Page 71 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

Michael: No problem. Good luck. Catch you next time you’re in town

I text back absolutely, smiling as I pocket my phone.

All our hard work for a new friend, Louisa said in December.

Little did she know, that was exactly what I needed.

Full of gratitude and already mentally revising my CV, I head toward the bus stop on autopilot, but a sharp whistle draws my attention to the milling crowd greeting arrivals. Among the crowd is a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing beat-up jeans, a familiar black wool coat, and an even more familiar knit hat with tasseled ties dangling past his shoulders, a hat I forgot to pack. He’s also holding a sign that says Dr. Philippa Flynn.

With a jolt of joy so powerful I feel like I might literally be glowing, I run over and fling my arms around Dylan’s neck. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t wait until the end of the day to see you.” He crushes me against him, letting the sign dangle. “I also thought you might like company on the ride home.”

I have to fight back tears. No one has ever waited for me at an airport before, and I’ve always felt a pang of longing while watching other people greet their loved ones. Even when I visited family during the holidays and summers, my parents had me text when I arrived. They’d drive up to the curb, and I’d get in the back of the car. No hugs. No I couldn’t wait.

Dylan and I kiss, striking a balance between chaste and salacious. Then he takes my hand, we grab snacks at an overpriced market, and we head to the bus stop together, where a vehicle much safer and warmer than his motorcycle will take us north on the icy winter roads.

On the way home, I tell him about my campus visit. I liked the faculty and staff. The students asked good questions in the class I taught, reminding me why I became a teacher and how much I enjoy seeing inspiration spark. I was shown an actual office space, not an unheated closet off an isolated back hallway. The department had a mission statement—something my previous colleagues refused to bother with—and that statement drove decision-making in ways everyone could get behind. And when I asked what everyone liked about their jobs or what they hoped a new colleague would bring to the department, they seemed energized by my questions rather than offended that “I was interviewing them instead of letting them interview me.”

“So you’re excited?” Dylan asks, and the look in his eyes suggests he has mixed feelings about this question. Even I have mixed feelings about this question.

“More like relieved,” I say, and then I tell him about the deal I made with my mom. He listens, nodding along with a furrowed brow and his lips pressed into a tight line. “So at least it seemed like a decent possibility and like a place I might even be happy. Or happy-ish.”

“Hmm,” Dylan mumbles in what’s now a very familiar way, subtly but perceptibly revealing more truth than he probably intends, especially as a man who always prefers a dare.

I take his hand and rest the knotted pair on my leg. “Is it time for us to talk about this?”

“I don’t know,” he says through a slow exhale. His thumb sweeps my knuckles, the contact soft and reassuring. “You already know what I think. Even if I’m not in the picture.”

“Do I?” My mind spins as I hunt for the right memory.

“I don’t think it’s what you want,” he says. “Not really. And I think your mom making it a condition of releasing the rights to her mother’s intellectual property is total bullshit.”

My hackles rise, a shockingly powerful instinct to defend my mom. But also, maybe he’s right, and I appreciate his clarity when I’ve been so mired in conflicted feelings about this for the past few days, unable to sort familial obligation from learned behaviors about plans and safety nets, or from unnecessary stubbornness about compromise that might not be as bad as I think.

“We’d have time to finish the first manuscript,” I say. “And I could afford to maintain the house. The new roof isn’t enough. We have to deal with the black mold, the outdated electricity, maybe even the foundation. All of that would at least be possible. Keeping the house would be possible. You can stay as long as you want. I can come back on holidays and in summers. We can write the other books then or send chapters back and forth or . . . or you could come with me.” Anxiety dances across my skin. This feels like a huge ask after only being whatever we’ve been to each other for a few weeks. It also presumes he has no ties to sever, which I know isn’t true, even if he doesn’t have a big family nearby or a tight friend group and steady job to leave.

“I grew up being dragged around the country,” he says. “Even in my marriage, I often felt like I was along for the ride, there to support someone else’s dreams rather than pursue my own. I also lived in Boise for a few months when I was fifteen. Cody, Wyoming, when I was eight, Three Forks, Montana, in junior high, and Bowman, North Dakota, after that.”

“And?” I ask, already anticipating the answer.

He takes a deep breath as his thumb sweeps my knuckles again.

“And I don’t think it’s what I want, either,” he says.

I nod, looking out the window while I swallow a lump forming in my throat. Snow-covered farmlands roll by, so beautiful they break my heart. Or maybe it’s not the view.

Dylan gives my hand a squeeze, drawing my attention his way.

“Truth or dare?” he asks.

I attempt a smile and sort of manage it, though I’m not fooling either of us.

“Truth,” I say. “Though your dares are limited on an almost empty bus.”

He nods as though he knew I’d pick truth. I usually do.

“Tell me why you want to keep the house so badly,” he says.