Page 13 of Any Port in a Storm

“Maybe.”

“I think I’d like to be her someday.”

Grace raises a blonde eyebrow. “If you say so.”

“And anyway,” I continue, swallowing a bite of pizza, “I don’t think my impending humiliation at the history club debate would be appropriate for your maid of honor speech. It would have nothing to do with my theoretical future husband.”

“Ah, but it could.”

I glare at her. “What are you suggesting?”

She cackles. “Nick’s pretty cute, you know? You could do a lot worse.”

I’m shaking my head before she’s even finished talking. “No, no, no. Absolutely not.”

“Laurel, why? He’s sooo hot. And he seems like a genius.”

My cheeks heat. “He’s a huge dork.”

She smirks. “Sounds like your kind of man.”

That time, she doesn’t even see the breadstick coming.

“I’m really nervous,” I whisper, watching people stream into the lecture hall. I’m sitting next to Nick at a folding table, furiously scanning my notecards in a last-ditch effort to memorize everything there is to know about Pope Urban II. The rest of our team is milling about the room, chatting with friends like they’ve done this a thousand times before.

“I promise, this is just supposed to be fun. And besides,” Nick says with a chuckle, “you led me to believe that brevity eludes you, so talking at length shouldn’t be a problem.”

I want to laugh and also to smack him. I opt for an exaggerated eye roll instead. “How is there even something to debate? How can anyone be pro-war?”

“I guess we’ll have to see what arguments the other team prepared.” He gestures toward the table to our left.

“I guess we will.” I go back to skimming my notecards.

“Hey.” He puts his hand across the top card. “Let’s finish our game from the other day.”

“Do you want to win this debate or not?”

“You’re going to be fine.” He slides my notecards away and props his chin in his hand. “I hate the feeling of chalk.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s my next fact. I can’t stand the way chalk feels. It poses significant difficulties for me when I’m TA-ing. The entire third floor of the history building still has blackboards.”

A smile grows despite my frustration at his theft of my notes. “That’s…amazing.”

“In what universe is my sensory aversion ‘amazing’?”

I snicker. “You’re just so weird.”

“Gee, thanks.” He’s pretending to be annoyed, but I can see the laugh creeping in.

“Don’t worry, it’s weird in an endearing way,” I reassure him.

As soon as the words are out, I regret them. Not because it’s a lie—I do find the idea of Nick panicking whenever he has to write on the board pretty hilarious. But a cute kind of hilarious.

The regret is more because of how pink his cheeks are turning, and the way he’s staring hard at the table rather than looking at me at all.

“Sorry,” I rush. “I just meant…”