Page 77 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

Creaking floorboards on the second floor indicate he is home, and sure enough, a moment later, he barrels down the stairs, sweeping me into his arms as I drop my shopping bag, fling my arms around his neck, and bury my face against the rolled collar of my favorite cardigan.

“Can I see the dress, or do I have to wait for the wedding?” he asks.

I draw in a breath to answer him, but the words stick in my throat as I’m struck with the sudden certainty that if I attempt to say anything at all, I’ll sob instead.

When I tighten my hold on him without answering, he takes a long, slow breath, plants a lingering kiss on my forehead, and rests his head on top of mine. “You got the call.”

I nod against his shoulder.

Another slow inhale and exhale. “You’re taking the job.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and hug him so tight I’m amazed he can still breathe.

Tell me not to, I think in a sudden panic. Tell me whatever we are to each other is worth holding on to, no matter what that means for the house, the boat, the books, a plan, a safety net, anything but us. Don’t let me make this decision alone. Tell me what you want, too. Fight for me.

“I have two weeks to decide,” I manage, my voice shaky and barely above a whisper.

“Do you need them?” he asks.

No, I think, or at least that’s what I thought in the store a few hours ago. But here? Now? Holding Dylan while he holds me and I try to convince myself nothing will change between us if I leave him for nine months out of the year? Maybe more? When he might not want to wait for me? Or when I might get swept into the nonstop work and stress of being a full-time academic again, even if my colleagues are respectful and I don’t have to buy my own space heater?

How do you know when something’s worth fighting for? Dylan asked in November. I’ve revisited the question a hundred times since. I’m so tired of it. Why can’t I just know?

I relax my hold. Dylan does the same. We meet each other’s eyes, and eight months of memories flash by in the depths of his night-sky irises. An awkward hello. A game. A ride on his motorcycle. A mattress. A storm. A song. A sword. A sea monster. A sledgehammer. A kiss.

How do you know? How in the hell do you know?

I take Dylan by the hand and lead him to the base of the stairs. We sit on the bottom stair, holding hands, him in his cardigan and faded band tee, me in my peacoat and the scarf I never knot. I reiterate everything we’ve already gone over about how taking the job has more pros than cons, and turning it down could mean no books, house, or boat, even though it also means less time together, less time with my family, and living in a place that might never feel like home.

When I finish, he rakes his free hand through his hair before dragging it down his face, running his full gamut of tics and twitches while looking anywhere but at me.

“It’s what you want?” he asks.

“I want a lot of things. I can’t have them all.”

“Will it make a difference if we sell the book?”

“We can’t sell it if I turn down the job.”

“Would it make a difference anyway?”

“Kate said it might be a month or more before she could get to our manuscript and send us revision notes or pass it along to Grams’s editor as is. We won’t know in time.”

Dylan finally turns my way. “You’re not answering my question.”

I tense at his accusatory tone. “You’re not asking one that matters.”

His jaw clenches as if he’s holding in the obvious follow-up. What question does matter?

Do you love me? I think. Are we worth fighting for? But he doesn’t ask, so I don’t answer. Instead, his thumb caresses my knuckles where he’s still holding my hand, softening the tension between us. I tip my head onto his shoulder, staring at the floor where I wish to god we didn’t have sex for the first time. I don’t know what happens now, but this conversation doesn’t feel like it’s heading anywhere good, and things shouldn’t end in the same place they begin.

“It’s funny, right?” he asks in a way that implies nothing is funny at all. “I’ve been preparing for this for weeks now, but sometimes it doesn’t matter how much you try to prepare. You don’t know how you’ll feel until you feel it.”

I nod against his shoulder. “I want this to be good news.”

Dylan sighs. “Sorry. I’m being a jackass. I haven’t even said congratulations.”

I squeeze his hand before pivoting around to face him. He smiles, or tries to, but his eyes belie the cheer he’s trying to convey, and his dimples don’t even make a hint of an appearance.