Page 65 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

He spins my chair toward him, wedging my knees between his, taking both my hands, and leaning closer until I lift my eyes to meet his.

“No matter what happens,” he says, “I’m glad we wrote it.”

I think back on all the hours we’ve spent in the office, or debating minor plot points over sandwiches, or arguing over whether to let an anachronism stand. Even in the weeks when we were taking turns and struggling to unite our voices, something was on fire inside me, a deep need to get the story on the page, and to get it right. To honor my grandmother’s memory. To do right by her fans. To see Dylan put his talents to use. To push myself away from the comfort of facts. To create a story we could both be proud of. To embrace joy, fun, adventure, romance, imagination, and a project we undertook not out of necessity but because we wanted to do it.

“I want to finish it,” I say.

“Even if we can’t publish it?”

“Yeah.” I lift Dylan’s hands and plant a pair of kisses on the backs. “My parents left for Bali this morning, but I’ll reach out when they’re back in January. I should probably arrange a visit so I can talk to my mom face-to-face. That way she can’t hang up on me.”

Dylan frowns. “She’d do that?”

“She calls back eventually. I think the longest standoff was two months, when Louisa was away at college and she wanted to spend the holiday break with her boyfriend at the time.”

Dylan’s frown softens, though the concern in his eyes remains. “Want me to come?”

I consider the idea. The support would be amazing, but the last thing I need is for my parents to think I’m pushing for the rights to complete Grams’s series because of a guy.

“Probably best if I go it alone for this particular conversation,” I say. “But I dare you to get absolutely wasted with me on the rum of your choice when I come home.”

Dylan kisses my forehead before flashing me a full-dimpled smile.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

My parents spend three full weeks in Bali. During that time, Dylan and I edit our chapters of A Siren Calls according to Kate’s notes, and we move on to the next section of the draft. While I still harbor resistance to fully embracing the heightened fantasy of the world, I can see her point, and Dylan’s. The action flows more smoothly with targeted trimming, the emotional stakes feel stronger, and we find ways to embed a few key details into the world-building with a line here and there rather than a full paragraph of description. Doing this kind of work reminds me of Dylan’s short stories and how much he was able to say with so little. It’s a skill I never really appreciated and one I admire in him all the more now that I’m attempting to improve at it.

We also get our first look at the jaw-dropping new paint job and meticulous interior renovations on the Zephyr’s Revenge II, Dylan gets his motorcycle shed and peels every last scrap of wallpaper from the foyer and stairwell, and I prepare for my campus interviews with Idaho and Kansas, which will include detailed presentations on my research and publications, and teaching demonstrations that fit the syllabi for the classes I’ll step into. It’s basically unpaid labor, like a lot of academia, but it is what it is, and I’m not about to get up in front of a room full of people scrutinizing my abilities and not do my absolute best.

On Saturday, January 23, I hop on a bus so I can spend the weekend with my parents before flying to Idaho from the Portland airport early Monday morning. I also have plans to grab tea with Michael while I’m in the area. We won’t have time to tour his campus or meet any of his colleagues, but it’ll be nice to see him again, and I’m hoping he might have a lead on some remote work. I’ve only repaid my siblings half of what they loaned me, and I’m determined to cover the rest by the start of spring, even if it means less writing time.

The bus ride takes a few hours, and I use them to plot possible conversations about Grams’s series, anticipating plenty of quiet time with my parents after I arrive. My mom swiftly overturns this notion when, after the briefest of greetings, she announces she has taken advantage of my visit to schedule bridesmaid dress shopping with my siblings. I barely have a moment to drop off my suitcase in Riley’s childhood bedroom when I’m swept off to Portland Bridal.

Everyone else is there when we arrive: Haley and Eleanor from Augusta, Louisa from Freeport, Riley and Emil from Portsmouth. As my mom points out in her usual I’m-only-teasing-so-you-can’t-get-offended tone, my siblings all travel more efficiently than I do since they can drive themselves here. They’re sipping champagne and picking at a fruit plate, part of the deluxe package our mom booked for the next two hours. She’s aflutter about having all of her children in one room, and for such a special event. A trio of clerks plays along, though I’d put money on Eleanor taking control before we arrived, filling them in on the full situation. Namely, that the only person present who cares about bridesmaid dresses is our mother, and the rest of us are along for the ride, as long as we don’t end up looking like macarons.

Our mom shows everyone a mood board dominated by hydrangeas. When Riley and Emil politely compliment the images, as expected, the clerks set off to gather dresses and hang them in two large dressing rooms, one for Eleanor and Haley, one for me and Louisa.

The instant Louisa and I are alone, she spins on me, her voice hushed.

“What are you really doing here?” she asks.

I gesture to the wall of blue and purple dresses. “Pretty sure you know already.”

“I mean in Portland. Because you are not here to hang with Mom and Dad.”

“I might be,” I say, but even I know I sound ridiculous. Until I moved into Grams’s house, my family visits were on a strict twice-yearly rotation, in June and December. Given the recent surprise setup, bullshit gift, and imposed realtor visit, all of which my siblings know about, it’s unlikely I’m seeking more quality time. “Promise you won’t tell them before I do?”

Louisa yanks a frothy chiffon gown off a hanger. “Tell them what?”

“Grams’s notebooks. Dylan and I found them. And we want to write the novels.”

Louisa shrieks with excitement, and I promptly slap a hand over her mouth.

“Everything okay in there?” a clerk calls through the slatted door.

“We’re really excited about this ruffled one,” I call back.