Page 14 of Any Port in a Storm

“No, you’re laughing at my discomfort,” he cuts in, adeptly navigating the conversation away from my misstep. “I see how it is.”

I hold a hand over my heart, grateful for his transparent diversion. “I would never.”

He chuckles. “What’s your fact?”

“I’m not sure I have anything quite this amusing.”

He pretends to glare at me.

“Okay, fine. Um…I’m afraid of thunderstorms.”

I swear his face melts. “Really?”

“Unfortunately. When I was a kid, I got locked out during a storm once, and I had to wait on the porch for my mom to let me back inside.” I shudder involuntarily. “The tree next to the house got struck by lightning. It was only fifteen feet away.”

Nick’s voice is hushed. “Whoa.”

“Yeah.”

“I could see where that would cause a bit of trauma.”

“It wasn’t the best.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “But enough about me; I think it’s your turn.”

He considers me thoughtfully. “I love living in Boston, but what I think I miss most about home is how green everything is.”

My heart just about splits in half at the longing written all over his face. “The Emerald Isle, right?”

“That’s just a nickname,” he shrugs. “You’d have to see it to understand. From the minute the plane breaks through the cloud cover over Dublin, all you can see is green. It’s…” His eyes look a little misty. “It’s breathtaking.”

“I’d like to see it someday,” I say softly, trying to match his reverence.

He meets my gaze, a gentle smile edging across his face. “I hope you get the chance.”

Just then, a history professor bustles over. I think her name’s Dr. Sanchez. “Nick, we’re going to get started. Is your team ready?”

He looks to me. “All set?”

“You took my notes,” I grumble.

He slides them back across the table, and I snatch them greedily. “We’re ready.”

As it turns out, there are a whole host of arguments in favor of war—defense, protecting Christian pilgrims, reclaiming sacred land—things that sound okay on paper, perhaps, because of how far in the past these events are. If any of this happened today, I think the pro stance would be a lot harder to support.

In any case, Nick and I double down on our argument—that the Crusades were expansionist violence driven by a relentless quest for power and wealth, all colored by religious intolerance. I surprise myself by going off-notecard the fourth time I speak, and I even piggyback on something that Jamie, one of the other students on our team, says, right off the cuff.

When the professors who are judging the debate announce that we’ve won, I feel Nick’s eyes on me.

I turn to face him. “What?”

“Well? What did you think?”

I flash him a bright smile. “I think you were right.”

He pretends to fall out of his chair.

“Okay, seriously?”

“I didn’t have two victories on my bingo card for tonight,” he teases, getting up off the floor.