Page 17 of Any Port in a Storm

“It’s okay.” He adeptly grabs two bowls, two spoons, and a pint of cookie dough, then joins me back on the couch. “Old habits, and all.” He hands me the ice cream and a spoon.

“To old habits,” I say, holding it up as if in a toast.

He clinks his spoon against mine. “Hear, hear.”

Classes are probably going to be cancelled once Hawthorne announces the lockdown, but I figure I might as well get some lesson planning done. I gently push open my bedroom door, trying to avoid waking Nick in the living room. It’s been exceptionally quiet so far this morning.

It was pretty quiet last night, too, after I accidentally used his full name. Something I learned ages ago is not a good idea.

When I’m trying to keep things platonic, that is.

The lights are off, but Nick’s sitting up on the couch, bent over a book. Something softens in my chest.

“Morning,” I say.

“Hey.” He slips a bookmark into his novel. “How’d you sleep?”

I love how nonchalant he’s being. Like nothing’s happened. Like we’ve jumped backward in time a year to when things were great. Or even further back, when we fought our tension for over half a decade, but thrived in each other’s company. “It wasn’t the most restful night I’ve ever had. Existential dread, and all that.”

“I hear you.”

“Also, I have some wicked cramps this morning.”

Nick has three sisters, so I’ve never been shy about discussing my period with him. “It’s just life,” he’s always told me.

He really is the best kind of man.

“I’m sorry. Do you want some ibuprofen?” He rises to stand. “I think Max dropped some off with the rest of my stuff.”

“I have some. Thanks.” I rummage around on the coffee table, but I can’t find my lesson book anywhere. Panic swirls in to replace all coherent thought. I need those notes.

God—did I leave them somewhere? If I forgot them in the library, or the English lounge, I’m not going to be able to get them back for at least two weeks. Who knows if they’ll have made their way to the trash by then.

“Did you move my notebook?” I realize as soon as the words are out that they sound accusatory, but I don’t care. I’m tired, the world is burning all around us, and my uterus feels like it’s going to squeeze itself straight out of my vagina.

Nick scrubs the back of his neck, sleep clinging to every movement. “I didn’t touch any of your stuff.”

I gesture around the apartment. “You’re touching all of my stuff. This entire apartment is my stuff.”

His shoulders sag. “Laurel.”

“What?”

He takes a step closer, looks up at me from under his shelf of rumpled hair. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” I inhale sharply. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“I know,” he says gently. “This is hard.”

I nod wordlessly.

“I can go.”

“No.” Without thinking, I reach for his hand. He stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away. “I—this is the safest place for you to be right now. And it’s only temporary,” I add in a rush. “This will all blow over soon, and then we can return to our regularly scheduled awkward waves on campus.”

He forces a chuckle. “That we can.”

“Just being here, with you…” I study our joined hands. “It’s bringing back a lot of memories.”