Page 22 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Let’s at least avoid the vomiting.” He smiles a little as he tops off his own glass, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, the suggestion of dimples in his cheeks, and a gentle creasing of the skin beside his eyes and bracketing his mouth. I like the creases, even while I understand the appeal of his early book cover photos, but those images seemed so polished, so manufactured for mass consumption. This is the real Dylan Sterling. And I’m still drawn to what’s real.

We clean up together, with me washing and him drying. I put space between us, conscious of his pattern of stepping away whenever I’m too close, but by the time I’m scrubbing the final pan, the space is half of what it was when we started the dishes. My feet have remained firmly planted, since I’m parked at the sink, so I allow myself to at least consider the possibility that Dylan is okay being close to me, as long as I don’t take him by surprise.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says as he hangs up the dish towel, the last pan safely tucked into the cabinets, the table clear, and the counters as close to sparkling as they’ll ever get.

“Maybe we can do it again sometime?” I suggest, bracing for a thanks but no thanks.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he looks around the room, though what he’s looking for, I have no idea.

“I’m not much of a cook,” he says.

I manage not to laugh. I kind of figured, given his two-ingredient pasta dinners.

“Neither am I,” I say. “Doesn’t matter. It’s a bit of company. That’s all.”

“I’m not much of a handyman, either.”

“Oh-kay?” I frown, confused by the non sequitur.

“And I don’t have a full-time job. One with a steady income.”

“You think I’m asking you to pay for dinner?”

“I think I should contribute something.” His neck reddens. His hand follows, wrapped around his flushed skin as though he can hide it from view. “I got used to living here. Alone. Figured it wasn’t a big deal. The place was empty. I paid the utilities. Took care of emergency repairs. The front door. A first-floor window. The boiler. I wasn’t putting anyone out. Now I feel like a freeloader. Especially when you offer me cookies or make me dinner. So, well, if you want me to go . . .” He trails off like he can’t finish the suggestion. Like he’s too afraid that if he does, he’ll fully manifest the idea, and I’ll say yes. And while I still find his body language and facial expressions largely opaque, I can tell with complete certainty that he doesn’t want to leave.

I also know with complete certainty that I don’t want him to leave. Our cohabitation is confusing and often frustrating, and it may never evolve past this nebulous stage of not-quite friendship with an occasional dash of one-sided lust, but without him, I suspect the tenuous line between alone and lonely would vanish completely.

“I still want to find the outlines,” I say. “Until we do, how about lending a hand more often? Not rewiring the electricity or refinishing the floors, but simple things we can do together. The yard needs work. The contents of the attic need sorting. I’m dying to remove some of the ugly, mildewed wallpaper. Replace old fixtures. Maybe even work up to demoing the carriage house or dealing with the boat. But only what you have time for, okay?”

His shoulders relax as he drops his hand, sliding it back into his pocket.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” I say.

We exchange a nod and a smile. Then he gestures for me to head out first, turning off the lights behind us and following me upstairs, where we both pause on the second-floor landing.

“Thank you again for all of your help today,” I say.

“Thank you again for dinner,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“Same,” he says.

“Good night,” I say.

“Sleep well,” he says.

I scratch my collarbone.

He drums his fingers on the banister.

Then we part ways and head to our separate rooms.

Chapter Eight

The next seven weeks fly by. Dylan still shuts himself in his room a lot, and runs a lot, while I watch the sun rise over the ocean in the mornings, read more Zane Scarlett books, sell more of my grandmother’s collectibles on eBay, and hunt fruitlessly for her outlines. After much debate and a steady stream of prodding from my parents, I also apply for three academic jobs, the only ones I find listed in my field, all of them part-time adjunct positions. One is in Dallas, Texas; one is in central Florida; and one is at a tiny college in a town I’d never heard of in South Dakota. None of these are my dream locations, especially now that I’m back by the ocean, but I need to set something in motion on the career front, and so far, my only plan B has been a dead end.