Page 42 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“I was asking you to help me,” I say. “To let me decide what’s important in my life and to support that or at least accept that my choices can be different without always being wrong.”

My mom tsks, and while it’s not a cruel tsk, it’s trivializing, and I hate it.

“We let you spend your summers however you wanted,” she says. “We let you pursue whatever career you wanted. We let you make your own decisions about your personal life.” She stops there, leaving the rest implied. The and look where that got you.

An ugly silence follows, broken by another creak of the floorboards upstairs. God, I hope Dylan can’t hear all of this, though the thought that it’s possible forces me to take a deep breath and stop letting my parents get under my skin, drawing out my worst behavior.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s my roof, my problem. I’ll figure it out.”

My apology effectively ends our argument, and my mother returns to her favorite topic of late: Riley’s wedding. Gushing with enthusiasm, she describes how she imagines it unfolding at the Shermans’, with the happy couple reciting their vows on the dock under an archway that’s beautifully decorated with bluebells and forget-me-nots, and with the rest of us in lemon yellow or maybe a soft minty green. Riley and Emil have been clear with my sisters and me that they don’t want a color scheme or floral theme. They want a small, informal wedding with a few friends and family members. No matching bridesmaids and groomsmen. No bouquets. No cumbersome archways that need to be erected at the end of a dock. However, neither groom is known for his assertiveness, nor do they want to disappoint their parents and future in-laws, so I can almost guarantee that at some point this spring, I’ll be buying a wear-it-once mint-green dress and enough over-the-counter allergy medicine to prevent my sneezing over a bouquet.

My parents stay for about an hour, during which time my mom tells me how badly I need a haircut and holds forth about their upcoming Mediterranean cruise, my dad texts me links for junk-removal companies and continues to express astonishment about my lack of coffee, and I tell my parents about the jobs I’ve applied for, the only subject that perks their interest.

The instant their car is out of view, I pull on a pair of rubber boots I used to wear as a teenager, wrap a wool blanket around my shoulders, and trudge down the steps carved into the steep, rocky bank to the dock, where the Zephyr’s Revenge II is indeed rotting away. Or maybe she’s not rotting, exactly, but the lower part of her hull is coated in barnacles and seaweed, the deck desperately needs sanding and varnishing, and the lack of masts and usable sails feels metaphorically resonant, given my parents’ critique about my holding pattern.

I know a few things about boats, thanks to my research on the history of piracy and the sailing classes I took during my summers here, always looking for an excuse to be out on the water. My grandmother loved being on the water, too. She was so excited when she bought this ship, and she frequently let me take the wheel when she gathered a small crew to head out for a day’s sail. I wouldn’t win any races as either a captain or a crewmember, and I’m not great at docking without the help of a motor, but I can judge the trim of a sail, tie knots, direct a crew, and navigate a course that makes good use of the wind. I’ve been giving the house all of my attention since I arrived, but the boat could use some love, too. Unless, of course, I sell her.

Despite my glib comment to Eleanor about having to pay someone to tow the boat away, the problems are all reparable, and the vessel is large enough and unique enough to bring in some money. With two cabins and a stateroom, she sleeps six comfortably and up to twelve not so comfortably. She has a sizable galley for cooking, two relatively modern lavatories, and loads of storage space. And while she’s old, quirky, and so ornate she’s more appropriate for a Disney ride than a quiet sail through the nearby islands, she’s not “ridiculous.” In her glory days, when she sliced through waves with her buxom figurehead leading the way, the sun reflecting off her full sails, and a lookout in the crow’s nest, pointing out landmarks, she was a sight to behold.

For my grandmother, this ship meant adventure. For me, it was where I could quiet my thoughts, my doubts, my questions, and my insecurities, and just be, absorbed in the immediacy of chasing the wind as the ship picked up momentum, or while I bunked overnight belowdecks with a book and let the ocean rock me to sleep. For my mother, it’s always been an eyesore, which brings my thoughts back to the present and why I came down here.

