Page 84 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Please,” he says. “Before you tell me what you can’t do.”

I close my mouth, swallow again, and nod.

He drags a hand down his face and then scratches his collarbone, restless, as usual.

“I’m sorry I left,” he says. “Really sorry. I didn’t realize the instinct was so strong until you told me you got the job. I tried that night, but every minute, every second felt like another goodbye. I couldn’t bear another day of that, or another two weeks.” He grips the neckline of his T-shirt, flexes his hand, and lowers it to his side, where his fingers keep twitching away. “When we talked about how to know if something’s worth fighting for, I think we got one thing wrong. I think, sometimes, we do ask questions. Then we fight. But I made the mistake of assuming I needed to ask those questions alone, instead of with you.”

He shifts his stance. I shift mine, both of us adjusting to the light rocking of the ship. I’m vaguely aware a wedding reception is happening behind me, and children are checking out the ship while the crew answers questions and prevents anyone from boarding. But only vaguely.

“I don’t know if you’re willing to give me another chance,” Dylan continues. “I’ll understand if you’re not. I got scared and ran. I broke your trust. But I’ll do anything to earn it back and to show you I’m ready to fight for this. For us.” He takes a tentative step toward me. And then another. “I’ll move to Idaho. We’ll find a way to make enough money to keep your house standing. I talked to Trish. We can do themed sailings this summer. Tour the ship down the coast and back. And if we can’t write Iris’s books, we’ll write our own.” He thrusts his hands into his pockets and takes them out again, where they fist and flex against his sides. He’s such a mess, so rife with fears and uncertainties, but so am I, and no one falls in love with a finished product of a person. We fall in love with the work in progress, the work that will always be in progress. If we’re lucky, we get to do some of that work together.

“What made you change your mind?” I ask.

“Nothing. Everything.” He gusts out a laugh. “Trying to write. Trying to sleep. Making a sandwich. Riding my bike. Taking a shower. Getting rained on. Hearing a song you used to hum. Drinking a really good glass of wine and realizing I’d rather have a terrible one if I was having it with you.” He continues shifting and shuffling, his eyes a little wild, a little desperate, as the wind toys with his hair and twilight paints his hawkish nose and strong cheekbones in soft shades of blue and purple. After what he’s put me through, he has no right to look so beautiful, standing here on this vessel of pure imagination, her mere existence suggesting all we’d need to do is point her toward the horizon, and we’ll sail away to the Island of Diamonds and Desire.

Although . . .

I mean . . .

It wouldn’t be the worst idea . . .

I do need a place to live . . .

And it could solve the mooring issue . . .

“Don’t move to Idaho,” I say.

Dylan frowns as he takes a step back. “Right. Sorry. Okay. Obviously, I have work to do.”

“That’s not what I mean.” I allow myself a quiet smile. “I didn’t take the job.”

Dylan’s brows pinch together in confusion. “But you had a plan.”

“Yeah, I did,” I say on a breath of laughter. “Until I didn’t.”

He continues frowning at me. I continue trying not to panic about not having a plan. If Iris Flynn wrote this moment, I’d be in his arms by now while he showered me with passionate kisses and emphatic declarations about how he can’t live without me, but as I once told him, I like romance that feels real, so here we are. Despite the pirate ship, this feels about as real as it gets. Messy, uncertain, and full of mistakes we’ll probably repeat in days to come. He assumed I was taking the job and leaving him. I was too conflicted to even suggest otherwise. And yet, he fought his demons to return; I fought mine to stay; and I suspect, with or without swords, we’ll have an easier time fighting the demons yet to come if we fight them together.

“The house is up for sale,” I say.

Dylan opens his mouth, but this time I stop him with a raised hand.

“The black mold is everywhere. The chimneys are a disaster. The foundation’s cracked. The circuits keep blowing. Mice have found a new way into the attic. If I had the money to fix everything, would I keep it? Of course. However . . .” I glance past Dylan toward the door that leads to the hold and cabins. “We can fit a lot of rum on this ship, and bookshelves, and a pair of laptops. Some truly terrible pasta, if you’re still into that. Not sure how you’d run fifteen miles while at sea, so you might need to rethink your exercise routine. Also, you can’t run away in the middle of the night unless we’re docked, so you’ll need to rethink that habit, too.”

The furrows in Dylan’s forehead soften. “Are you suggesting . . . ?”

I lift my shoulders in a tight, uncertain shrug. “If you’d rather move to Idaho—”

I don’t finish the joke. Dylan pulls me into a hug and crushes me against him. I hug him back just as tightly, gluing the pieces of my shattered heart back together with hope, love, and the curious magic my grandmother left behind in her house and in her books, magic that did far more than provide me a safe harbor. It brought me back to life. It brought us both back to life.

“I love you,” I say. “I should’ve—”

“Don’t.” He draws back and meets my eyes. “We didn’t say it because we both knew. But I love you, too. So much.” And then he kisses me, soft and gentle and perfect, before pulling back to tip his forehead against mine. “Welcome home, Philippa Flynn.”

My heart doesn’t pinch this time. It swells to the point of bursting. I know he’s talking about the ship, which we’ve agreed with shockingly little discussion and no planning at all will become our home for the foreseeable future, but as I look into his fathomless eyes and find a new sense of resolution in their depths, his welcome home takes on additional meaning.

“Welcome home, Dylan Harley Sterling.” I kiss him again, but the kiss is quickly interrupted by hooting and whistling down on the dock. We turn to see my siblings shouting up at us, champagne in hand, beckoning for us to join the party. I bite down a smile as I turn back to Dylan. The poor man has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. “Ready to meet my family?”

He tenses, blowing out a nervous breath while dragging a hand through his hair, but he rallies and nods, so with a little reassurance and a promise that I won’t leave him alone with my parents, we climb down to the dock, where Dylan is subjected to enthusiastic introductions and hugs, and one indignant complaint that he arrived without a sword. We leave the crew to show guests around the ship while we grab food, chat with my siblings and their partners, take a silly group photo at the floral arch, and slow dance to a specially requested string quartet version of “Iris,” which is so beautiful, I have to grab another tissue from Eleanor.