Chapter Four
For five days I throw myself into cleaning.
I scrub floors and windows. I scour bathrooms. I box up dust-collecting trinkets.
I launder curtains and pound out rugs. I move the pigeons’ nest and scrape the bird shit off the fourth-story window, leaning out to chip away at it with a kitchen towel tied around the lower half of my face.
I watch YouTube videos about wallpaper removal and DIY demolition techniques I can use on the collapsed carriage house.
I contact glaziers for estimates on window replacement.
I research dumpster rental and use the Flynn-sibling group text to solicit advice about selling collectibles on eBay so I can afford said dumpster.
This is obviously the “keep stupidly busy to avoid a breakdown” plan I relayed to Amelia last month.
At some point I have to make a real plan for what I’m doing with my life, but I have a week before my sister’s engagement party, I won’t solve my career crisis overnight, and now that I’m here, surrounded by memory triggers I’ve conveniently avoided for the last six years, I need to make this house feel less neglected and more like a place someone lives.
I buy groceries and a large backpack in which to carry them.
The two-mile journey to and from the town of Blue Hill is gorgeous, following a simple footpath that runs along the coast, but it’s less gorgeous with twenty pounds of groceries in my hands.
I make stir-fries and salads with plenty for two.
I even manage a decent batch of chocolate chip cookies.
I tell Dylan to help himself anytime, and he thanks me for the offer, but he continues to eat pasta, only pasta, other than the protein shakes he makes each morning after he returns from a daily run.
As the week passes, he gives me the Wi-Fi password (ZephyrsRevenge, the name of Zane Scarlett’s ship), he tells me what’s in his protein shake (protein powder, frozen bananas, almond milk, end of conversation), and he answers my question about how far he runs (“as far as I can,” end of that conversation).
That’s pretty much the sum of nearly a week’s worth of discourse.
By day six, I can’t stand it, so I consult the Flynn-sibling group text again. I may not be socially intuitive or conversationally adept, but I have four siblings who are.
Philippa: Ways to get to know someone that aren’t intrusive or offensive. Go
Louisa: Is this about Sterling?
Haley: Of course this is about Sterling
Eleanor: I thought his name was Dylan
Louisa: Mom and Dad call him Sterling
Haley: Mom called him something else the first time she met him
Eleanor: Someone should teach her how to use the word “thirst” correctly
Philippa: Please don’t ever mention Mom and thirst in the same sentence again
Haley: I can’t believe she didn’t recognize him from the covers
Eleanor: I can’t believe we never drove over and checked him out for ourselves
Philippa: I can’t believe I thought he was an old man
Louisa: Best surprise ever!!!!
Philippa: Define “best”
Haley: Are you trying to hit on him, Phil?
Philippa: I’m trying to break his vow of silence
Eleanor: Vow of silence? Seriously? Are you living with a monk?
Philippa: More like living with Geralt of Rivia from The Witcher
Louisa: Hot
Philippa: Excruciating
Haley: I’m with Lou on this. Can you get him to pose with one of Grams’s swords?
Philippa: I can’t get him to stay in the same room with me for 30 seconds
Eleanor: Isn’t he a writer? Get him talking about his work
Philippa: You make that sound so simple
Louisa: Some artists don’t like to share mid-process
Haley: Maybe he has writer’s block. Could be a sore subject
Louisa: How many introverts does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Philippa: Can we please just Not?
Louisa: One. If anyone shows up to help, the others leave
Philippa: Thanks, Lou. Super helpful
Riley: What about drinking games?
Louisa: Welcome to the convo, Ri. Late as usual
Philippa: No drinking games
Eleanor: I forgot. You get sloppy
Haley: So sloppy!!!
Louisa: OMG. Her 21st birthday!
Eleanor: And last New Year’s!
Louisa: “I Love You Guys!!!!!!!!!!”
Philippa: Actually, I hate all of you
Riley: What about never have I ever? Or truth or dare?
Philippa: Seems ambitious. He barely grunts good morning
Louisa: Oooh! Bring him to my engagement party
Philippa: That seems even more ambitious
Eleanor: Maybe he just needs time to warm up to you
Haley: “Warm up!”
Louisa:
Eleanor:
Riley:
Philippa: You all suck. Forget I asked. See you Saturday
I pocket my phone, wishing I’d never opened this can of worms. I should’ve known better. The first time I invited a boy over, my siblings hovered so obtrusively, he made up an excuse and left after twenty minutes. I was fourteen. I never invited anyone over again.
