Page 54 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

He uncrosses his arms.

I push myself to standing from the desk chair.

He sucks in a breath as his hands curl into fists at his sides.

I take three steps toward him, my heart pounding louder with each one.

He swallows hard, but his gaze remains steady.

“Dylan?” I say.

“Philippa?” he parrots back.

Another step forward, bringing me within arm’s reach.

His chest rises and falls jackrabbit fast as his eyes dart around my face. His beautiful dark eyes with their impossible lashes and bottomless depths. I could swim in them forever.

I let my tongue skim my lower lip. His eyes track the movement.

Dare me, I think. Dare me, dare me, dare me.

And then my phone rings. Not the quick ping of a text but an actual ring. I ignore it at first, but it’s loud and persistent, so on the fourth or fifth ring, I glance at the screen where it’s lighting up on the desk. It’s Dr. Weingarten, the head of the search committee from the college in Idaho. My best interview and best chance for a job.

The heady rush of want drains out of me, replaced by a sharp sting of irritation.

“I should probably take this,” I say.

Dylan nods, offering me a painfully tight smile.

I grab my phone, head into the hall, and answer the call. It’s good news. The committee was impressed with my interview and publication record. I made their short list, and they’d like to schedule an on-campus visit in January. I respond with enthusiasm, even though I want to reach through the phone and strangle Dr. Weingarten for calling at the worst possible time.

We work out the details, and I hang up in a weird muddle of uncertainty. Despite my reservations about returning to academia, I genuinely liked the people I talked with last month. They seemed sincere about creating a healthy work environment, the faculty isn’t all middle-aged white men, and while the position is tenure-track and not one of the shorter-term contract lines I applied for, I’m only agreeing to an interview, not a lifetime on the opposite side of the country. One way or another, the visit will provide information that’ll help me make choices about the next step of my academic career, even if the next step is to abandon it entirely.

When I return to the office, Dylan is gone. A Post-it note is on the laptop screen. Draft what you can. I’ll take a turn after.

Well, fuck.

Chapter Eighteen

On December 20, on my way to Augusta, I text Amelia from the nearly empty bus.

Philippa: Know anyone who teaches at UK Wichita?

Amelia: You made the short list?

Philippa: Yep. 2 out of 6 of my applications. Wichita and Twin Falls

Amelia: What happened to Iowa?

Philippa: Nothing since the video call

Amelia: Ghosting! It’s not just for dating apps anymore!

Philippa: No big deal. I only put 40 hours of work into the application

Amelia: Too bad a basic form email is So Hard to send

Philippa: It’s just as well. Cornfields freak me out