Page 58 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“The truth is, I just got out of a relationship, and I’m not looking to start anything new right now,” he tells me. “I agreed to this to get her to stop bugging me to ‘get back out there.’ But I’m glad I did agree, and I’d like to give you my number. If you ever get down to Portland, I can show you around my campus, maybe grab lunch with some colleagues. You can see if anything feels different as you figure out your next steps.”

“Wow. Thanks.” I blink at him, wide-eyed with gratitude. Not only is this not awkward, but I’m newly hopeful about my job search. Michael seems to enjoy his job well enough, despite its drawbacks. Maybe Idaho or Kansas will surprise me, and I’ll fall in love with the place and the people. Maybe the nausea that hit me when I talked about my career with Dylan was a product of shortsightedness, and if I was working with more people like Michael and Amelia—people who aren’t focused solely on their own advancement—at least I’d feel less alone.

I left my phone in the guest bedroom, but Michael texts me his number, and we share a quick, friendly hug before I watch him head down Eleanor’s front steps, turn for one last wave, slip on the ice but catch himself before falling, and get into his car by the snow-piled curb.

The instant I shut the door, relief courses through me as my social anxiety stops working on overdrive. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to walk through the world without it. To meet someone like Michael, who did nothing at all to make me uncomfortable, and enjoy meeting him without the weird tension that always creeps up on me, making me wonder if I should’ve been more diplomatic while talking about my last job, or if I was unkind about my family, or if I should’ve demanded a cardigan so I didn’t feel so exposed in this dress, like I was trying too hard to be someone I’m not, someone who’s comfortable attempting to look sexy.

I shove those thoughts aside before they can spiral, heading into the kitchen, where Eleanor’s replenishing trays of finger foods and Haley’s bouncing Beth on her hip.

“Well?” Haley asks. “We’re all dying to know.”

I lift a stiff shoulder. “He was nice.”

“Oh my god,” Eleanor sputters out through a laugh. “You are so done. Haley, give her Beth and let her go hang out with the kids in the game room. We’ll tell Mom you needed a break and we both wanted another set of eyes up there.”

“Really? Thanks!” I reach for Beth, eager to hold her. Haley hands her off, and I pepper her tiny, perfect, miraculous, downy-soft head with kisses, drawing out a gurgle and a toothless grin. She’s barely a month old, and I already adore her.

Louisa sweeps into the kitchen while I’m still doting on my niece.

“Are you or are you not sleeping with the pirate king?” she demands.

I reel, clinging to Beth like a life preserver. “Not. Definitely not. Why?”

Louisa flicks a hand toward the living room. “That guy was cute, smart, nice, and super chill, which is totally your dating crack. You look shockingly hot, and he clearly enjoyed talking to you. Yet that entire conversation was like a live meme of a mutual friend zone.”

“Something wrong with making a new friend?” I ask.

Louisa purses her lips as she gives Haley and Eleanor a back me up here look. When they shrug at her without chiming in, she drops into a kitchen chair, shaking her head at me.

“All our hard work,” she says through a despondent sigh. “For a new friend.”

The room goes quiet, as though no one knows how to respond. Then Eleanor sputters out a laugh. Haley follows. Soon, all four of us are laughing. Beth joins in with a joyful squeal, which only makes us laugh harder. God, I love my sisters, even if I’ve wasted their makeover efforts.

Riley trudges into the kitchen while we’re all still laughing, drawn by whatever sibling radar brings us together at events like this, and yet, he’s always a step behind the rest of us. As we quiet our laughter, he wilts into a chair next to Louisa and tips his head onto her shoulder.

“Just tell me what color you guys want to wear,” he implores us.

Eleanor says, “Blue.”

Haley says, “Black and white would be cool.”

Louisa says, “Red. No, green. No, anything that’s not pastel.”

I inch up a shrug. “Or you could tell Mom you don’t want a color scheme?”

Riley lets out a beleaguered moan as he buries his face in Louisa’s shoulder.

Haley walks over and pats him on the back. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

We share another laugh, this time not at my expense, and I love that I’m not the only one of us to get teased. We all take a turn.

While Haley and Louisa brainstorm possible color schemes that would make our mom happy and ensure we don’t end up in pink, lime, lemon, or what Louisa calls “old lady lavender,” Eleanor slides me a plate of hors d’oeuvres and tips her chin toward the dining room, where I can bypass our parents and escape to the upstairs game room. Most of the kids are there, hanging out with a sitter, playing games, and watching movies. It beckons like Valhalla.

I mouth thank you and adjust Beth on my hip so I can grab the plate, grateful I might get to end one family event on a high note, without a need to defend my singledom, my child-free lifestyle, my appearance, my crumbling house, my career choices, or my need to escape and unwind when I hit my limit on social time. I’ve barely taken two steps toward the dining room when our mom breezes into the kitchen. Eleanor sneaks me a shoo gesture, so I scurry out of view, but not fast enough to miss our mom’s exasperated sigh and the words that follow.

“Run off again, has she? With all the effort we go to for her, she could at least try.”

I don’t wait around to hear more. I hurry up the stairs with my dinner, my niece, and a jolt of longing to be back in Grams’s house, curled up in the wicker chair, with the sea lapping the shore and the gulls crying overhead. On the table beside me, I’d have a book and a steaming cup of tea. Over my lap, a cozy blanket or two. Since it’s a dream, I add my grandmother, scribbling in a notebook nearby while accepting me as I am without ever once scolding me for not trying harder to be more social, more datable, more ambitious about my career, or more anything.