Page 33 of Any Port in a Storm

I narrow my eyes. “I thought you wanted us to be friends.”

“We are friends.”

“Right,” I say, drawing my pointer finger in an exaggerated sweep across the coffee table. “Just not like we were before.”

Nick blinks rapidly. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t want to discuss the women you’re seeing with me. That suggests you, in fact, don’t want to be friends like we were before.”

He laughs softly. “Laurel.”

“No, it’s okay.” I cross and uncross my legs, eager to find the right position for my nervous energy. “I just want to know where we stand.”

I half expect him to make some kind of joke about how we’re not standing, we’re actually sitting down. Because that’s what the Nick of yesteryear would have done.

This Nick just stares at me, a fraught expression overtaking his features.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” he murmurs finally. “You walked away. You didn’t want to get back together, so I respected your boundaries and let you be. What good is it going to do if I tell you about the women I’ve been with since then?”

“Oh, so there have been some,” I say, a little too quickly.

Nick draws his lips into a line. “Yes, there have been some. But those relationships didn’t amount to anything, because I’ve been stewing in my feelings ever since you came home last July. And I can’t seem to make it work with anyone else, because I guess I’m a little bit too broken inside after everything that went down.”

I swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”

“And anyway,” he says, louder now, “what about Porter?”

“What about him?”

Nick’s knuckles are turning white where he’s gripping the edge of the couch cushion. “How come it’s okay for you to not only have the occasional rendezvous with men, but to have a regular boyfriend, but I’m not allowed to see anyone?”

“Okay, first of all, Porter’s not my boyfriend⁠—”

“Then what are you doing, Laurel?” His voice is strained. “Casually hooking up with the same person for the better part of a year with no commitment whatsoever is so not you.”

My chest tightens. “I’m not sure you’re in a position to tell me what is or isn’t ‘me,’ all things considered.”

Hurt flashes across his face. “I guess you’re right,” he says bitterly. “Given the way you surprised me with the Porter news last summer, I suppose I should get used to the fact that I don’t know you nearly as well as I thought.”

His words cut like a dull knife, slicing through old wounds and leaving a throbbing pain in their wake.

“You know me,” I insist.

“I’m not so sure I do.”

A ragged breath breaks free. “You’re right. We shouldn’t talk about this.”

Nick rises to stand. “After the two weeks are up, I’ll be out of your hair.”

Waves of grief rush to fill the aching void his words left behind. “Wait,” I say hastily. Anything to get him to sit back down. “What about our game?”

“No point in finishing.” He gestures to the pieces. “It’s going to be a stalemate.”

TEN

six years earlier

Sam and I start hanging out after the autumn formal, and it isn’t long before we turn into something more. I’m surprised how easy it is, falling for someone who isn’t Nick. Things with Sam are light and free and fun, and it’s nice to throw myself into a relationship that doesn’t feel like it could destroy me if it ends.