Page 59 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

In the dark of the game room, tucked into the back corner with my niece on my lap and all the kids’ faces pointed toward whatever cartoon movie is playing on the big TV, I let myself miss her. Really, really miss her. And also thank her for bringing me back home.

Chapter Nineteen

“I thought you told us the plows didn’t come out this way,” my mom says as my dad pulls the SUV up to the curb in front of Grams’s house. The winding road that connects the property to the public and more heavily traveled streets a few miles away has been recently plowed, all the way to the base of the stairs that lead to the front porch. The driveway is also clear, as are the stairs, now glistening with sprinkled rock salt. It’s past dark, but Dylan left the lights on for me.

“This place was one giant snow mound yesterday morning,” I say, as surprised as my mom is to see everything cleared. “Maybe Dylan called in a favor?”

My parents exchange a look from their front seats.

“What?” I ask, out of patience with them after two hours in the car together, since they insisted on driving me here after we all stayed in Augusta for the day to enjoy family traditions like sledding, getting candy-cane-flavored cocoa at the tiny local coffee shop, watching holiday movies, exchanging gifts, and hearing what we should all be doing differently with our lives.

“He shouldn’t be calling in favors,” my dad says. “He should be paying you rent.”

My hand flies to the handle, and I fling open the door. “Okay. Thanks. Your opinion on the matter has been noted and considered, so feel free to save yourself the effort next time.”

“I told you she didn’t want to hear it,” my mom whisper-mutters to my dad.

“Doesn’t mean she shouldn’t hear it,” he says. “And what’s going on with the roof?”

As I climb out of the car, my mom peers out her window. Scaffolding runs up the north side of the house, where Rahul and his crew left it before they had to abandon work entirely until we get our first big thaw in the new year. Roofing framework pokes out from under a blanket of snow, and a few of the vertical sections are temporarily tarped where they haven’t been reshingled.

“I told you I was making improvements,” I remind my parents.

They exchange another look. One of their all-time favorites.

She never listens.

Choosing to ignore the look—because I can’t seem to win with them whether or not I’m doing home improvements—I brace myself on the open car door as I swing my overnight bag over my shoulder, desperate to make a quick getaway before my parents can sneak in one more comment or one more noncomment, either of which might make me say something I’ll regret.

My mom flaps a hand at me. “Don’t forget your—”

“Yeah. I got it.” I reach into the back seat and pull out a large shopping bag I can barely lift. Sent off-balance by the weight, I slip on a patch of ice, catching myself just before falling while my parents crane around to watch me struggle, neither of them offering to help.

“You know you’re welcome to spend Christmas at our place,” my mom says.

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.” I will not think about it.

“I’m sure your tenant has friends or family he can stay with,” my dad says.

“I’ll leave that choice to him.”

“You could see Dr. Kim again while you’re in Portland,” my mom adds.

“Okay. Gotta go. Merry Christmas. Love you guys.” I wave and shut the door.

My parents watch from the comfort of their heated seats as I lumber my way up the stairs with salt crunching under my boots and the too-heavy shopping bag knocking against my shin. I let the bag drop the instant I’m inside the house with the door shut behind me. Then I release a hushed but violent stream of profanities between gritted teeth.

The hall light goes on at the top of the stairs.

“You okay?” Dylan asks, already descending.

I consider the question in a way it’s probably not meant to be considered. Because it dawns on me in this moment that I’ve never been okay. I’ve been happy, sad, angry, excited, nervous, upset, amused, disappointed, curious, frustrated, terrified, giddy, hurt, elated, exhausted, and a hundred other emotions besides, often all at once. But I have never, honestly, been okay.

“You really want to know?” I ask.

He slows his descent, eyeing me warily. “Yeah. I really want to know.”

“Well, I just spent twenty-four hours with my family. So that’s enough in and of itself. In that time, I endured a well-meaning but anxiety-inducing makeover for a date I didn’t want. I had a serious conversation with a really nice fellow academic, leaving me more unclear than ever about my career. We took a family photo by Eleanor’s Christmas tree, and no one knew where I should stand since I was the only person there without a partner or kids to anchor to. I fell off a sled this morning and bashed my hip against a hidden rock. We ran into one of Haley’s friends at a coffee shop, and she asked if I didn’t have children of my own because I don’t like children. I was holding Beth at the time while I tickled her toes and she gnawed on my thumb, so yeah, obviously I despise children and think Jonathan Swift had the right idea when he said we should eat them. This afternoon, without consulting me, my dad set up an appointment with his realtor friend, who’s coming over tomorrow to advise me on selling this place. Oh, and my parents gave me a coffeemaker for Christmas. Or maybe it’s an espresso maker or cappuccino or whatever, not that I know the difference.” I kick the bag, scowling at the box inside as though it’s mocking me from its festive packaging. “How about you, Dylan? Get anything done on the manuscript?”