Page 23 of Any Port in a Storm

Our arms crisscross behind us on the blanket, and his pinky moves toward mine, offering the lightest, sweetest touch. “A night of hanging out with you?” He shakes his head. “Nothing lame about that.”

SEVEN

now

Ispend twenty minutes searching for my notebook, and the next half hour pretending I’m still looking. Anything to avoid facing Nick in my living room.

He’s either gone back to reading or he’s fallen asleep again—it’s silent in the apartment. And that silence feels awkward, which has never been the case with us before. In the past, we always managed to find things to talk about.

That said, the silence is not so awkward that I’m ready to shatter it.

Between the sense that my uterus is attempting to kill me and the impending doom that seems to have descended since Sandra’s phone call, I just don’t have the energy to deal with Nick or how he makes me feel right now.

Hell, I’m having a hard enough time dealing with the loss of the normalcy I’ve always taken for granted. And with the sheer terror that the world is about to change somehow, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I should call my parents; call Ivy and Oliver. I need to make sure they’re okay and that they’re watching the news. I don’t want them to be caught off-guard. Or worse, infected.

Just as I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, mind racing with angst and a mental checklist of what to do next, the screen of my phone lights up with a text from Porter.

I’ve got a work dinner on Friday. Want to plus one?

A sharp laugh forces its way up my throat. Ordinarily, I’d jump at the opportunity for an all-expenses-paid night out—Porter works for a hedge fund, and his company events are always top-tier.

It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen him, too. He had a big project that was keeping him at the office well past the time of night I’d be up for getting together.

But now, I’m locked down in my apartment. With my ex. It’s a hefty one-two punch of reasons I have to decline the invitation.

I’m also pretty suspicious that Porter’s event is going to be cancelled before Friday arrives, given the wall of virus-laden air currently invading the city. I’m about to tell him as much when my mind flashes back to Sandra’s request that I keep news of the university’s plans on the down low. I’m not sure how to explain that I’m stuck in my apartment for two weeks without revealing the bigger picture of what’s going on here.

I especially don’t know how to explain that Nick has temporarily moved in.

Even though Porter and I have been extremely candid about having an open relationship, something about this feels too tenuous a situation to articulate. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Nick’s the last person I dated before Porter. Maybe it’s more because of our nearly decade-long friendship.

Or maybe, I realize with a sinking in my chest that makes me fall backward onto the mattress, it’s because my feelings for Nick, however complicated, are clearly still alive and well. Eight months of virtually no contact have apparently done very little to dampen the fire that burns in my veins whenever he’s around.

Sounds like fun, but I can’t make it, I text Porter before I can change my mind.

His reply is instant and polite, like this is a business transaction and not something with feelings involved. No worries. Maybe another time.

I suppose, when it comes to Porter and me, there are very few feelings involved.

Groaning, I bury my face in my comforter. I have no idea how I’m going to get through the next fortnight, much less the rest of today. I don’t know how to handle the swirling vortex of emotion that’s wreaking havoc on my thoughts right now. Grief for the loss of what I had with Nick. Frustration that he’s here; that I’m stuck with him. Excitement that I get to see him again, the same excitement I’ve always felt whenever he’s around.

Sheer terror that I might die; that the people I love might die. Discomfort because I don’t know what’s happening, and I’m not sure anyone really does. Because I’m not sure anyone is coming to save us.

I need to talk to someone. Anyone besides Nick, really.

This feels like a conversation for my other best friend. Grace works in Springfield these days, but her company sends her to Boston every couple of weeks. Whenever she’s here, we meet up for coffee in the student union café, just like old times. We’ve stayed just as close as ever, and I know I can trust her to keep a lid on what Sandra shared on the phone.

I can also trust her not to judge me too harshly for my ill-advised houseguest.

I hold my breath to make sure Nick isn’t anywhere near my bedroom, but the apartment’s silent. He definitely fell back to sleep. I quickly dial Grace.

Fortunately, she answers right away. “Hey, friend.” I hear typing in the background, and it sends shockwaves of gratitude racing straight to my heart—she’s clearly at work, but she took the time for my call regardless.

“Hey. How’s it going?”

“Eh.” I hear her push a drawer closed. “I’ve been better.”