Page 67 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

I shake my head, unsure where this rush of emotion is coming from. My feelings for Dylan aren’t new, though this is the first time I’m fully, openly acknowledging them.

Haley wraps me in a side hug, tipping her head onto my shoulder.

“We’re happy for you,” she says. “You deserve this.”

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“All the best things are,” she tells me.

“I have an interview in Idaho in two days. Idaho. That’s practically the West Coast.”

Eleanor brushes a stray strand of hair off my forehead, always the family caretaker.

“Could he move out there with you?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I think we’re both waiting to see what the options actually are before we talk about what they might mean. This is so new. And I might not get any offers.”

My sisters protest, but they barely get a word out before there’s a knock on the door.

“Everyone decent?” Riley asks.

“No!” we all call at once, even though we’re fully dressed.

“I’m coming in anyway.” He does, shutting the door behind him and backing into the corner, the only space not already occupied. “What’s going on in here?”

Louisa leaps right in. “Phil fell in love with the pirate king—who she’s having stupidly hot, kinky sex with, obviously, like I’ve been telling all of you for months—and now they want to finish Grams’s series for her, but You Know Who has to give them the okay. Oh, and also, she might be moving across the country in a few months and leaving him behind.”

A tense silence falls as my siblings all turn to look at me.

“It’s not a complete summary,” I say. “But it is an accurate one.”

A discussion ensues in true Flynn-sibling fashion, full of rapid-fire advice that doesn’t take all the nuances into consideration, nuances most of my siblings don’t know or understand. I let it carry on around me as we finish dressing so we can proceed with the afternoon’s agenda before our mother barges in and demands to be looped into the conversation.

I make my siblings promise to let me be the first to discuss the intellectual property rights with our mom. Then we all step into the main room. Riley takes a seat next to Emil, and their hands automatically slide into a loving hold. The rest of us take turns on a small dais while our mother nixes every dress for one reason or another and we move on to round two.

And round three.

And round four.

And round five.

By round eight or nine, Riley’s hanging his head in his hands, peering through the gaps between his fingers, while Emil rubs his back and maintains a polite smile, though the strain is starting to show around his eyes. They’re both being good sports, letting our mom be the center of attention for a wedding that isn’t hers, but when she pulls out her third mood board, this one with an array of peaches and pinks, even the clerks look like they’re barely keeping it together.

After changing again, the four of us stand in a line, now clad neck to ankle in soft pinks that do none of our sun-deprived winter complexions any favors.

“I don’t know.” Our mom taps her chin with her index finger, giving us all a thorough once-over. “If Louisa would stand up straight, we might get a better sense of the silhouette. And nothing works with all of Haley’s tattoos. Why she had to do that to her beautiful body is still beyond me. Eleanor’s figure is better suited for something with structure, and a shape like that might work on Philippa if we pad her out in the right places. Hard to say without—”

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Riley erupts.

We all go dead still, even our mom, though as her shock softens, she turns to face him.

“Something you want to say?” she asks.

Riley throws back his head, his expression pained. “Just let them wear what they want.”

Our mom blinks at him like he’s lost his mind. “But it’s your wedding.”

“Exactly.” He rubs his face with both hands before meeting her eyes. “It’s our wedding. Mine and Emil’s. Not yours. And we don’t give two fucks what our bridesmaids wear or if we even have bridesmaids. All we want is a gathering of family and friends to witness us make a pledge to each other, and to celebrate that pledge afterward. That’s it. That’s all. And maybe cake. Because everyone likes cake. But fuck this. Fuck all of it. I can’t do it anymore, Mom. I’m grateful you’ve booked us a location. It looks amazing, but I can’t keep listening to you pick at my sisters because they don’t look good enough in dresses they don’t even want to wear.”