Page 78 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“We both know this is complicated,” I say. “We don’t have to pretend.”

He nods and swallows before tracing the lines of my face with the back of his hand, ghosting his knuckles along my temple, my cheek, my jawline, my chin.

“Two weeks, huh?” he asks.

“Two weeks,” I echo, and just like that, a little flutter of hope flickers in my chest. Maybe because I believe something might change in two weeks. Maybe because I’m grateful we at least have that time together before my acceptance is definite, even if I keep talking about it like it’s an inevitability I’ll eventually embrace. Maybe I’m just glad he’s not running away.

“You know what I think?” he asks.

I tense again, bracing myself. “No?”

He attempts another smile, this one a little more convincing than the last.

“I think,” he repeats, “I should take you out on a date.”

I dissolve into sputters of relieved laughter. “A date? Seriously?”

“You just got a job offer in a really competitive field. You busted your ass for that job. Getting it is a huge achievement. The least I can do is buy you dinner to celebrate.”

I cup his cheek with my free hand, still holding tight with the other.

“Dylan Harley Sterling,” I say. “I would love to go on a date with you.”

The rest of the night unfolds like a dream. We pack away the conversation about my job offer and what it might mean for us, not forever, but for a night. Dylan puts on the suit I’ve never seen him wear, and I put on a simple black dress, one of the few date-worthy garments I kept last June. I even attempt an updo and a bit of makeup. We take the motorcycle to Northport, where we enjoy an amazing Vietnamese meal, even though I can’t keep the dumplings from slipping out of my chopsticks and Dylan gets soy sauce on his shirt and tie. We walk by the coast to calm our overstuffed bellies, and kiss for what feels like hours with only the sea and stars for witnesses.

When we get home, we drag Dylan’s mattress down the stairs to the living room, where we start a fire in the fireplace and drink really good rum and talk about where the next book could go, as though neither of us doubts for a second that we’ll write it. And when the moment feels right, we take off our clothes and make love in the firelight. Slowly. Tenderly. Cherishing every touch. Every gasp and moan. Every quiver. Every bead of sweat. Every everything.

In the morning, when I wake, Dylan’s gone. So are the muddy running shoes he kept on the porch. So are his clothes, his laptop, his headphones, his pull-up bar, his duffel bag, and his motorcycle. I search the entire house, frantic, until I find two things. On the kitchen table, under Dylan’s smiley face magnet and the scrap of paper on which, back in early July, I wrote the word Truth, is a printed manuscript. The Curious Tale of Bartholomew Kilderkin by D. H. Sterling, dated fifteen years ago. On the fridge, beneath the word Dare, are my chickadee magnet and a Post-it with five simple words, written in Dylan’s familiar compact script. Be braver than I am.

I read it five or six times, trying to embrace it as loving encouragement. Then I roar with rage as I sweep the manuscript off the table, sending pages flying in all directions.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

In the days following Dylan’s departure, I rotate through the stages of grief in a chaotic medley of anger, depression, bargaining, denial, brief flickers of acceptance, and back again. I rage-peel wallpaper as I mutter aloud about his cowardice in not even saying goodbye. I sob in a tight ball on his mattress while drinking too much rum and playing “Iris” on repeat. I check my phone and email a billion times, telling myself if I’d put more effort into making money this year or if I’d told him I loved him, he wouldn’t be gone. I tell myself he’ll be back.

I type a hundred texts to him. Several say something to the effect of Really? Thankfully, I have the maturity to delete those before sending, though I send others.

Can we talk?

At least tell me you’re ok

What does this mean for the books?

Is there anything I can say that would change things between us?

Please don’t let this be how we end

I miss you

He doesn’t reply. All I’m left with is an ache in my gut, an occasional hangover, and a new awareness of how much black mold has taken over the walls, hiding behind the oversize begonias and dahlias that bloom across some of the worst wallpaper the house has on offer.

When I grow exhausted with the sound of my own thoughts, I get out my phone.

Philippa: Am I being naive about Idaho?

Amelia: . . .

Amelia: . . .