Page 46 of Any Port in a Storm

The air is brisk, and I regret coming out here without my coat. But I can’t let him leave the conversation in such an emotionally charged place.

Nick’s leaning on the railing, looking out at the river. If I squint, I can just make out the spot on the Esplanade where we had our picnic with Grace, way back when. “I already told you I’ve had a hard time getting close to anyone else,” he says quietly after a moment. “This shouldn’t come as a shock.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m not good for you, Laurel. You don’t have to say anything.” He looks over at me sadly. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss what we had.”

“Nick, I…”

He shakes his head. “It’s really okay. I don’t think we should talk about this anymore.”

“But—”

He runs a hand through his hair. “We’re friends. We’re trying to get that back. We can’t revisit the past; it just won’t end well.”

“You’re probably right,” I whisper. “But I’m still sorry.”

“Yeah.” He offers a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sorry, too.”

The evening’s awkward. I retreat to my room to watch Netflix, and Nick digs in to a library book I’d taken out before we went into quarantine. Silver lining to all of this, I suppose, is that we’ll both have plenty of time to read it.

While I’m watching an awkward love triangle implode in a cheesy teen drama, it occurs to me that both Ivy and Nick mentioned Porter today, but I’ve barely thought of him at all. Not just since Nick’s been here, but even before that—it’s been months since I really cared about seeing him.

And we haven’t so much as texted since the day he asked me if I wanted to come to his work dinner. Granted, he’s probably stuck in lockdown, too. So we’d have nothing to text about, really, since we only ever communicate when we’re making plans to get together. But still.

I’m not really sure what’s changed, but it no longer feels like enough for me to have a relationship that’s so superficial.

Hell, it isn’t even a relationship.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I almost forget about the groceries entirely until the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” Nick calls from the living room.

We ordered quite a lot of food, so I pause my show and head to the kitchen to help him unpack everything.

He’s holding an orange, about to put it in the refrigerator, when I lunge for his wrist. “Wait!”

He looks beyond bewildered, which I suppose is fair. “Germs,” I shrug. “Shouldn’t we clean that first? What if the delivery person has Covid?”

“Laurel, I don’t think⁠—”

“It won’t hurt to clean it,” I argue, taking the orange out of his hand. Trying with everything in me to ignore how his fingers felt when they brushed mine. How his eyes darkened when he said he never got over me.

“I don’t think you can use Clorox wipes on an orange,” he says drily.

“No, weirdo. I’m just going to wash it in the sink. Hot water works wonders on germs.”

“I’m pretty sure this virus is airborne. But okay.” He grabs a few more oranges and walks them over to me. “Wow,” he adds after a minute. “Weird day, huh?”

Looking at the oranges, glistening with water and my paranoia, spread out on a dishtowel on the counter to dry, I can’t help but laugh. I don’t know if it’s the circumstances or if I’m actually going a little bit insane, trapped here in this apartment with him, but his words strike me as quite possibly the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.

“The weirdest,” I agree when I catch my breath. My gaze flicks to his, and I get lost for a minute—in his eyes; in the memories.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says after a minute.

“It’s okay.” I busy myself with drying off the fruit. “We knew things were going to be a little weird, being stuck here together.” I let the words rush out before I fully think them through. “And in any case, I think you might have been onto something.”

“Oh?”