Page 135 of Any Port in a Storm

As it turns out, having something fun on the horizon isn’t enough to lift my mood. I try cleaning, then sitting on the beach, then painting my nails, but nothing’s proving a particularly effective distraction.

I’m adding a second coat of hot pink nail polish when Ivy gets home. She cautiously settles in beside me, like she’s afraid I’ll break.

“Hey,” she says. “Can we talk?”

“Sure.”

She sighs. “I’m a little worried about you, Laur.”

I blow air across my nails and look at her nonchalantly. “Why’s that?”

“You know why.”

My mind rushes over my outing this morning. My nerves were on the fritz, sure, but I can’t pinpoint what, exactly, Ivy’s picking up on. I haven’t told her about Nick or Spillinger; she just thinks I’m overworked. “I really don’t,” I say after a minute.

“Okay,” she begins. “How about because you showed up to the bookstore today looking like you just rolled out of bed? Which you know I am more than fine with, but you never go anywhere unless you’ve primped for at least an hour.”

I scowl at her, but she doesn’t break. “Or how about because you simply couldn’t bear to pull yourself away from your dissertation, then, suddenly, you had to drop everything in the middle of the day to arrange a bizarre night out between us and my coworker? Or⁠—”

I cut her off. “He’s more than your coworker.”

“He isn’t,” she snaps.

I examine my nails. “Whatever. But he’s a friend-type person that you can talk to tonight, so I don’t see the harm.”

“No harm,” she says, sliding into a gentler register. “Although the Cruella de Vil quote was a bit of a head-scratcher.”

Okay, maybe I had seemed a little bit loopy at Shoreline earlier. I’d announced my departure with a hearty, “Cheerio, darlings,” but I guess Ivy didn’t find the reference as hilarious as I had in that moment. “I’m nothing if not whimsical,” I bluster.

“Be that as it may⁠—”

“Oh, it may.”

She laughs. “Yes, fine. You’re very whimsical. But you also seemed more than a little insane today. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

I stare at my manicure, desperate for the right reply.

Ivy leans toward me, concern shrouding her gentle features. “Laur?”

I rack my brain for a way to get out of this conversation without showing my hand, but I come up woefully short. In any case, telling Ivy what’s going on, or at least some of it, might help me cope. I take a deep breath. “I got a call from my advisor today.”

“About your draft?”

I incline my head.

“And?”

Tears rush in despite my ardent attempts to keep them at bay. “She hates it.”

Ivy puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “Are you sure? There must be some kind of mistake, right?”

I shake my head despondently. “No. No, there isn’t. She says my conclusions are ‘subpar’ and ‘irredeemably derivative.’ And she wants to meet with me in person as soon as possible to go over next steps.”

Ivy’s jaw drops. “Next steps?”

I feel my chin waver. “If I can’t get things back on track, I may get kicked out of the program.”

“What?” Ivy explodes. “But you’re their best student! The university practically begged you to enroll after the way you crushed your Master’s thesis. They can’t just do that!”