Page 21 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

We keep it simple, and I even suggest we stick with Italian so we don’t overwhelm his long-neglected taste buds. While I pick up fresh veggies, herbs, cheese, and bread from a local market, he buys a bottle of red wine, one he selects because the illustrated kraken on the label is on theme. I’m thrilled to discover I’m not the only one who doesn’t know the first thing about wine. I picked a bad one once with my family, and my parents still bring it up when we’re all together, making sure I’m crystal clear on the ways I could’ve prevented the error.

Back at the house, I make a giant pan of lasagna, as well as garlic bread and salad. I splatter tomato sauce on my white T-shirt as I cook, leaving me in the annoying predicament of needing to change before dinner. Anything from my teaching wardrobe seems too formal. A cute dress feels too date-like, which would only make us both uncomfortable. After way more anxiety than the moment deserves, I stay in my jeans and swap into a gray tee, freshly reminded that if I’m trying to set myself on a new life path, I should consider stepping out of my default plain monochrome to express something, once I figure out what I want to express.

Dylan joins me in the kitchen shortly after 7:00 p.m. The house has a formal dining room where my grandmother hosted fancy dinner parties, with a long mahogany table big enough to fit twenty, and a grand chandelier that sent speckles of light dancing over the faces of her guests, all dressed up as 1920s murder mystery suspects or Gilded Age aristocrats, with a wide spectrum of historical accuracy. Now, the room is too quiet, with too much empty space. The kitchen is warm and cozy, and already, it holds new memories. I need those while revisiting so many old ones.

Dylan scratches the back of his neck as he takes in the spread. I’ve laid out the food family style, set the table with the basics, and opened the wine, keeping everything casual.

“It smells amazing,” he says.

“No guarantees it’ll taste amazing. I followed a recipe, but I haven’t made lasagna in years. I got pretty used to takeout and frozen dinners in Chicago.”

“You don’t like to cook?”

“I don’t like to cook for one. It rarely feels like it’s worth the effort.”

Dylan nods his understanding. “Too much food. Too many ingredients.”

“Exactly. There’s no one to share it with. And the leftovers always go bad.”

We swap a subtle smile as his neck reddens, and we both glance toward the pantry that still houses his considerable pasta collection. I love that he understands, though of course he understands, and maybe sharing this simple meal is a step forward for both of us.

We sit opposite each other, both awkward as we sort out who’s pouring the wine, who’s serving themselves first from which dish, and other trivialities of a joint meal neither of us has a pattern for navigating. But eventually we figure it out, filling our plates and raising a glass.

“To the booty?” I suggest.

“To the booty,” he echoes.

As I take a sip, my face puckers up. The wine’s really sharp. Overfermented sharp. Bad sharp. Judging by the grimace Dylan’s trying comically to hide, he hates it, too. We grab for our water glasses, locking gazes across the table, both of us squinting against the aftertaste.

“Wow,” he says through a choked breath.

“The kraken has officially been released.”

“Who knew it had such a powerful bite?”

“Perseus, probably.”

Dylan lets out a soft breath of laughter as he gets up and pours the rest of the wine down the sink, emptying the bottle and our glasses. I love that he doesn’t even try to defend the wine selection or get unduly apologetic about it. I love that he lets it be a shared joke. I love that we might be making a new memory, together, in this house that could use more new memories.

“How do you feel about rum?” he asks.

I can’t help but smile, though maybe I was already smiling, so I only smile harder.

“Tonight,” I say, “I feel great about rum.”

He fetches a bottle from my grandmother’s collection, along with two fresh glasses. We dig into the food, which tastes as good as it smells. Dylan’s kind and complimentary, and while I could dismiss his compliments, I appreciate them too much to pass them off as empty flattery.

Over dinner, he tells me more about his modeling career, how he never pursued runway shows or fashion shoots, feeling a personal disconnect with the entire industry. At forty-one—I was right about his age—he won’t get that kind of work now anyway, though he still likes having the motivation to stay in shape, especially since he spends so much time at his laptop, both for his own work and for freelance copywriting gigs that help pay bills. This explains what he’s been doing in his room all day, and while it’s obviously not the full picture, I don’t mind when he circles back to his modeling. He shows me a hysterically staid banking ad he posed for last fall and four decade-old covers from romance novels for which he’s dressed as a cowboy, a hockey player, a beautifully besuited billionaire, and a Regency duke whose scant attire would make Jane Austen blush in her grave, though the heroine seems to be enjoying herself immensely.

I tell him more about my teaching job and how academia has become a customer service industry, with mandates to please the students rather than educate them. How my students knew that while I never budged on a grade, they could complain to Carl and he’d give anyone an A+ “to avoid the hassle,” tacitly reinforcing that I was the problem, not the student who never came to class or who thought the Enlightenment was when Benjamin Franklin tied a key to a kite in an electrical storm. Then there were the unbearable department politics. Being ostracized by the impenetrable boys’ club while managing the constant stream of administrative labor they were all too important to do, until teaching and research became a fraction of my job.

Dylan seems far more content listening than he does talking, so I don’t overedit the way I often do around my family or coworkers, or especially the way I do around dates, most of whom get through a one-hour coffee meetup telling me all about themselves without asking a single question about me. It’s nice, letting off steam while also reinforcing my decision to quit my teaching job, a choice that still nags at me as my future looms without direction.

We’re scraping our plates when Dylan notices my empty glass and offers me a refill. I politely decline, even though I’m enjoying the warm flush the first glass has painted across my skin and the way my body relaxes into the old wooden chair beneath me, with my circular thoughts a little quieter, a little less anxious, a little kinder to myself.

“You sure?” Dylan asks, the bottle still raised.

“Yeah. Apparently, when I drink too much, I hug people and vomit gushy compliments.”