Page 43 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Only for the rest of the year?” I ask.

“Only for the rest of the year,” he confirms. “Before your new job starts.”

I almost correct him. I don’t know for sure that I’ll have a new job, but that’s probably beside the point, so I consider his question as I turn toward the sea, letting the rope rest in my lap while I fill my lungs with briny air. It smells like home in a way I’ve never been able to put into words but that I feel, deep in my bones.

“I’d replace the masts and the sails,” I say. “I’d repair the roof, the fireplaces, the porch, and the carriage house. I’d make the ship seaworthy and the house livable.” I take a deep breath, second-guess what I’m about to say, and force myself to say it anyway. “And I’d write A Siren Calls with you. Not because I’m confident it would be good, the publisher would buy it, and it would become a bestseller that would solve all of our financial problems, but because I know how genuinely excited I felt when we opened that trunk together and found the notebooks. And I can’t remember feeling like that about anything else for a long, long time.”

Dylan’s shoulders rise with a deep breath and settle at a more relaxed height with his exhale. His dimples don’t appear, but his eyes brighten as the sadness in them retreats and the hope grows stronger. I love seeing him hopeful. I love feeling like I can help make him hopeful.

I believe in you, I think. And one day, I hope I can help you believe in yourself.

“One month,” he says. “Give me one month of committed writing time. We’ll get something on the page so we have sample chapters to share. I’ll contact Iris’s agent in New York. Explain the situation and try to set up a meeting for early December. We’ll show her what we have, see what she thinks about how to move forward, when to loop in the publisher, and if we should keep going.” He grips the rail and shoots me a look of fierce determination. He really wants this. But then, so do I, when I’m not letting my parents get in my head.

“Two months,” I say. “Working half days. We have to fix that roof, which means I still need to dedicate time to eBay sales and loan applications. Either that or I sell the boat.”

Dylan recoils. “Don’t sell the boat.”

“She’s not exactly seaworthy.”

“She’s also the first thing you mentioned when I asked what you’d do with your year.”

Wow. He’s right. I didn’t notice, but he’s so very, very right.

I concede the point with a look. Then I stand, head across the main deck, and climb the stairs to the forecastle, running my hand along the railings as I go, the wood worn and familiar beneath my palm. Dylan makes room for me beside him, both of us looking out at the seagulls, the gentle waves, and the blue fishing boat that’s now almost out of view.

“It’ll be a busy two months,” I say.

“I’m overdue for busyness.” He sneaks me a subtle smile. “I’ll help with money, too. I should’ve offered sooner. Way sooner. I’ll do more copywriting. Tell my agent I’m available for gigs in Boston or New York. If it’s not enough, I’ll find something else.” His forearm nudges mine where both rest on the railing in front of us. “I have a few thoughts about the boat, too.”

I blink up at him in surprise. “Really?”

His dimples finally make an appearance, a quiet one, but my heart still pinches.

“No promises,” he says. “But I definitely don’t think you should sell her. Not yet.”

I nod, slowly at first, until conviction sets in and I nod in earnest. I don’t press Dylan for more information. I’m not even sure I care what he’s planning. Whether I hold on to this house and this boat for another week, month, year, or decade, I’m not holding on alone.

Which reminds me . . .

“Dylan? What were you about to ask me before my parents showed up?”

He sucks in a breath while shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It mattered an hour ago.” It mattered a lot, I almost add but don’t.

“I got my answer another way.” He shoves off the railing, spinning away from me to cross the deck and head down the stairs.

“And if I’d chosen dare?” I call after him.

He doesn’t break stride, though he tosses me a quick smile over his shoulder.

“But you didn’t,” he calls back.

“Next time?”

“Sure,” he says, and while his tone is bone-dry and he doesn’t turn around to look at me, I swear I can see a dimple in his cheek as he echoes, “Next time.”

Chapter Fourteen