us will be proud of what we send her, and we’ll both be letting down Grams.

December should’ve been an improvement on November, but so far? No such luck.

Eleanor’s husband, Frank, greets me at the door. He’s a tall, besuited redhead with a dad bod and wire-rimmed glasses that never sit straight on his almost-always-smiling face.

“You made it!” he says as he pulls me into a hug. “Phil’s here!” he calls over his shoulder, and next thing I know, the foyer is crowded as my sisters pile onto the hug in a powerful eddy of cashmere sweaters, sparkly jewelry, and sugarplum body lotion.

“I couldn’t stop checking the weather app,” Louisa says.

“I can’t believe you didn’t call us from the station,” Haley adds.

“How are you not freezing?” Eleanor flicks my dangling scarf. “And you still won’t tie one of these. I used to think Mom exaggerated when she said you hid your turtlenecks.”

“I not only hid them,” I tell her, “I cut them into pieces or burned them.”

Haley elbows my side. “Badass.”

Riley comes around the corner, and we fall into a warm hug. For a few minutes, the foyer fills with overlapping conversations about road conditions, holiday decorations, and the party that’s in full swing. Then my sisters bustle me upstairs to Eleanor’s guest bedroom while Riley returns to the crowded living room to save his fiancé from being stuck without him in a wedding conversation with our mother, who’s torn between two equally uninteresting color schemes.

Where Louisa’s house is all cute, domestic charm and Haley’s is earth-conscious, eclectic elegance, Eleanor’s is classic, understated sophistication. The dark wood floors are beautifully polished. The walls are painted in tasteful neutrals, with simple furnishings in coordinating soft prints. Family photos line the walls in neat rows and matching frames. The garland wrapping the stair rail is tied off with ivory velvet bows and clusters of pine cones. The tree I can just make out through the archway to the living room is decorated entirely in ivory and gold with a simple star on top. Everything looks expensive and thoughtfully arranged, though I’ve also seen this house when Lego bricks and action figures litter the halls, schoolbooks and gaming controls are all over the living room, and the kitchen looks like a pack of wolves raided it.

The instant the four of us are over the threshold, Louisa slams the door behind us.

“What did you bring to change into?” she asks.

I drop my overnight bag on the bed. “A silk blouse and a pair of dress pants?” I’m not sure why I’m asking this like a question. I put a lot of thought into what to wear. It had to pack well, given my journey here, and it had to pass my parents’ can’t you try a little harder? test. Since I don’t wear jewelry or heels, two pieces of clothing had to do a lot of work.

Haley opens my bag. “You don’t have a sexy dress in here?”

I suppress a laugh. “Hi. My name’s Philippa. Have we met?”

My sisters exchange a round of sideways glances, making me instantly wary.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Eleanor sits on the edge of the bed. “Mom brought you a setup.”

I groan as I drop down beside her, falling onto my back with my peacoat and hat still on.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Haley assures me.

“He’s cute!” Louisa adds. “He’s a prof, too. Rhetoric, I think.”

“Awesome,” I deadpan. “We can talk about my failed teaching career.”

“Paused, not failed,” Eleanor corrects.

I don’t really want to get into the nuances of the situation. I don’t want to meet a setup, either, but after a solid ten minutes of my sisters’ relentless and impassioned coaxing, I agree to let them sort out my look for the night. This decision eventually leaves me in a maroon bodycon minidress Eleanor kept around from her clubbing days, an updo Louisa creates with face-framing curls I know will be long, straight strands within half an hour despite her liberal use of hairspray, and a light touch of makeup Haley talks me through, kindly accepting that anything more than mascara, a quick sweep of eyeliner, and a relatively neutral lipstick makes me feel like a clown.

Thankfully, my black ballet flats are deemed acceptable, and we all head downstairs. I greet all the kids and partners. Then I hug my parents while they remind me I wouldn’t have arrived so late if I wasn’t living in the middle of nowhere. I grit my teeth and don’t reply.

I’m soon introduced to Dr. Michael Kim, my setup for the night. Louisa was right. He’s very cute, with thick retro-frame glasses and an errant spike of straight black hair that looks like it has a mind of its own. His slim-cut blue suit gives off a hipster vibe, especially when he pulls up the hems of his trousers to show me his sparkly reindeer socks. They are also very cute.

He’s chatty, thank god, since I’m the opposite around new people, and although I take a while to ease into our conversation, we eventually broach the topic of academia. I briefly note that I grew fatigued with my previous working environment but hope the next one will be better. He says his job has its pros and cons. Pros: stable paycheck, opportunities to do research, working with students, and the location near Portland, which he loves and where he has family nearby. His cons are a lot like mine. As we talk through them, I notice my mom watching us, and I return the smile she’s sending me. Okay, so she got this one right. Too bad she’ll be gloating about it for the next decade—and following Michael on Facebook by morning.

And too bad I might be hopelessly in love with my squatter/tenant/handsome guest.

When Michael requests a less brief version of why I’m between jobs, I don’t tell him about the sinkhole. Instead, I describe some of my department’s worst examples of misogyny and gender discrimination and how everyone’s brilliant solution was for me to care less.