I climb aboard and make my way to the prow, where I straddle the bowsprit and let the gentle motion of the waves take the edge off my lingering irritation, wishing I could spend an hour with my parents without feeling like I need to defend every choice I make, from my career to my love life to my reluctance to let go of things that genuinely matter to me. Dylan finds me soon after I’ve settled in, crossing the main deck to climb the dozen or so stairs to the forecastle, where he leans on the railing. He’s close enough for an easy conversation, but he’s not close like he was in the kitchen, when he was about to ask me for a truth.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes. No. Maybe. Mostly.” I blow a sigh out to sea. “They try. I know they try, but they don’t understand a lifestyle that doesn’t prioritize achieving the standard benchmarks of success. A nice house. Marriage and kids. A steady, impressive career. A working coffeemaker.” I exhale again, matching my breathing to the swell and fall of the waves. “They also don’t understand that life sometimes throws us curveballs, and even the best-laid plans can require reconsideration.”

Dylan nods in that way he does, slowly, giving everything a moment to sink in. He’s showered and changed, now in beat-up jeans, his Eulogy for a Succulent concert tee, and a heavy, shawl-collared cardigan I want to steal and wear all through winter.

“Are you okay?” I ask. “Being out here, I mean? Even though . . . ?”

“I’m good.” He smiles a little, just enough to confirm he catches my meaning. “I used to come down here sometimes when the house felt too quiet. I like the sound of the waves. And the motion. The way the ocean reminds us with its rhythms that this, too, will pass.”

“Exactly,” I say, and then close my eyes and repeat in my head, Exactly.

We’re quiet for a minute. I watch a pair of northern pintails bob nearby while Dylan nudges the base of the railing with the toe of his ragged sneaker.

“You’re applying for teaching jobs,” he says.

“You heard that, huh?”

“Not on purpose, but I caught some of the conversation in passing.”

I nod, an affirmation as much for myself as for him, while I scoot around to reposition myself on the deck where I can busy my hands with a coil of rough, frayed rope.

“My parents are right about the house,” I say. “I don’t want them to be, but they are. It needs more work than I can afford, and that work will matter more as the weather gets worse. Selling off collectibles helps, and another good run of it would probably cover bills and groceries through the winter. It might even pay for the bulk of the roof replacement, but it’s not enough to fix everything, and the expenses will keep mounting the longer I put them off.” I tie a bowline by habit, untie it, and tie it again. Funny how the muscle memory lingers. “I can try to get a job in Blue Hill. Waitressing or retail or maybe even substitute teaching at the grade school, but I’d only be postponing the inevitable.” I practice my clove hitches. Anything to keep my gaze cast downward, so I can’t see the disappointment in Dylan’s eyes. “If I can get a full-time academic job, I’ll have a steady income again. Not that it’s great money, but it’s dependable. It’s also what I’ve trained to do. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. And maybe the next job won’t be as bad as my last one. Different people. Different leadership. Different students. Different city.”

I risk a glance upward. This time, Dylan’s the one nodding, and his nod is a lot like mine was, slow, labored, directed inward, resigned. Then his eyes lift to meet mine, obsidian dark, and I’m sucker punched by how much he packs into a simple look. Curiosity, sadness, frustration, hope, and a hundred other emotions I can’t even come close to identifying.

“Would a new teaching job start right away?” he asks.

I shake my head. “They all start next summer, July or August, with the beginning of the school year. Academic searches can take forever, and nothing full time was listed any earlier.”

He drums his fingers on the railing, casting his eyes toward the distant horizon. The sky is heavy with dense gray clouds but no longer threatening rain. The ocean’s a deep navy. A few seagulls are circling overhead while a bright-blue fishing boat slowly makes its way south.

“If money wasn’t an issue,” Dylan says, “what would you do for the rest of the year?”

A laugh almost slips out of me. Money is an issue. Right now, it feels like the issue.