Page 133 of Any Port in a Storm

He takes a step closer. “Fine. I said I can’t fix everything. Because the things that matter most—well, it seems like I’m unable to fix those.”

“Nick—”

“I’m not done. The one thing,” he holds up his pointer finger, “the one goddamn thing that matters most to me in this entire world, that’s the thing I can’t manage to fix.”

“So let’s fix it,” I plead.

“Okay,” he says, his voice still much louder than usual. “So we’ve apologized for the other day. Now what?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what is this? Do you want to be with me?” His eyes are wild on my face. “The back and forth is killing me. It’s killing me, Laurel.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Do you even know what it’s like to be here with you? To see you every morning; to have to go sleep on the fucking couch every night when you’re right there in the next room?”

My jaw falls open.

Nick’s speaking so intensely now, it takes me a minute to pick up the cadence of his words through his accent. “It’s absolutely killing me, being here. All I can do is think about everything that went wrong last year. About how badly I fucked up, then and now. About how much I loved you.” His eyes settle on mine. “About how much I still love you.”

I shake my head. “Nick⁠—”

“No.” He cuts me off. “I have to say it, Laurel. This is it for me. You are it for me, and I love you.” His voice is desperate, almost pleading now. “I love you.”

God, I want to fall into the multitudes of his soul and never leave. “I love you, too,” I whisper.

The words are barely out before his hands are on me, dragging my hips to his; desperately crushing his lips against mine. “I love you,” he moans into my mouth. “You have no idea how much I love you.”

I weave my fingers through his hair. “I’ve always loved you.”

“Fuck,” he groans, covering my mouth with his. His kiss is desperate; hungry. It’s the natural consequence of almost a decade of pent-up wanting, all pouring out in one spectacular conclusion.

Nick walks me back against the wall, running his hands over my chest; under my shirt as he pulls it off me, grunting at the sight of my breasts. He slides the straps of my bra down off my shoulders, then peels the cups down and reaches behind me to unclasp it.

“You’re so goddamn perfect,” he moans.

I gasp, his thumb swirling around my nipple in the most exquisite way. “That feels nice.”

“That’s the idea,” he whispers against the curve of my ear. “Come on.” He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the bed.

“A girl might almost think you staged this entire argument just to get lucky,” I trill, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He bursts out laughing, then covers my mouth with his with even greater urgency. “Lay down on the bed,” he gravels in between kisses. “Take your skirt off.”

His voice, and the command, sends a rush of heat straight between my thighs. “Whatever you want,” I say coyly.

He groans, watching me undress. “Damn it, Laurel.” He closes the distance between us. “I want this forever.”

I pull him down against me. “You and me both.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

last july

Ivy and I arrive in Ogunquit on a sweltering July day. No one else wanted to come with us this year, which seems to be weighing heavily on my cousin. I mean, sure, I also would’ve preferred if our family had managed to muster some semblance of normalcy this summer. For the sake of our collective mental health, and all.

But Ivy’s parents are currently trialing a separation, which her mom abruptly requested last November. And my mom is busy prepping a new cohort of teachers at her school; they lost six to a private school that opened up down the road last year. “I’m going to be stuck in training for weeks,” she’d said apologetically.

My dad wasn’t much better—he’s about a year away from retirement, but he decided this was the summer he needed to devote extra energy to his work as an environmental lawyer.

“That’s what attorneys do,” Grace had reassured me a few weeks ago when we met up for coffee during one of her trips to Boston. “They don’t know how to turn it off.”