Page 131 of Any Port in a Storm

When I’m drying off, I hear the smoke detector chirping in the kitchen. Tightening my towel around my chest, I race out of my room.

A pot has boiled over on the stove, and Nick’s rushing from the printer on my desk to turn down the heat.

“You’re cooking?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s nothing. “But I got a little distracted; sorry.”

Granted, Nick loves to cook, but he’s been so grief-stricken of late that he hasn’t had the urge. Seeing him doing it again fills me with relief—like maybe he’s feeling better. Like he’s going to be okay.

He looks like he’s got the stove under control, so I head to the printer, still clutching my towel tightly. I’d love more sultry time with Nick, but this doesn’t feel like the right time, all things considered. Avoiding accidental exposure seems like a smart move.

When I see the document lying in the paper tray, I stop. “What’s this?”

“Oh,” he says over his shoulder. “I made you one last assignment. I even typed it this time.”

I survey the words across the top of the page. “Describe your perfect day working at a museum.”

“Nick.” His name comes out thick.

“Just—you don’t have to say anything. You don’t even have to show me when you’re done. But I’m asking you to think it over. Because I think…no, I know…” His gaze meets mine across the room. “This would make you happy.”

I watch him wiping spilled pasta water off my stove while my wet hair drips all over my desk, and it hits me—this is real. This is the real, mundane, everyday stuff that makes up a life.

And I think it’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

Two days later, I have my Zoom interview with Margo.

“Laurel!” she trills. “So great to see you again!”

“It’s great to see you, too.” I fight the urge to play with my skirt under the table.

Margo pushes her glasses up her nose. “I’m going to be honest, I was kind of hoping you’d see this job and apply. I knew you were on track to graduate this year, and the timing just seemed too perfect.”

“It did. Does. Seem perfect, that is.” God, why can’t I turn my nerves off?

“So,” she says, suddenly all business, “we can skip over some of the basics, because I already know your background. But maybe you can give me an idea of why you’re interested in the position.”

“I love museums, and I love literature. I didn’t even know roles like this existed, to be honest, until I saw the post, but I just had to apply. It aligns all of my interests.”

“That’s amazing. Your dissertation focuses on feminist literature, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling better with every passing second. “The Pre-Raphaelites, specifically.”

“I always thought they were a male-dominated group,” she muses. “Not horribly feminist.”

“I mean, it might seem that way,” I explain. “But the brotherhood often centered female subjects in their work, and it gave female creators space to articulate their own experiences. That’s true both of members of the PRB ‘sisterhood,’ like Elizabeth Siddal, and women more aligned with the brotherhood, like Christina Rossetti.”

Margo grins. “Your passion for this is astounding. You know we have some of Christina’s things here, right?”

I do the best modulation of my life to avoid coming across as rabid. “I do. I think you’d mentioned it was in the works when we met last year at the symposium.” And I’ve been relentlessly stalking the collections page on your website ever since, I think, but don’t vocalize.

“That’s right! Yes, we’ve managed to close some of those acquisitions. If you come to work for us, you’ll be surrounded by those artifacts on day one.”

A little thrill shoots up my spine. “That sounds…well, it sounds amazing.”

“I should have probably led with this, but because of the lockdown, this role would be virtual for the time being. We’d be looking for someone to start in-person in the fall, most likely.” She draws a ragged breath. “Unless things get worse again.”

I shudder. “I hope they don’t.”