Page 147 of Any Port in a Storm

But maybe, just for this moment, we can pretend.

Our hands are wild, grasping at clothes and tearing them off; lust completely overtaking sentimentality as we fall back into old patterns that feel so comfortable; so right. Like waves carving the same path to shore, over and over and over again.

I’ve never wanted anyone so much.

It’s still about ninety degrees out, and I turned the air conditioner off when I went to Maine, so everything is hot—slick with sweat and wanting. From the moment Nick kisses me to the moment I drag him down on top of me, it might only be forty seconds. All I know is I need this. Need him.

It’s like we’re making up for lost time—two long months of separation; of unresolved feelings. Our mouths are hurried, and every movement of his body against mine is desperate; urgent.

When I scramble toward a climax that feels like it’s going to cause an earthquake, Nick holds me tight to him and guides me through it.

And when he collapses beside me afterward, beads of sweat clinging to his brow, a tender smile blooms as he whispers, “I missed you, too.”

Nick insists on cooking lunch for us. “I need to make up for the pastries last night,” he explains.

“But the pastries were delicious.”

He fixes me with a stern look. “I want to make sure you’re getting plenty of protein. I know that’s a concern for you.”

“I’ll allow it,” I hedge against the melting of my reservations.

I don’t have much food in the apartment since I’ve been away for so long, but we manage to find some pasta and frozen meatballs. We mostly eat in silence, but the supercharged looks we’re shooting each other across the table are among the loudest sounds I’ve ever heard.

After lunch, Nick moves to the sink to clean up. About thirty seconds later, he turns back to look at me. “Do you want to come home with me?” He’s brimming with a casual sort of hope.

“Home?”

“Yeah, you know. To Dublin. I still have your plane ticket.” He busies himself with scrubbing the pan he’s holding.

“Oh,” I say, unsure. Because we aren’t even together now. Not really. And given how things imploded in the spring, and what I learned, I’m not sure barreling across the Atlantic at 30,000 feet together is the right move.

Especially if the trip would involve staying at his parents’ house. That seems like it would be a little too…familiar, all things considered.

“Oh?” He sets down the sponge.

“I’m not sure,” I hedge. “It’s a really nice offer.”

“But?”

I take a deep breath. “But I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

Something shatters behind his eyes. “Why not?”

Because he dated my mentor and never told me. Because he fell in love with me, probably years before I realized I was in love with him, and because I don’t know how that sort of omission and his yearning can coexist.

Because his omission almost cost me my career, and he still works at Hawthorne. I still need to graduate. I may try to look for a job here, too.

And what would happen if things ended poorly between us again? How would we negotiate a colleague relationship? He said it himself—it was important that he and Spillinger get along. He and I would have to, also.

And besides, I’m sure some of the faculty already know what happened with Nick and Spillinger and me—I’d rather not make it a full set. It would be hard enough navigating that social faux pas with just some of the staff, were I to teach here.

And, most of all, because losing him once already broke me in ways I don’t think I’d survive again. With every fissure, those fault lines will get worn down by the elements, and without the jagged edges, it will become harder and harder to put the pieces back together.

I can’t do this.

“Look,” I say, thoughts racing faster than I can keep up. “I met someone. In Ogunquit.”

All the color drains from Nick’s face. “What?”