Page 40 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

My phone battery is at 2 percent. Dylan’s died last night, after playing his favorite song on repeat. I love that it’s called “Iris,” even though he told me while we were listening that he liked it before they became friends. Still. Of all the songs he might’ve been drawn to, that was the one.

I get up and confirm the electricity’s still out, along with the Wi-Fi. With yesterday’s high winds, lines are probably down all throughout the area, and crews might not get everything fixed for another day or two. A tour of the house also reveals that Dylan’s bedroom is a disaster. The plastic we tacked up stopped the worst of the flooding, but the room is useless, with holes in the roof and ceiling and the smell of damp permeating every surface. In some of the other rooms, the wood flooring and baseboards have buckled, though they might straighten out when they dry. Two of the second-floor bedrooms have significant water damage on the walls. Outside, a large tree branch broke off and smashed the back corner of the porch, splintering the balustrade, and the north wall of the carriage house collapsed, thankfully not the side where Dylan keeps his bike, though what’s left won’t stand for long, so we need another storage space. Soon.

I scavenge in the kitchen for something to eat. If I was clever and ambitious, I’d try to make toast and tea in the fireplace, but I’m feeling neither clever nor ambitious, so I swipe butter over a couple of slices of bread and pour myself a glass of tap water. It’s enough to take the edge off my hangover, which is mild since I didn’t trust myself to get too crazy last night, and rightly so, given how close I came to telling Dylan everything. I’m glad I didn’t screw up our friendship, although my bed will feel awfully empty tonight. I haven’t slept with anyone in the literal sense since college, and that was in a crappy dorm room with the threat of Harrison’s out-of-town roommate returning and without a crackling fire nearby. Also, Harrison couldn’t sleep if I was touching him, so we’d snuggle for a few minutes after sex and then attempt to lie on opposite sides of a twin-size mattress that was way too small for two, especially with space between us.

Dylan, as it turns out, has no problem sleeping while touching someone else. I’m unclear who first threw an arm over whom, or snuck a foot or a knee forward, or nuzzled into a neck, but the draw toward each other was definitely mutual. It was also beautiful and wonderful, and I’m not sure how we’ll go back to only an occasional affectionate handhold.

I’m setting my dishes in the sink when he gets home. The house creaks and squeaks as he walks from the foyer, through the hall, toward the living room, and then to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. He’s soaked through, and it can’t all be sweat, suggesting the rain only recently abated. His loose black curls drip over his brows while his long-sleeve tee and baggy shorts cling to his body like plastic wrap. He’s breathing hard, and his long, thick lashes are sparkling with droplets, while his sock feet and bare legs are splattered with mud.

He looks good. Too good for a guy who claimed to be hungover earlier this morning.

“Power’s not on yet,” I say. “Might be out all day and even tomorrow. We have plenty of batteries for flashlights, though, also candles, firewood, and even cold pasta, thanks to—”

Dylan lunges from his spot in the doorway, halting me midsentence as he strides across the room, yanks my chickadee magnet off the fridge, and thrusts it toward me.

“Your turn,” he says. “Pick one.”

I frown at him in confusion. Granted, I didn’t say Good morning, either. Or How was your run? or Did you sleep okay? But this feels like day-one Dylan, the guy who grunted at me and then sped from the room. Not the man who poured out his soul last night. And then cuddled.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

He takes my hand, sets the magnet in my palm, and curls my fingers over it.

“Just pick one,” he says. “Please.”

I open my mouth to ask what’s going on, but the urgency in his eyes stops me short.

“Oh-kay?” I eye him sideways as I step toward the fridge.

While he sweeps his wet hair off his face, with his eyes locked on me like this round of truth or dare might decide the fate of the universe, I debate my options. The stakes feel weirdly high, but I’ve already told him pretty much everything there is to tell about myself, and dares seem way more liable to involve personal discomfort, so I place my magnet under Truth.

“Well?” I ask as I turn to face him. “What do you want to know?”

He steps toward me, halting a few feet away, searching my face.

“Last night,” he says. “I didn’t want to . . . we’d both been drinking. And I don’t know if I—actually, I don’t know a lot of things. I’ve been alone here for a long time. It worked for me. Or maybe I just told myself it worked. That it was all I needed. And now, I don’t think that’s true anymore. But if I—if we—” He purses his lips, digs a hand into his hair, walks away from me before spinning around and returning. “Sorry. I’m just going to say it. If I asked you—?”

“Philippa?” a woman’s voice calls from the front foyer. A familiar woman’s voice. “Your doorbell wasn’t working, so your dad and I came on in. Can you hear me? Where are you?”

Oh my god. My mother and her timing. The woman has a gift.

“Hold that thought,” I say to Dylan, and my words come out breathless. I don’t know precisely what he was going to ask, but the possibilities are enough to set my skin ablaze. I almost kiss him. I want to kiss him. The thought all but consumes me, but I rally an ounce of wherewithal, setting a hand on his chest as I pass him on my way across the room.

My mom steps into view, striding in my direction through the hallway. She’s in navy dress slacks, an ivory silk blouse, simple jewelry, patent leather heels that clomp with every step, and a metallic gold trench coat that should look tacky but that she’s somehow pulling off. My dad’s a few paces behind her, in a sweater and navy sports jacket combination that makes him look New England country-club ready, especially with his corduroy trousers and buckskin shoes.

“Hi.” I flash my parents an awkward wave. “What are you doing here?”

My mom throws up her hands. “The storm, of course! Riley texted. He said no one could get hold of you. Eleanor was up late with the kids. Louisa’s garden took a beating. Your father and I missed the worst of it. We spent the weekend with the Shermans in Bangor. They have that lovely oceanside property near Belfast, and we all think it would be perfect for Riley and Emil’s wedding. But everyone was worried, so we wrapped brunch early to drive past and make sure you weren’t buried under a pile of rubble out here.” She pauses just long enough to take in my appearance. “You’re fine, I see. Though a little late getting up?”

“It was a long night,” I say, and I even manage a smile. It’s around 9:30 a.m., not that late. And sure, I haven’t showered, combed out my tangled topknot, or changed out of the cozy clothes I slept in, but the implied shame about my appearance seriously undercuts my mom’s concern about my possible demise. As does her need to inform me of her aborted brunch.

Her eyes snag on something behind me, and her brows rise in surprise.

“Sterling,” she says. “Glad to see someone’s making the most of their day.”

“Wet morning for a run,” my dad adds unnecessarily.

I pivot around to see Dylan crossing the kitchen toward us. He nods at my parents, which I’ve come to accept as his standard greeting. Then he turns to me, and the look in his eyes clearly asks, Want me to stay? Evidence we’ve been living together long enough to speak without words. A subtle shake of my head is all he needs in response. Then he nods again at my parents and heads upstairs, sneaking a swift, reassuring squeeze of my arm as he passes me.