Page 100 of Any Port in a Storm

Leo broke up with Grace on February 13th, claiming he “didn’t see a future together because of her health.” If that isn’t the douchiest reason for ending a relationship, I don’t know what is.

And who even breaks up with their girlfriend right before Valentine’s Day?

“I know he wanted kids,” she continues. “And yeah, my endometriosis might make that hard. But there are lots of things doctors can do. I can have another laparoscopy. There are treatments.”

“Of course.” I wave over our favorite bartender, Megan, and plop a fresh twenty on the bar. “Two more, please.”

“But beyond that, I don’t even understand.” Grace draws an X in the condensation on her glass. “I mean, sure—the lupus isn’t ideal. Neither is the Crohn’s. But everything is so well managed. My biologics are working great.” A lone tear plops onto her cheek. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Look at me.” I take her hand again. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Okay? Your health is not your fault, and it’s something that the right guy isn’t even going to blink at. Leo not being able to handle it is fully a reflection of him, not of you.”

She nods slowly. “I know. I know that, like, intellectually. But feeling it…that’s another story entirely.”

“I understand. Dating is the worst.” Other than a string of increasingly disastrous Tinder meetups earlier this year, I haven’t dated anyone since Sam. And it’s been ages since I’ve had real feelings for anyone.

Feelings I could act on, anyway.

“Hey, ladies.” Nick sidles up behind us and throws an arm over each of our shoulders. “I’m sorry, Grace.” He presses a kiss to the top of her hair. “Leo’s trash. You deserve so much better.”

“Thanks.” She leans into his embrace. “I don’t know what I would do without you guys.”

“You’d be fine,” he returns. “But we’re here to help regardless.” He surveys the two shots Megan just dropped off and pushes both toward Grace with a wink in my direction.

“Could we get a few more?” he asks Megan, pulling out his wallet.

Nick hops over to the stool on my right and takes off his coat. He’s wearing a blue sweater over a white collared shirt, a look that’s so classic for him, I think it’s the outfit his action figure would wear.

“You look nice,” he whispers against my ear.

I’m startled by the compliment, because I’m just wearing my blue wrap dress. It’s one of my most repeated outfits, and he’s seen me in it probably hundreds of times at this point.

“Thanks?”

“What? Can’t a guy like a girl’s dress without it being weird?”

“A guy can,” I say, grabbing a shot off the tray Megan just brought. “But coming from you, it’s weird.”

Nick tilts his head. “Why is it weird coming from me?”

“Because you’re my BGF.”

“I’m a Roald Dahl character?”

I bump my knee playfully against his. “That’s the BFG.”

“Right. What’s a BGF?”

“Best guy friend.” I tap my glass against the bar with each syllable, then throw back the vodka. It stings all the way down, but it’s a burn I’ve been craving. Work’s been hard lately, and I need the release.

Nick scowls. “Excuse me if I’d prefer not to be reduced to an acronym.”

“Sorry. I’ll use the full words from now on.”

“Laurel, stop harassing the man.” Grace leans toward us. “Nick, how’s work?”

“It’s good. Busy. My Early Modern Europe 200-level is doing a research project at the Boston Public Library, so I’ve been shuttling them back and forth every time we have sessions.”

“That sounds like a lot.” Grace does a third shot. I’m definitely going to have to help her get to bed tonight.