Page 36 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

He understands, I think. In a way no one else has.

And somehow, that makes the grief a bit easier to bear.

I blink back my tears, setting aside my drink so I can go stoke the fire, even though it doesn’t need stoking. Dylan’s already seen me break down once today, and while I’m sure he’d forgive me for losing my cool again, I don’t want to be Drunk Crying Girl tonight.

The chair beneath me creaks as I stand. It’s loud and annoying and my least favorite piece of furniture in this room. If I had a sledgehammer, I’d smash it to pieces and toss it into the fire, where it might actually be useful. But I don’t really want to hit anything. I barely want to lift anything. So, I trudge over to the fireplace, where I crouch and prod the embers with the poker.

“Where are you with the books?” Dylan asks. A diversion, probably, but a welcome one.

“Thirty-two. Only two left, and we can finally talk about where the story goes next.”

“Or we can talk now.”

“What about spoilers?”

“What about we see where you are, and go from there?”

As I rest the poker beside the hearth, he hauls himself into a seated position, dragging a hand down his face and through his hair. He looks worn out, though whether he’s worn out from fighting the weather with me or from telling me about his writing and his family, I can’t tell.

“You sure you don’t want to call it a night?” I ask.

“Not yet,” he says, and then repeats more quietly, “Not quite yet.” He meets my eyes, and his look holds meaning, but it’s meaning I don’t understand.

“Okay,” I say before I can let myself overthink it. “Not quite yet.”

My brain’s a little fuzzy about where I last left Zane and Euphoria in their flight from Balbo Blackheart, so I head upstairs to grab the book from my bedroom, where it takes me a few minutes to find it. By the time I return to the living room, Dylan’s tucking a fitted sheet over the mattress in the middle of the floor, with blankets and pillows stacked on the sofa.

“It’s mostly dry,” he says, catching my look of surprise. “I can’t sleep in my usual room, none of the other mattresses would be half this comfortable, and it’s warm here by the fire.”

I set aside the book and help make the bed. It’s a simple task, but between the fire, the mattress, and an occasional intersection of glances, I become newly aware of how much I’ve had to drink and newly understanding of my siblings’ teasing. Because suddenly I want to tell Dylan everything. That I think he’s beautiful and brilliant and I love that he loved my grandmother and he helped patch my roof and he plays truth or dare and he gives me rides on his motorcycle and he knows a crazy amount about obscure music and he runs like it refuels his soul and he shares his shitty pasta and he leaves the lights on for me and he grieves with kindness rather than anger.

“I can hear your voice in this book,” I tell him instead.

He winces, shaking a pillow into a pillowcase. “You’re not supposed to.”

“It’s only because I know you and because I’ve read your work.”

He tosses the pillow onto the mattress and starts sheathing the other one.

“I’ve read your work, too,” he says.

I fumble with the top sheet. “You what?”

“The Botanic Woman and the Seated Man: Gender in Eighteenth-Century French and English Paintings. Borrowing Breeches: How Women in Seventeenth-Century Europe Got a Leg Up. And . . .” He squints at the ceiling, as though the third title might be hiding among the cracks in the plaster. Then his eyes snap back to mine. “Oh! God. How could I forget this one? Nautical and Naughty: What Really Went on Belowdecks of Britain’s Most Famous Pirate Ships.”

All I can do is stare. And stare. And stare.

“You read them?” I ask when I can finally manage it.

“I did.”

“All of them? Not just a chapter or a title page?”

“All of them. Start to finish.” He tosses the second pillow onto the bed and takes over where I left off with the top sheet. “I ordered them through a bookstore in Portland and picked them up last time I was there. I didn’t want to tell you because you might think I was stalking you, but since you’ve admitted to reading my work, it seems only fair to fess up.”

I continue to stare, so stunned I’m useless for helping with the bed.

“No one’s read my books,” I say. “They’ve been used in some classes, sure, and by the odd researcher here and there, but they’re not exactly bestsellers or bedtime reads.” I shake my head at him, still trying to fully comprehend this. “How did you even find them?”