Page 76 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Are we celebrating, stress eating, or both?” Haley asks.

Eleanor reaches into her purse and holds out a travel pack of tissues. “Just in case.”

I wave off the tissues, and she returns them to her purse as I sink onto a nearby bench.

“It’s nice to have an offer,” I say, and wow, that does not sound celebratory.

“And?” Eleanor asks.

“And I promised Mom I’d take it if I got it.”

Another silence, one that feels more and more excruciating the longer it stretches on.

“Dylan and I just sent Grams’s agent the first manuscript,” I say. “I don’t want to lose the opportunity to see that through. I don’t want Dylan to lose it, either. With the teaching salary, I could keep the house, which would allow Dylan to continue living there and allow me to stay there during breaks. I’d have the summers to keep writing with him, if he was up for it and if we sold the first book. If I turn down the job, I have to let go of all of that. Sure, I’d find another job somewhere, at some point, but I don’t have the same marketable skills you all have. I’d be lucky to get a retail or serving position, and I wouldn’t make enough to finish even the most essential repairs on the house. Without the house, I don’t have a place to moor the boat, so I’d have to sell her, too, after all the effort Dylan and his friends put into getting her seaworthy again and all the money Grams’s fans poured into her. And without summers off, when would I write novels?”

Haley sits beside me and takes my hand into her lap, giving it a good squeeze.

“Grams did it,” she says.

“Yeah, and according to Mom, she was broke, exhausted, and miserable.”

Eleanor nudges my toe with hers. “Until she wasn’t.”

I nod, considering. The Grams we remember was joyous, energetic, and far from broke. Not that I’d delude myself into thinking I’ll become a bestselling author of dozens of novels, but I wouldn’t necessarily be miserable or any more exhausted than I was as a full-time professor.

Louisa eyes me skeptically. “Would you really have summers off?”

“I mean . . . maybe?” I cringe at my answer, recognizing that I never had a summer off at my last job, or even a full week. I was busy planning the next term’s classes, researching for my next book, advising for fall registration, and writing conference proposals, recommendation letters, grant applications, equipment requests, and budget spreadsheets. “I’ll find a way. I’ll make the best of this. Nine months there, three here. It might be great. I won’t know unless I try.”

For several seconds, no one says anything. My brain fills the silence as my thoughts spiral in a familiar way. The house. The boat. Waking up to the sound and view of the ocean. Living near my family. Staying with Dylan. Writing Grams’s books. Giving my teaching career another shot before I give up on it. Making enough money to meet my needs without begging for help. Having a job versus having a vocation. Being noticed and cared for. Life so seldom presents us with a simple question of this or that. It’s a complicated nexus of interlocking priorities. If I can’t have it all, what can I have, and what am I willing to sacrifice in order to have it?

Riley takes a seat, bookending me between him and Haley.

“We’ll miss you,” he says, and just like that, the tears come.

Eleanor whips out her tissues like she was expecting this any second. Haley wraps an arm around me from one side, and Riley from the other. Louisa lets me take a tissue before grabbing one for herself. A clerk approaches, takes one look, and walks away, leaving us in our sad little gathering, wilting against one another, despite receiving news that should have us cheering.

“I need a plan,” I say. “This isn’t a bad one.”

No one contradicts me. No one agrees with me, either.

This is my choice to make, which is both freeing and terrifying. Mostly terrifying, especially when I think about the conversation ahead of me, the one I need to have with a man who has a gift for walking out of rooms he doesn’t want to be in, and who’s told me, himself, that he seldom fights when faced with conflict. Instead, he leaves.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“I’m keeping my phone on all night,” Haley says as Eleanor pulls up to my curb and I gather my personal belongings in the back seat. I’d planned to bus home, but my sisters wouldn’t hear of it.

“Same,” Eleanor says. “Call us anytime.”

Haley gets out of the car to give me a hug. “We’re proud of you for getting the job.”

Eleanor rounds the front of the car and joins us. “And maybe he’ll do long distance.”

“Maybe,” I say, wishing I sounded more hopeful. At least I can stop worrying about losing the house. The snow is long gone, and the new roof is beautiful. The trees aren’t in bloom yet, but the brown, scraggly brush that pokes up between the dark rocks feels like a bold declaration of resilience and determination, while Dylan’s little motorcycle shed stands at the end of the gravel drive, a utilitarian structure whose intentional lack of permanence hits hard.

I grip my shopping bag in a tight fist, climb the stairs, and turn to wave at my sisters from the front porch, where the lights have been left on for me, hopefully not for the last time.

“Hello?” I call as I step into the foyer and shut the door behind me. “Dylan? You home?”