Chapter Eighteen
Philippa: Know anyone who teaches at UK Wichita?
Amelia: You made the short list?
Amelia: What happened to Iowa?
Philippa: Nothing since the video call
Amelia: Ghosting! It’s not just for dating apps anymore!
Philippa: No big deal. I only put 40 hours of work into the application
Amelia: Too bad a basic form email is So Hard to send
Philippa: It’s just as well. Cornfields freak me out
Amelia: What do you think they grow in Kansas?
Philippa: Fair point. Withdrawing my application now
Amelia: I met a woman at a conference last year who I think was at UKW. Let me reach out to her and see if I can get the scoop. Hang tight. And dream of creepy corn mazes
Philippa: I’ll be trembling in terror until I hear back
I pocket my phone and watch the snow-covered landscape fly past outside the frost-cornered window.
Maine really is gorgeous in the winter. Cold but gorgeous, with its rolling hills blanketed in pristine white.
Grams’s house is totally snowed in, so Dylan couldn’t give me a ride to the nearest bus station.
I had to walk the two miles to Blue Hill with my overnight bag, knee-deep in snowdrifts, before I could grab a cab to the bus.
I almost told Eleanor I couldn’t make it to her holiday house party, but it’s a family tradition, and I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t find a way to get there.
You should’ve hired a plow, bought a sleigh, learned to teleport, sold the damned house already so you lived in a place with more public services. Not worth it.
I invited Dylan to come with me, but he said he’d only hang out awkwardly in corners, and he didn’t want me to feel responsible for him when I should be free to spend time with my friends and family.
I’d feel similarly if our situations were reversed, and I have no interest in repeating patterns that were so destructive in his marriage, so I didn’t push, but I can’t help wishing he was here, sharing a playlist and a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Amelia: Forgot to ask. Any updates on the pirate king?
Philippa: How did you know I was just thinking about him?
Amelia: I’ve seen those book covers. Even I’m often “just thinking about him”
I smile at that, though lately I’ve been pretending those covers don’t exist.
Philippa: He’s still avoiding me. I’m still hating it
Amelia: You guys haven’t talked about the Moment yet?
Philippa: Getting Dylan to talk about anything is a long game
Amelia: I still think you should’ve kissed him
Philippa: I still think I misread him
Amelia: Or you read him perfectly but he’s tired of the people he loves leaving him so he’s doing everything he can to not get more attached if you’re leaving him, too
I frown at my phone, considering this possibility, not for the first time.
I didn’t tell Amelia we were working on a manuscript together, since Dylan and I agreed to keep it a secret, but I described the tension between us and provided an abbreviated version of his history with his parents and his ex-wife.
I needed to talk to someone, and I knew if I told any of my siblings, they’d all hear about it and show up on my doorstep to investigate en masse.
Philippa: I’ve been teasing him about how often he wears his favorite sweater. He told me this week it’s his only sweater. I’m such an asshole. Attachment can’t be the issue
Amelia: Or it is the issue and also, now you know what to get him for Christmas
Philippa: He’s getting a plywood shed for his motorcycle. Rahul brought everything over on Tuesday. Says he can bang it together in a day once we clear a space for it
Amelia: Do you know what Dylan’s getting you?
Philippa: He’s getting my boat rebuilt. He’d better not get me anything else
Amelia: Crowdsourcing your boat repairs isn’t a Christmas present
Philippa: It’s a Christmases for a hundred lifetimes present
Amelia: Fine. But take some mistletoe home with you. You never know unless you try
Philippa: That’s patently untrue. And could lead to a lot of sexual harassment charges
Amelia: Whatever. Your call. Better go. I have a pile of finals to grade and I still need to plan next term’s classes. If I don’t get to it, I’ll be working straight through the holiday “break.” You should think very, very, very, Very hard about reentering academia
Philippa: Sorry. Good luck. Thinking about you. Happy holidays. Xo
I pocket my phone again and let my thoughts drift as we pass snow-covered farmland, iced-over electrical lines, and weighed-down evergreens that belong in a Dr. Seuss illustration.
Maybe Amelia’s right about Dylan, and maybe I should take his cue and avoid getting attached if I might move away.
Except, of course, I’m already attached.
So attached. Even thinking about a permanent goodbye makes me feel like I’m being torn in two, not in a poetic way but in a medieval-torture-device way.
