Page 115 of Any Port in a Storm

He bursts out laughing against my neck. “Would you like to be my girlfriend, Laurel?”

“Hmm,” I consider. “What’s in it for me?”

“I mean…” He waves suggestively over himself. “All of this, at your constant disposal.”

I brush my lips against his. “What about this?”

“Yep. That too.”

“Then you leave me no choice but to accept.”

His lazy smile melts whatever remains of my heart. “Perfect.”

THIRTY-THREE

now

Despite my late-night realization that Nick is it for me, I can’t bring myself to broach the subject the next day. He’s not in a good place, in light of his grandfather’s passing, and I’m in full-on caregiver mode—cooking, cleaning, making sure he rests.

Lucy texts at noon. We’re going to have a virtual funeral. Still trying to work out the details. Call if you need to talk, and I’ll keep you posted. Love you.

I watch in real time as Nick’s heart breaks even further. “Not only am I trapped here,” he says, utterly lachrymose, “and I never got to see him again, now I won’t even get to say a proper goodbye.”

Something pangs beneath my ribs at the idea that Nick feels trapped here. I’m assuming it’s the grief talking, rather than a larger-picture reflection of how he feels about our time together.

And I realize it’s a little hypocritical for me to be upset, given how trapped I’d felt at the beginning of our quarantine. Granted, a lot of that was more because of the state of the world than anything Nick did.

In any case, I spend so much time running around the apartment today, making sure Nick has everything he needs, that I don’t even make it to my email until after he falls asleep after dinner.

And when I do, my jaw drops.

Because sitting in my inbox is a note from Margo Rodecker at the Massachusetts Literary Museum, letting me know she’d like to interview me.

And just below that is a similar note from Briarford University.

I’m swept up in simultaneous waves of panic and shock—how is it possible that both of these hiring committees are interested in me?

“We absolutely loved your cover letter, and we look forward to speaking further,” Margo’s note reads. “Your experience stood out amongst our applicants,” says Briarford’s email. “We’d love the chance to conduct an interview.”

“Whoa,” I say aloud. Just a few days ago, I was worried I wasn’t going to have any prospects whatsoever come fall. And now, it seems like I’m going to have choices.

Not just any choices, either—two options that are incredible fits, for vastly different reasons.

The job with the museum is exciting in a way I hadn’t anticipated I’d feel about any opportunity. And it’s just outside Boston, so I’d be able to keep my apartment. Stay close to my parents.

Be near Nick.

But Briarford’s an excellent school, and it’s exactly what I’ve been working toward. Plus, the staff there skews much older, and I expect I might have some amazing chances at a promotion in a few years when they retire.

Working for Briarford would mean moving to Pennsylvania, though. And, while I do appreciate the efficiency of a state outlined in hospital corners, I’m not sure I want to leave Boston right now.

Not right when other things, things I’ve waited years for, are falling into place for me.

I feel horrifically guilty having thoughts about how everything is falling into place while Nick is sleeping off a broken heart on my sofa. My brain’s a swirling vortex of conflicted emotions, and I don’t even know what to do with all of the agita.

I need to talk to someone, I think. Someone who understands loss and love and the unique confusion that comes from complicated career choices.

Without question, that someone is my cousin.