Page 51 of Any Port in a Storm

“I’m so sorry,” I rush. “You’re great, and I really do enjoy our time together. It’s just…the silence of lockdown has really got me thinking, and I’m not sure something so casual is what I want.” Nick’s face flashes through my mind. “At least, not anymore.”

“No, it’s okay,” Porter says. “If I’m honest, I’m surprised you’ve been into it this long.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just not that type of woman,” he says nonchalantly.

“That’s the only type of woman you’ve ever seen me be,” I argue. I don’t know why I bother; this doesn’t matter.

Not anymore.

He tries again. “When we met, you were clearly…going through something.”

An intrusive image of Nick kissing me on the bench last July invades my occipital lobe.

“And you told me we couldn’t be exclusive. I always kind of knew there was someone else.”

“Oh, that isn’t—” I start, before realizing it’s not the truth. At least, not completely. Because even though this is about what I want, I know a big part of it is about Nick.

I shake my head. I’m not going to lie to Porter. He deserves better than that. “I really appreciate you understanding.”

“It’s been a lot of fun, Laurel. If you ever change your mind, call me, okay?”

“Yeah,” I promise, and in that moment, I find I really mean it. “Thank you; I will.”

I don’t get out of bed for almost an hour after I hang up. I aimlessly scroll on social media for a bit, then scour my favorite job boards to look for something, anything that might be a good fit for me come fall. I’m just starting to lose hope of ever finding my next step when I smell something burning.

“Nick!” I leap out of bed and run into the kitchen.

Nick’s bent over the stove, furiously scraping the glass top with a metal spatula. “Sorry,” he calls over his shoulder. “Dropped some batter on the burner.”

“I thought something was on fire.” I cross the room to stand behind him. “What’re you making?”

“Well, this is an omelet,” he says, gesturing to the pan. “But I spilled some brownie batter. That’ll teach me to cook and bake at the same time.”

I raise a brow. “You’re making brownies?”

His shoulders lift in time to the flush of his cheeks like it’s one fluid process. “I thought you might like them. Maybe to go with your ice cream.”

He looks so earnest, I can’t fight my smile. It’s the kind that I used to wear 24/7 when he was around. The kind I wasn’t sure I’d ever slide into again. “Well, thanks. That’s really sweet of you.”

He turns to the side and leans against the counter. “Were you on the phone?”

“Oh,” I say, suddenly realizing I forgot my robe and I’m just in a silk cami and shorts that barely hit the tops of my thighs. “Yeah.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I cross my arms, a defense against both the question and the way his eyes just flicked down to where my peaked nipples are showing through my shirt. “Just had to take care of something. With Porter.”

Nick hurriedly turns back to the stove, but I swear I see his mouth tip up. “Well, let me know if you need to talk.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you in the mood for tomatoes?”

“What?”

He points to the pan. “Do you want tomatoes in your omelet? I know you usually do, but I wanted to check in case anything’s…changed.”