As a historian who’s done some serious deep dives into the Dark Ages, I know a few things about medieval torture devices. This is not an analogy I make lightly.
We’ve managed to eke out four more chapters of A Siren Calls, but they’re clunky and lack cohesion now that we’re taking turns as often as we’re writing together.
This is Dylan’s preference, not mine, but whatever gets us through it.
We only have a week left now to polish what we’ve written before we meet with Iris’s agent, Kate.
If we can’t do the work and do it well, neither of us will be proud of what we send her, and we’ll both be letting down Grams.
December should’ve been an improvement on November, but so far? No such luck.
Eleanor’s husband, Frank, greets me at the door. He’s a tall, besuited redhead with a dad bod and wire-rimmed glasses that never sit straight on his almost-always-smiling face.
“You made it!” he says as he pulls me into a hug. “Phil’s here!” he calls over his shoulder, and next thing I know, the foyer is crowded as my sisters pile onto the hug in a powerful eddy of cashmere sweaters, sparkly jewelry, and sugarplum body lotion.
“I couldn’t stop checking the weather app,” Louisa says.
“I can’t believe you didn’t call us from the station,” Haley adds.
“How are you not freezing?” Eleanor flicks my dangling scarf. “And you still won’t tie one of these. I used to think Mom exaggerated when she said you hid your turtlenecks.”
“I not only hid them,” I tell her, “I cut them into pieces or burned them.”
Haley elbows my side. “Badass.”
Riley comes around the corner, and we fall into a warm hug.
For a few minutes, the foyer fills with overlapping conversations about road conditions, holiday decorations, and the party that’s in full swing.
Then my sisters bustle me upstairs to Eleanor’s guest bedroom while Riley returns to the crowded living room to save his fiancé from being stuck without him in a wedding conversation with our mother, who’s torn between two equally uninteresting color schemes.
Where Louisa’s house is all cute, domestic charm and Haley’s is earth-conscious, eclectic elegance, Eleanor’s is classic, understated sophistication.
The dark wood floors are beautifully polished.
The walls are painted in tasteful neutrals, with simple furnishings in coordinating soft prints.
Family photos line the walls in neat rows and matching frames.
The garland wrapping the stair rail is tied off with ivory velvet bows and clusters of pine cones.
The tree I can just make out through the archway to the living room is decorated entirely in ivory and gold with a simple star on top.
Everything looks expensive and thoughtfully arranged, though I’ve also seen this house when Lego bricks and action figures litter the halls, schoolbooks and gaming controls are all over the living room, and the kitchen looks like a pack of wolves raided it.
The instant the four of us are over the threshold, Louisa slams the door behind us.
“What did you bring to change into?” she asks.
I drop my overnight bag on the bed. “A silk blouse and a pair of dress pants?” I’m not sure why I’m asking this like a question.
I put a lot of thought into what to wear.
It had to pack well, given my journey here, and it had to pass my parents’ can’t you try a little harder?
test. Since I don’t wear jewelry or heels, two pieces of clothing had to do a lot of work.
Haley opens my bag. “You don’t have a sexy dress in here?”
I suppress a laugh. “Hi. My name’s Philippa. Have we met?”
My sisters exchange a round of sideways glances, making me instantly wary.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Eleanor sits on the edge of the bed. “Mom brought you a setup.”
I groan as I drop down beside her, falling onto my back with my peacoat and hat still on.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Haley assures me.
“He’s cute!” Louisa adds. “He’s a prof, too. Rhetoric, I think.”
“Awesome,” I deadpan. “We can talk about my failed teaching career.”
“Paused, not failed,” Eleanor corrects.
I don’t really want to get into the nuances of the situation.
I don’t want to meet a setup, either, but after a solid ten minutes of my sisters’ relentless and impassioned coaxing, I agree to let them sort out my look for the night.
This decision eventually leaves me in a maroon bodycon minidress Eleanor kept around from her clubbing days, an updo Louisa creates with face-framing curls I know will be long, straight strands within half an hour despite her liberal use of hairspray, and a light touch of makeup Haley talks me through, kindly accepting that anything more than mascara, a quick sweep of eyeliner, and a relatively neutral lipstick makes me feel like a clown.
Thankfully, my black ballet flats are deemed acceptable, and we all head downstairs. I greet all the kids and partners. Then I hug my parents while they remind me I wouldn’t have arrived so late if I wasn’t living in the middle of nowhere. I grit my teeth and don’t reply.