Page 69 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

I take a breath. Let it out. Take another.

“Maybe not fine,” I say. “But a little less determined to convince us we’re wrong. Except for the walking-out-in-front-of-a-moving-car thing. That, you should intervene on. Every time.”

My mom scowls without even the slightest glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

“You wanted to be a history professor,” she tells me.

“I did. And maybe I still do, but maybe I want something else now, too.”

Her scowl remains as she regards me with an almost visceral level of skepticism, but after a long moment, she adjusts her position so she’s seated next to me. She even pauses the TV, making me suspect a lecture is coming, or a familiar chorus of We tried to tell you.

“My mother drafted seventeen novels before she sold one,” she says instead.

I flinch in surprise. “Seventeen?”

“And you won’t find the first four she did sell on any bestseller lists or library shelves.”

“The ones about the flatshare in London? I thought those did really well.”

“They did, but they weren’t the first four.” She smooths a wrinkle in the bedspread, lining up each and every stripe. “When her sales failed to meet targeted numbers, book after book, she rebranded, shifted from cozy mysteries to steamy romances, scrapped the pen name she’d been using, tried again. She worked so hard. Faced so many disappointments. Pulled countless all-nighters. Cried in the shower when she thought I wouldn’t hear. I had to watch it all, growing up in our tiny apartment, just the two of us, always behind on rent, scraping by week to week, chasing a dream that wasn’t even making her happy. I didn’t want that for any of you.”

I nod in understanding while she smooths more wrinkles. I knew my grandmother spent years as a waitress before she penned her first bestseller, and that my mom didn’t have an easy childhood, but I didn’t know Grams had pursued a writing career for so long before it took off.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” my mom says, a surefire promise she’s about to say something I can only take the wrong way. “But you’re not the easiest person to get along with.”

I suppress an eye roll. “Thanks a lot.”

She pats my hand. “You know what I mean. Eleanor’s in politics for a reason. She knows how to be what people want her to be without losing her sense of self. Haley has all that dynamic charisma. So much passion and personality. Everyone loves Riley. How could they not? In your grandmother’s words, ‘he’s a total cinnamon roll.’ And Louisa’s the firecracker of the family. If someone doesn’t like her, she finds a way to change their mind. You were never interested in fighting that battle. You spoke your mind and moved on. Or you retreated to your books.”

This is an oversimplification of my character, given how hard I cried when people said they didn’t like me or subtly edged me out of social circles, but we don’t need to rehash all that.

“There’s nothing wrong with loving books,” I say.

“No, but they don’t give you the same safety net as close friends or a partner. Someone who’s there for you no matter what. Not connecting with people naturally was always going to make life harder for you. Your dad and I recognized that pretty early on. It’s why we wanted you to have a plan. It’s why we still want you to have a plan. So maybe you won’t need a safety net.”

I give this some thought, fighting a powerful instinct to bark out a rebuttal because I appreciate where she’s coming from, but friendships change over time, and not all partnerships last or are dependable. Dylan can back me up on that one. Also, I already need a safety net. I’ve always needed a safety net, and I’ve had one in my grandmother and in the chaotic yet calming house she welcomed me into, the house I’ve returned to for this very reason. Surely, my parents know that, even though they’ve spent the last six and a half years urging me to let it go.

“The realtor Dad knows came by,” I say. “He confirmed the house is a teardown.”

My mom perks up. “Then are you finally ready to admit it isn’t worth saving?”

No, I think, never. But I force myself to fully digest the question before spitting out a response. All this talk of safety nets, when what my mom really means is that she wishes I had the same safety nets she has. A devoted husband. A flourishing social life. A stable career in a field like finance that she enjoyed right up until her retirement. A nice, comfortable home. But maybe my safety net looks different from hers. Maybe it’s weather-beaten, and the stairs creak with every step. Maybe it’s four siblings who use teasing as a love language. Maybe it’s a man who shares my instinct to retreat to quiet places, a man who might be in my life for a matter of months, not years or decades. Maybe it’s my grandmother’s lingering presence in the fictional world she created, full of sirens and sea monsters I’m learning to love. Maybe it is books.

“I’m not ready to sell the house,” I say. “And I really want to write these books.”

My mom expels a slow, labored breath as a frown tugs at the corners of her lips.

“I can’t make you sell, but I can’t actively help you throw away your career, either.” She pats my hand again, leaving hers atop mine in a gentle hold. “You might think it doesn’t matter, but it will, in time. What if you write the books and the publisher doesn’t want them? What if the publisher does want them, but readers don’t like them? You’ll tear yourself apart for failing your grandmother’s legacy, and you can’t go back and try again. You worked so hard to get where you are now, and you had one job you didn’t like. You haven’t exhausted your options.”

Fair, I think, though saying I didn’t like my last job barely scratches the surface.

“I don’t know what will happen with Idaho,” I say. “Or with Kansas when I head out there in a few weeks. But if I can show you a clear career plan, and if I promise not to let the writing get in the way of that plan, will you at least let Dylan and me try to sell the first book?”

The frown that’s been tugging at my mom’s lips appears in full force.

“He should be paying you rent,” she says for the umpteenth time.

“Fine. You win. I’ll charge him rent.”