Page 149 of Any Port in a Storm

I taste saline. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you.” He crosses to the door, props it open. “Just—call me, okay? I don’t…I don’t want to lose our friendship.”

“Of course,” I promise.

It’s not until the door slams shut and his absence reverberates against the walls of my mind that I realize the truth: there’s no way I’m going to call him. I can’t.

Because, despite my fervent efforts to prevent it, loving Nick has left me with a broken heart after all.

FORTY-THREE

now

After Nick leaves, I sit with my head in my hands, staring at the job offers on my desk until my head starts to pound.

“I’m going to figure this out,” I say aloud. The sound echoes in the stillness.

I don’t think my apartment has ever felt so empty. It’s so huge now, I almost could get lost here.

Ivy’s advice flashes through my mind. “I called my mom. And it was like looking in a mirror,” she’d said.

Without really thinking it through, I grab my phone and dial.

At the very least, I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite daughter!” Mom greets me enthusiastically, like she hasn’t spoken to another human being in days. Knowing my father, she probably hasn’t. “What’s happening, sweetheart?”

My mind swirls with all the things that are currently happening, but I shove them down and settle for a partial truth. “I can’t even believe I’m saying this, but I got two job offers.”

“Laurel!” My mom’s voice rises with excitement. “I’m thrilled for you; congratulations!”

“Thank you! It’s definitely…exciting.”

She chuckles. “Why do you sound like you’re undergoing a root canal?”

“Well,” I quip, “you always drove home the importance of excellent dental hygiene, so that’s fortunately an unfamiliar experience for me.”

“I did what I could,” she teases. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. “I think so. Or, at least, it will be.”

I hear her pull out a chair. I can practically see my parents’ black Shaker-style dining set; the blue runner down the center of the table. My mother, flushed from her afternoon workout, propping her head in her hand as she settles in to help me problem-solve.

“What’s going on?” she asks gently.

“I’m just not sure what I want.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I do, actually.” It strikes me then, that while I never felt like my parents really focused on my emotions, I also never asked them to. Never came to them with my problems—just let them go on believing that I was fine.

If I’ve learned anything these last few weeks, it’s that I need to slow down and be more aware, both of the beauty of my surroundings and the nuance of my innermost thoughts. By paying more attention, I’ll be ready to ask for help when I need it, and to offer it when others do.

“So,” I tell my mom, “one of the jobs is an adjunct faculty position at Briarford University. The pay is decent, and they have a pretty elderly English department. I think there could be a lot of retirements in the coming years. Might pave the way for a promotion for me.”

“Well, that sounds promising.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does.”