Page 31 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“I can explain it in an interview.”

“And you can’t hole up in that house forever.”

“I’m not ‘holing up.’ I’m working on it. Making repairs. Improving its value.”

This piques his interest, and the furrows finally soften. “You’re finally ready to sell it?”

I look to Riley again. He offers me another apologetic shrug.

So not helpful.

“I’m doing the best I can,” I tell my dad. “Just give me some time.”

“Time for what?” he presses, and my temper flares.

“Time to be disillusioned, maybe. Time to grieve the career I thought would be about inspiring young minds but became about drowning in misogyny, endless email management, bowing to every student demand no matter how unfounded, and coping with systemic bullshit.”

My dad flinches at my tone—or maybe at my swearing—but he doesn’t flinch hard.

“Disillusionment doesn’t pay the bills, Philippa.”

“I’m well aware,” I mutter, nudging the environmentally conscious grout between two tiles.

My dad shakes his head while he raises his beer as if to drink, not quite tipping it back.

“We worry about you,” he says. “That’s all.”

Is it all? I think. Because I don’t get that impression, especially when my mom’s in the next room, telling Judy I’m an unrealistic perfectionist family dissident, and my dad’s implying I think I can live the rest of my life without earning an income, a fantastic irony since he and my mom retired early, thanks to their inheritance from Grams’s estate.

“I’ll update you soon. I promise,” I assure my dad, shooting a thanks for nothing look at my brother before I march across the kitchen and serve myself a large glass of pink punch that smells like juniper, grapefruit, and basil and was almost certainly made entirely from organic ingredients. It’s strong and delicious, and I down most of the glass as I escape to the backyard, where I find Louisa sitting on a canopied porch swing, doing something on her phone.

She scoots over as she sees me, and I plop down next to her, exhaling my stress. A few other party stragglers are out here: a couple with two toddlers playing with bubbles, a cluster of guys who are probably as desperate to avoid baby-themed party games as I was, and a woman chatting quietly on her phone. The vibe is calmer than it was inside, with space to breathe.

“I’m sending Reuben party pics,” Louisa says. “He was going to come, but his friends invited him golfing, and this isn’t his scene.” She shrugs off her comment, but just like my family knows me, I know my family. Louisa and Reuben are great together. They’re affectionate and kind, and they make each other laugh all the time, but I know she wishes he was more willing to do things he didn’t want to do, simply because he’d be doing them with her. None of us lives a perfect life, even if our parents feel that some of us live more perfect lives than others.

“Mind if I sit here with you for a few minutes?” I ask.

“Depends.” She nods at my glass. “What number are you on?”

“This is my first. I promise.” I take a sip. A small one.

“Okay. Then my swing is your swing.” She sets us in motion by shoving off her heels.

I tip my head onto her shoulder, and she tips her head onto my head. Together, we gently sway in the relative calm of the backyard while muffled party noises ebb and flow behind us, eking their way through the cracked windows that offset the crowd-generated heat.

“I never thanked you for the smoking-hot Sterling pic,” Louisa says.

“He was a good sport about it, once I got up the nerve to ask.”

“Any new developments?”

“Such as?” I hedge, trying not to tense.

“You know. Developments, developments.” She nudges me with her elbow, and I catch her meaning. She’s not talking about the outlines, though we’re not discussing my crush, either.

“He mentioned he’d had some short stories published,” I say, playing dumb.

Louisa whisks out her phone, thumbs at the ready. “Under his real name?”