Page 142 of Any Port in a Storm

“Thank you,” I whisper.

We sit in silence for a bit, two blips on the heatmap of the city on this sweltering July day. I think, if we were to look at the temperature readings, our hearts would probably be the hottest things of all.

FORTY-ONE

now

Beyond just the stress of choosing a job, the hiring process itself is wreaking another layer of havoc entirely.

“I don’t even know what to do,” I’m telling Grace on the phone. “Both Briarford and the museum asked for references, just as a formality. To stick in my file, they said.”

“Okay, so?” I hear a cat purr in the background, so I have to assume Grace is still at her parents’ house. Princess Pawsome is a calico kitten that all three members of her family dote on to a degree that is, at times, alarming.

“Margo Rodecker, at the museum? She specifically asked for something from Spillinger.”

Grace snorts. “So tell her no.”

“They’re friends. Like, real-life friends. I’m honestly surprised Rodecker hasn’t already gotten an earful about me from Spillinger. But if she’s asking for a letter, and I can’t procure one…”

“It would look bad,” Grace agrees. “And she might bring it up the next time they’re together.”

“Exactly.”

“Can you ask Nick to help?”

“Grace! I’m not sending Nick out to fight my battles for me. And I’m certainly not sending him straight into the arms of his ex. I just got him back.”

“Well,” Grace says, clucking something to the cat about how she’s the prettiest kitty on the planet, “then you know what you’re going to have to do.”

Panic rises in my chest. “I can’t.”

“You’re going to have to call her, Laur.”

I grit my teeth. “Maybe an email?”

“She can ignore an email.”

“Okay, fine. You’re right.” I draw a ragged breath. “I’ll call her.”

“Good girl,” Grace says.

“Are you talking to me or the cat?”

She laughs. “That was directed at you. But you’re a good girl too, aren’t you, Princess?”

“Okay, I feel like I’ve walked onto the set of a porno, so I’m going to let you go.”

I can practically see her eye roll through the phone. “Good luck, my friend.”

Nick went out for a run, and I wouldn’t trouble him with this issue anyway, convoluted and melodramatic as it’s become. I talk myself in and out of calling Spillinger for a good twenty minutes before I decide to just rip off the bandage. I need to move on.

My heartbeat is high in my throat as I dial, and it almost stops entirely when I hear Spillinger’s brusque, “Hello?”

“Hi, Dr. Spillinger. It’s Laurel Montgomery-Parker. Thanks for taking my call.”

“No problem,” she replies, in a tone like maybe it is, in fact, a problem.

“I hope you’ve been well,” I say.