Page 62 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

“You always were a go-getter,” she responds, voice full of pride.

The front door opens and shuts. I cast a quick glance at the clock—10:15. Laurel must have had quite the night.

“I try,” I say. “I actually have to go. Laurel needs my help making breakfast.” This may or may not be true; Laurel is probably extremely hungover, and she may actually just need some black coffee in an IV. But I’m also desperate to hear about her night with Porter and escape from my own reality a little.

“Okay, honey. Thanks for chatting!” Mom hesitates. “Call me soon, okay? I miss you.”

My voice breaks. “I miss you, too.”

Hanging up the phone, I slip out of bed and hurry into the kitchen, where Laurel’s bent over the island, head in hands.

“Fun night, huh?”

She doesn’t look up. “My head is going to split in half.”

“Let me start the coffee,” I offer.

Over strong coffee and two Excedrin, Laurel regales me with tales of her evening. Porter’s family owns a condo in Perkins Cove, and he’s using it this summer to get a break from the city. At the moment, his parents and two sisters are back in Boston.

Laurel describes the unit as “beyond luxurious” and explains that it’s up a bit of a hill, overlooking both the cove and the ocean. The unit has a fully stocked bar, and it sounds like Porter and Laurel had several more drinks each before making out a little and then falling asleep.

“I’m not even disappointed that there was no sex,” she admits, sipping slowly from a chipped blue mug. “I’m glad, actually.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Because you like him?”

She blushes a little. “I think I do, yeah.”

“Well, that’s something, right there.” I pour myself a second cup of coffee. I know I should stop at one, especially given the effect caffeine tends to have on my anxiety, but I need a little more oomph to get me through this day. Too many emotions are swirling around my head.

“He’s going to call me later,” Laurel continues. “I think it’ll be good for me to have a nice man to distract me from my dissertation.”

“You have no idea how badly you need this,” I reply.

She playfully hits me. “Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, not to raise a sore subject,” I hedge, “but when are you going to Boston to talk to Spillinger?”

She sighs. “Thursday. I’ll leave early, but I think I’m going to spend the night with my parents. I plan to head back here at some point on Friday.”

“Sounds good.” I’ll be out Thursday evening anyway for the dinner at Maisie’s.

We’re silent for a moment while Laurel stares off into space, probably rehashing her magical evening with Porter. I worry I might have judged him a little too harshly. I suppose just because he was dressed like a fraternity brother and works for a hedge fund doesn’t mean he’s a douchebag.

Suddenly, Laurel practically shouts, “Oh my God! I never asked you about your night with Oliver!”

Heat rushes up my cheeks. “There was no ‘night with Oliver.’”

“Why does that blush make me doubt you?”

I squirm in my chair. If I tell Laurel what happened last night, she’s going to have some opinions, with a capital O. And I’m not sure I’m ready to hear them.

On the other hand, it would be good to get some of this off my chest.

“We hung out at Harbor Lights for a while after you guys left,” I say finally. “Had some drinks. Ate your nachos.” I grin.

“Mmm. Were they divine?” She closes her eyes, as if imagining the taste.

“So good.” I smile. “Then, we danced a little more. And then…” She’s watching me expectantly, but I need a minute to consider my words. “He kissed me. Um, to scare off that guy who was coming to our table that other time?”