Page 12 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

I shift in my chair, wondering if I should’ve picked dare, but now that I’ve started . . .

“Everyone falls in love the second they set eyes on each other,” I say, “which means their greatest—and sometimes only—asset is how insanely hot they are. No one takes the time to get to know anyone else. No one has to earn anyone’s affection. Yet they make all these grand gestures and gushing statements about how they can’t live without each other. It’s like, as long as you’re conventionally beautiful and instantly likable, adoration will fall at your feet. And if you’re neither of those things, you’re screwed. Not the message I needed in my teens and twenties.”

Dylan’s considering face returns, complete with the chin massage. To his credit, he doesn’t toss out a compliment on the assumption that I was seeking one. I wasn’t. In general, I’m fine with my appearance, unless I give it too much thought, and then I spiral into wishing I had stronger curves, thicker hair, a smaller chin, and a complexion that looks like I use a perfect three- or five- or seven-step skin-care routine without actually using any skin-care routine at all.

“Can I ask a follow-up,” Dylan says, “or would I be breaking the rules?”

“I don’t think we set any rules to break. Go ahead.”

“What kind of romance are you a fan of?”

Did I flinch? I think I flinched. I might even be blushing. Then I realize he’s asking for professional reasons. He’s a writer, one who helped with my grandmother’s romances. He must be working on one of his own, crafting his next meet-cute or deciding if he’ll introduce a troublesome dog into a scene about rival lawyers on opposite sides of a big case.

“I don’t know,” I say, even though I do know, but I’ve never said it out loud before. “Romance that takes a little effort. A little time. She doesn’t have to be stunningly beautiful and magnetically charismatic. He doesn’t have to be hyperconfident and overly assertive. They don’t perpetuate the notion that all relationships begin with instant chemistry by taking one look at each other and deciding their love interest is worth dying for.” I stop there, aware that I’m probably revealing too much about my dating history, like the first dates who unapologetically bailed within a few minutes; or sent boilerplate “no spark” messages right after a date ended; or proudly pontificated about “casting a wide net” as the ideal dating strategy, completely unaware of how insulting it was or how it implied that dating was a numbers game, and if a spark wasn’t instant, you moved on to the next in line. About being told I’m not fun enough. I don’t smile enough. I seem cold, reserved, distant. About the reasons I kept sleeping with Noah, so I didn’t have to continue putting myself through all that, just to enjoy a little companionship.

Also, Dylan is listening way too intently for him to be crafting a chapter about a dog. I don’t know how we went from perfunctory greetings to prodding at some of my hardest social challenges in the span of a single conversation, but apparently, we have, and I’m not a fan.

“Forget I said all that.” I wave away the conversation with both hands. “I just prefer something real, something that builds on shared experience and small moments of connection.”

“Such as?” He’s still looking at me, or looking into me, like he can see every rejection that still clings to my bones, eating away at my self-worth. My grandmother’s books are full of penetrating stares, and her readers love them, but in reality? They can be incredibly irritating.

“I don’t know, Dylan.” My teeth grind together as I scan the kitchen for inspiration, pausing as my gaze returns to the cookie jar. “How about one character bakes some cookies, and another character eats one and says thank you without being compelled to do it by a goddamned dare?”

Despite my heated tone, Dylan doesn’t flinch. Nor does his expression change. I can’t tell if I’ve offended him, surprised him, angered him, amused him, or completely unaffected him. Whatever the case, after a painfully unilluminating pause, he opens the cookie jar, deliberately stacks several cookies in his free hand, closes the jar, grabs his water glass, and heads into the hall, turning from the threshold to lift the cookies in a kind of salute.

“Thank you,” he says. And then he’s gone.

Chapter Five

Three hours into Louisa’s engagement party, I’m reconsidering my decision not to rent or buy a car. Eleanor picked me up and drove us the two and a half hours to Freeport, so she’s also my ride home, which means I’m stuck in Couples Central, repeating phrases like nope, I’m here alone and just haven’t met the right person yet while everyone seems determined to discover how a woman of moderate intelligence and attractiveness could reach her midthirties without securing a long-term partner. I’m well aware that my singledom isn’t actually an astonishing phenomenon deserving of scientific study or even the casual curiosity of strangers, but in this particular environment, I’m an outlier. Nearly every conversation revolves around how couples met, how happy they are together, advice about planning a wedding, or what makes a solid and lasting marriage. Anyone uninitiated to the Happy Couples Club simply doesn’t belong.

My parents don’t help, asking how I expect to meet anyone while I’m “hiding” at the house. Being single for so long is another way I’ve disappointed them, though at least I never mentioned Noah, so I can avoid being asked what I did to make him not want to marry me.

“You’re not getting any younger,” my mom says, reciting a phrase I despise, especially when it’s delivered through a lilt of laughter that means I’m not allowed to be annoyed.

“I still think it’s a shame you and Harrison couldn’t work things out,” my dad says.

“He cheated on me and then dumped me for the woman he was cheating with,” I remind my parents for the umpteenth time. “Then he cheated on her with his next girlfriend. There was nothing to work out. Also, that was twelve years ago. Can we please move on already?”

My mom huffs in offense. “We would move on if you ever moved on.”

“I have moved on,” I say, and before I can explain that moving on from one relationship doesn’t inherently require leaping into another, my parents jump back in, talking over each other.

“He was such a nice young man,” my mom says.

“Nice-looking, too,” my dad adds.

“They would’ve had such beautiful children.”

“I even liked his family. That Christmas we all got together was one of my favorites.”

“Did you know that at age thirty-five, doctors consider it a geriatric pregnancy?”

“Seems unfair that we all had to stop seeing each other.”

“Maybe now that she won’t be chained to her desk for a while.”

“You know how she feels about meeting new people. But maybe we know someone?”