Page 29 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

Amelia: I meant to tell you. I read the first book

Philippa: Not your usual literary fare, huh?

Amelia: It was fun!

Philippa: You didn’t mind how pulpy it was?

Amelia: Honestly? I loved it. The last three Booker Prize winners were a total slog. Trauma after trauma. Misery upon misery. They should rename it the Suffering Prize

Philippa: Probably wouldn’t sell as many books

Amelia: Now if they had a Hot Pirate Prize . . .

I smile through an eye roll. I do not need encouragement on this front.

A knock on the door makes me snap upright.

“Phil? Want to join us for cake, or should I bring you a piece up here?” It’s Haley. I don’t know if her friends told her I was looking for a bathroom when they last saw me or if she safely assumed I ran away to de-people for a while as per my usual pattern at events like this. Either way, I love that she’s offering me cake instead of demanding I rejoin the party.

I tell Amelia I have to go but I’ll catch up later. Then I open the door to find my seven-months-pregnant sister standing in the hall, resting a hand on the doorframe. Her dark, wavy hair is in an explosive topknot, and she’s wearing a sexy color-block sweaterdress that scoops low in the front and stretches over her belly. She also has on big gold hoop earrings and three statement necklaces, which is grammatically overwhelming but visually striking. Her sleeves are pushed up, revealing the delicately inked iris on her forearm. It’s my favorite of her many tattoos, for obvious reasons.

“Sorry,” I say. “I needed a break. I’ll come back down.”

“You sure? We’re about to play guess the baby food flavor.”

I wilt against the counter. “Can I eat cake without playing more baby games?”

“Absolutely. I’ll tell everyone you have dietary allergies and need to sit this one out.”

“Thank you!” I step forward and wrap her in a tight hug, belly and all.

“And thank you for the gift card for the diaper service. That’ll cover a lot of diapers.” She pulls back but takes hold of my hands. “You sure you can afford it?”

“Of course.” Actually, it was a stretch, but Haley and Mischa had been trying to get pregnant for over seven years. They deserve as many diapers as this kid needs. “Saved me from having to shop for toys and tiny clothes. You know cute gifts are outside my skill set.”

“All the cute stuff will get barfed on soon enough anyway. Good thing I had all that practice with vomit cleanup back when Lou discovered alcohol.”

We share a laugh, recalling wild nights when the five of us conspired to prevent our parents from discovering Louisa’s first forays into partying. Hangovers and embarrassing social media photos soon tempered her habits, but for about six months, it was all hands on deck. While we’ve always talked among ourselves, we know how and when to keep secrets from our parents, even if we never openly acknowledge that’s what we’re doing. We knew Riley was gay before he came out to our parents, and even though they were great about it, no one let anything slip until he was ready. They still don’t know about Haley’s graffiti phase or Eleanor’s sobbing breakdown when she lost the election for student council president in her senior year of high school, and to her newly minted ex. And they don’t know about my hunt for our grandmother’s outlines.

I didn’t even have to ask. My siblings understood.

The realization makes my heart swell with love for them. Despite hearing my life so often compared to theirs, and despite their frequent teasing, they’ve been there for me. We’ve been there for each other. And I should do a better job of remembering that.

“You really will be the most amazing mother,” I tell Haley. “You know that, right?”

“I’ll do okay.” She gently pats her rounded belly. “But you never know what you’ll get. Look at Eleanor. Total type A, and she birthed three hellions. I’ll probably have a sweater-set-wearing debate captain who resents me for trying to be the cool mom.”

I huff out a laugh. “What do you mean trying?”

She gives this a beat of consideration. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll be sneaking my kids into over-eighteen concerts the instant they express any interest in going.”

The image makes me smile, especially if she ends up with kids who have completely different music tastes than she does. She’ll still be the one dancing the hardest at a concert.

We head downstairs and into the living room, where the party continues around us. Adults play baby-themed games, eat cake, and chat among themselves while kids run through from the dining room, where Haley and Mischa set up a well-stocked crafting lab to help keep them busy. I enjoy being a casual observer for another twenty minutes or so, until my mom wanders into the living room with one of her friends, Judy Kent, a neighbor who knew all of us as kids.

“Haley’s house is stunning. Just stunning,” Judy gushes, glancing around. “The colors. The details. You can tell she has a creative eye. Everything’s so artistic yet so tasteful.”

Wow, I think. Who knew art and taste so rarely overlapped?