Page 10 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

Louisa: “I Love You Guys!!!!!!!!!!”

Philippa: Actually, I hate all of you

Riley: What about never have I ever? Or truth or dare?

Philippa: Seems ambitious. He barely grunts good morning

Louisa: Oooh! Bring him to my engagement party

Philippa: That seems even more ambitious

Eleanor: Maybe he just needs time to warm up to you

Haley: “Warm up!”

Louisa:

Eleanor:

Riley:

Philippa: You all suck. Forget I asked. See you Saturday

I pocket my phone, wishing I’d never opened this can of worms. I should’ve known better. The first time I invited a boy over, my siblings hovered so obtrusively, he made up an excuse and left after twenty minutes. I was fourteen. I never invited anyone over again.

I spend the afternoon parked at the kitchen table, listing pirate collectibles on eBay. The empty powder kegs probably cost too much with shipping, but some of the smaller items nab bids right away. Fake doubloons are weirdly popular, and one of the skull-and-crossbones flags starts an instant bidding war. An engraved saber quickly reaches $225, and a set of old keys nears $150. I don’t know what anything is actually worth, and I hope my grandmother isn’t watching from a spiritual plane, crushed that I’m discarding items that definitely sparked joy for her, but she left them to me without stipulations, and I need income if I’m going to do any repairs on the house. Also, the place already feels more livable with less stuff crowding every inch of space.

Dylan trudges in at around 3:00 p.m., tipping his chin in greeting before grabbing a glass and adding ice from a plastic tray in the freezer. All of the appliances are old, but they work.

“How’s your writing going?” I ask, even though he could be building Lego spaceships in his room for all I know about what he actually does with his days, silent and sequestered.

“Just . . . water.” He holds up the glass of ice, then fills it from the tap.

I allow myself an eye roll while his back is turned. Could’ve predicted that one.

As I resume work on my current listing, Dylan refills the ice cube tray and returns it to the freezer, pausing to skim the engagement party invitation I pinned on the fridge.

I brace myself and try again. “She told me to ask if you wanted to come.”

The back of his neck reddens. He scratches it while shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t know anyone there,” he says.

“You’ve met my parents, right?”

“They came by to check on the house a couple of times. They seem . . . nice.”

His pause says a lot, and I hide an amused smile behind a loosely rolled fist as I picture the “check-ins.” My parents driving up in whatever shiny new SUV they traded in for this year, bickering about which turns they should’ve taken and why the GPS was or wasn’t necessary. My mom inundating Dylan with questions about his life, work, family, and interests, eager to make a new friend while sneaking in passive-aggressive remarks about how long he expects to exploit her mother’s generosity. My dad feigning handyman knowledge while trying to draw Dylan into a conversation about sports or politics, either of which likely elicited little more than a grunt.

“You don’t have to go,” I say. “But you are invited. If you want to go.”

His neck reddens further, and he takes a long drink of water before saying, “Thanks.”

I expect him to take the rest of his water and leave, but he surprises me by leaning back against the counter, setting down his glass, and slowly rotating it while rubbing the condensation with his thumb until a drip runs down the side. He’s in jeans again, ones that look like they’ve seen a lot of runs through a washing machine, with an equally well-loved concert tee from a band I’ve never heard of. Ghost something. Ghost Fire, maybe? Ghost Flood? Ghost Frog?

Probably not Ghost Frog, though I love the image it conjures.

Dylan clears his throat, making his prominent Adam’s apple bob.