Page 1 of Any Port in a Storm

ONE

now

Idon’t remember meeting Nick O’Connor.

Somehow—inexplicably, in fact—it feels like he’s always been there, a constant humming in the background of my life.

I never thought much about him, either. He was just another face in the crowd as I raced between lectures. Someone to nod at in passing without really seeing; an acquaintance to smile at without bothering to look up.

No, I didn’t think about Nick much at all.

Until the first day I did.

And ever since, he’s been all I can think about.

The College of Arts and Sciences is holding what they call a party today. It’s the same wilted crudité and boxed wine in Chinet plastic cups that they typically trot out for lectures and gallery openings, with the addition of a vanilla sheet cake from the dining hall declaring the college’s best wishes.

Normally I’d skip a gathering like this one, but my ramen reserves are rather low, so the free food seems like a smart move.

There’s also the fact that I’m one of the PhD candidates being congratulated.

“You have to go, Laurel,” my friend Grace urged when we met for coffee this morning. “CAS is honoring you.”

I’d glowered at her over the top of my Americano. “Being done with this dissertation is celebration enough.”

“Yeah, but you deserve a chance to rub it in Spillinger’s face.”

I’d laughed in spite of myself. Elaine Spillinger was, for the majority of my PhD program, my advisor. But she was more than just that. She was my idol—a tenured professor whose research centered on feminist British literature, my precise area of study. Ever since I had her for a freshman seminar, I’d kind of thought I’d like to be her someday.

Spillinger was a formidable presence around the English department, and I felt like a prodigy when she tucked me under her prestigious wing and decided I was the next big thing. After overseeing my Master’s thesis, she practically begged me to re-enroll at Hawthorne University for my doctorate.

“You’re so talented, Laurel,” she’d told me at the time. “I just know you’re going to do great things here.”

And I did—both enroll and do great things. Until I started dating Nick, that is. Then, all I managed to do was cause drama in the department and ruin Spillinger’s impression of me.

Things with Spillinger exploded in a burst of chaos last summer, and she ended up recusing herself as my PhD advisor. I was assigned to Dr. Brownell after that: a kind, extremely timid older man prone to narcolepsy and tweed blazers.

At least he didn’t hate me for stealing his boyfriend.

As I enter the party now, I’m struck by how lackluster everything feels. I guess after years of dreaming about the “Doctor of Humanities” honorific, I assumed earning it would feel a little bit more satisfying.

Would feel like anything at all, really.

Instead, I’m left with the vague sense that I’m unmoored—a boat bobbing away from the dock with no clear sense of direction. Sure, I defended my dissertation, but the path forward has never felt less clear.

I’ll finish up the semester with the four lectures I’m teaching, and then…my schedule suddenly frees up. For the first time since childhood, I won’t be in school. And as someone in their late twenties, that sort of freedom feels a lot like loss.

Loss of direction; loss of structure. I’ve never operated in the real world before—I’ve always had someone else telling me what to do.

Funny how we grow up to want the one thing we’ve always tried to rebel against.

“Hey, Montgomery-Parker, join me by the Franzia.”

Nick’s deep voice jolts me out of my own thoughts. I’d forgotten he’d be here, though of course it makes sense—he’s a post-doc in the history department, and that’s also part of CAS. He’s been helping oversee a few PhD candidates this year since one of the department chairs is nearing retirement. Once that happens, several professors will be promoted, and they’re priming Nick for an adjunct spot.

Not that I’ve talked to him much, of course. Ever since last summer, I’ve tried to give him as much space as humanly possible. But the history department is small, and their administrative assistant is extremely chummy with Grace. So even though I’ve been keeping my distance from Nick, I’ve heard quite a bit through the grapevine.

“Did you come over just to boss me around?” I unroll myself from the column I’ve been leaning on.