Page 34 of Any Port in a Storm

It’s also nice, given how humiliated I felt after the dance, to move on so quickly. If I’d had to sit around, pining for Nick after he straight-up told me he only wanted to be friends, it might have driven me insane.

And, besides, the more I think about it, the more I realize Nick and I as friends makes the most sense. Trying to force a relationship would almost certainly end in disaster—we fight constantly. I’m not sure we’d be able to stop bickering with one another long enough to whisper sweet nothings into one another’s ears, or whatever.

“I really love this place,” Sam says, holding open the door to a local pizzeria I’ve never tried.

“Can’t wait to experience it for myself. Grace and I don’t get pizza too often. She loves it, but it bothers her stomach.”

“What does she have, again?”

I bristle a bit at the turn of phrase. Sam doesn’t overthink everything, unlike some men I could name—he’s more a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type, and that can mean words tumbling out that aren’t entirely thoughtful. He’s just a straightforward guy, and I’ve decided I need to accept that positive character trait alongside his occasional inability to say the right thing.

I force a small smile, because I know Sam didn’t mean to sound brash. “The digestive upset is from her Crohn’s. She can eat dairy, but too much of it makes her sick. And she has a couple of other chronic illnesses beyond that, too. They make her life a living hell.”

“Geez.” He shakes his head as we slide into a booth. “That sounds awful.”

“It isn’t great,” I agree.

We struggle to decide what to order, because Sam won’t offer any opinions whatsoever. “I want you to like it,” he insists.

“It’s pizza,” I counter. “I’m sure I’ll like it no matter what.”

“No, really. You choose.” He shoots me a lovelorn look that is both endearing and also a little cloying.

I like Sam. I really, truly do. He’s kind and incredibly fun-loving. It also doesn’t hurt that he plays hockey and looks it in every way, aside from clichés like gross hands or missing teeth. He’s got the long, flowy goalie hair that I’ve always found mind-numbingly attractive, and the look of his body in a tight outfit is proof of all the time he spends at the rink.

The more time we spend together, the more I like him. We’re a good match, I think, precisely because he’s a very steady foil to my slightly chaotic personality. My tendency to hyperfocus and forget to eat; my unwillingness to deal with heavy emotions or take too many true risks with my heart.

With Sam, I don’t have to worry about any of that. He’s simple and even and predictable. And there’s nothing at all about him that comes across as a risk.

As it turns out, the pizza is a little bland, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the canned soup I’ve been making for dinner most nights. Sam regales me with stories of the exploits his hockey team got up to the last time they traveled for a tournament, and I tell him about my plans to study the Pre-Raphaelites for my Master’s.

Sam’s a business major, so we are equally in awe of each other’s very disparate career paths. It gives us plenty to talk about. I don’t pretend to understand most of what he’s saying about his classes, but he’s just so nice, I’m not sure I really care.

After dinner, we decide to take a stroll through campus.

“I need to walk off some of that pizza,” he groans. “I’ve got an early morning workout tomorrow, and I’m going to feel it otherwise.”

I’ve gone to the gym exactly three times this semester, but I pretend to know just what he means. We link arms and meander along the grad student quad. The place is basically deserted, aside from a group that’s claimed Adirondack chairs and is loudly blasting Bob Marley. A cloud of pot drifts through the air as we pass.

“Gross.” I cover my face. I don’t know what it is, but the smell of weed has always made me nauseated.

“Want my coat?” Sam whips off his jacket before I have a chance to reply. “You can zip it up over your nose.” He’s busy sliding it over my shoulders when I see something through the haze of smoke that makes me stop dead in my tracks.

“Oh my god.” I grab Sam’s arm.

“What?” He follows my gaze. “Oh. Whoa.”

Because just around the side of the humanities building is Nick. And he’s full-on making out with a lanky blonde against a tree.

“That’s…public,” I mutter, cheeks hot with something I’m choosing to classify as disgust.

“I feel like they could take that inside,” Sam agrees.

Nick slides his hand around the woman’s waist, pulling her more tightly against him. I gulp down my discomfort. “Let’s go. Maybe he won’t see us.”

“Why does it matter if he sees us?” Sam asks.

My heart thuds. Why does it matter if he sees us? That’s a good question. “I just—that’s gross,” I manage.