I spend the afternoon parked at the kitchen table, listing pirate collectibles on eBay.
The empty powder kegs probably cost too much with shipping, but some of the smaller items nab bids right away.
Fake doubloons are weirdly popular, and one of the skull-and-crossbones flags starts an instant bidding war.
An engraved saber quickly reaches $225, and a set of old keys nears $150.
I don’t know what anything is actually worth, and I hope my grandmother isn’t watching from a spiritual plane, crushed that I’m discarding items that definitely sparked joy for her, but she left them to me without stipulations, and I need income if I’m going to do any repairs on the house.
Also, the place already feels more livable with less stuff crowding every inch of space.
Dylan trudges in at around 3:00 p.m., tipping his chin in greeting before grabbing a glass and adding ice from a plastic tray in the freezer. All of the appliances are old, but they work.
“How’s your writing going?” I ask, even though he could be building Lego spaceships in his room for all I know about what he actually does with his days, silent and sequestered.
“Just . . . water.” He holds up the glass of ice, then fills it from the tap.
I allow myself an eye roll while his back is turned. Could’ve predicted that one.
As I resume work on my current listing, Dylan refills the ice cube tray and returns it to the freezer, pausing to skim the engagement party invitation I pinned on the fridge.
I brace myself and try again. “She told me to ask if you wanted to come.”
The back of his neck reddens. He scratches it while shaking his head.
“I wouldn’t know anyone there,” he says.
“You’ve met my parents, right?”
“They came by to check on the house a couple of times. They seem . . . nice.”
His pause says a lot, and I hide an amused smile behind a loosely rolled fist as I picture the “check-ins.” My parents driving up in whatever shiny new SUV they traded in for this year, bickering about which turns they should’ve taken and why the GPS was or wasn’t necessary.
My mom inundating Dylan with questions about his life, work, family, and interests, eager to make a new friend while sneaking in passive-aggressive remarks about how long he expects to exploit her mother’s generosity.
My dad feigning handyman knowledge while trying to draw Dylan into a conversation about sports or politics, either of which likely elicited little more than a grunt.
“You don’t have to go,” I say. “But you are invited. If you want to go.”
His neck reddens further, and he takes a long drink of water before saying, “Thanks.”
I expect him to take the rest of his water and leave, but he surprises me by leaning back against the counter, setting down his glass, and slowly rotating it while rubbing the condensation with his thumb until a drip runs down the side.
He’s in jeans again, ones that look like they’ve seen a lot of runs through a washing machine, with an equally well-loved concert tee from a band I’ve never heard of.
Ghost something. Ghost Fire, maybe? Ghost Flood? Ghost Frog?
Probably not Ghost Frog, though I love the image it conjures.
Dylan clears his throat, making his prominent Adam’s apple bob.
“Living with someone. I’m out of practice.” His neck reddens again, and not just the back this time. He’s still looking at the glass. Still dragging a thumb through the condensation.
My heart pinches at his obvious discomfort.
At the effort he’s making. I’ve felt it all week, actually, in fits and starts.
A lingering look when we pass on the stairs or in the kitchen.
A pause in the doorway of a room I’m cleaning.
A sucked-in breath as though he’s about to say something, even when he says nothing at all. He’s been trying, in his way.
“My brother suggested drinking games,” I tell him.
He lets out a short breath of laughter. “I’m out of practice at those, too.”
“He also suggested truth or dare.”
Another breath of laughter, and he finally looks up to meet my eyes. His hold a surprising hint of warmth in their dark and brooding depths, and as his dense lashes bat once, twice, without him looking away—without him running away—a spark of hope ignites in my chest.
Before I can overthink it, I tear two blank pages from the small notebook I’ve been using to scribble down info about the items I’ve been listing.
I write Truth on one page and Dare on the other.
I pin them on the fridge using two of the largest magnets: a lighthouse and a lobster.
I scan the rest and hand Dylan a third magnet, a bright-yellow smiley face.
It’s an ironic choice, since he’s the least smiley person I’ve ever met, but it’s an irony I don’t intend to point out.
“Take your pick,” I say.
He looks at the magnet. He looks at me. He looks at the fridge. When I’m almost certain he’s about to set down the magnet and flee the excruciating torture of get-to-know-you games, he steps up to the fridge and puts the smiley face below Dare.
The spark of hope in my chest fully detonates. Progress! At last! Thank you, Riley!