Page 52 of Any Port in a Storm

“Oh.” A strange heat swirls to the surface. He’s made me breakfast without asking. He’s remembering what I like. And he’s alluding to our time apart with a sort of nostalgic melancholy that it’s hard not to fixate on. “Um, tomatoes are great. Thank you.”

He reaches for a bowl that I totally missed before, which is filled to the brim with chopped Romas. “There’s coffee if you want it,” he says, while I watch him fill and then fold the omelet.

This time, when I thank him, my voice comes out a little raspy. Between ending things with Porter, and Nick’s confession last night, and whatever this display of kindness is, I’m having a hard time not burying myself in my feelings.

And that’s without even considering how depressed my impending joblessness is making me.

I set about grabbing a coffee, then realize I should get him one, too. Filling two mugs, I rack my brain for safe topics of conversation.

“All ready for class today?” I ask, then realize it’s Saturday. I clap a hand to my forehead. “Sorry. I’m feeling a little rattled at the moment.”

Concern shrouds his features. “It’s okay. I probably will try to work a little this afternoon. But maybe we should do something else, too—you seem like you need a break.”

“I’m just…” My mind swirls with all the things I am. Sad and lost and confused. Terrified and angry and more than a little touched by his acts of service here today. “I’m worried about my job,” I say finally. It seems like the safest topic of all those vying for privilege of the floor right now.

He flips the omelet onto a plate and hands it to me. “What do you mean?”

“I have no idea what’s next for me. And it’s frankly rather terrifying.”

Nick reaches for a bowl with more cracked eggs and starts making another omelet. Of course he made my breakfast first.

“Well, this is one hell of a time to be on the hunt for a job.”

“You’re not kidding.” I plop down at the dining room table and try the eggs. “Oh my god,” I say, mouth full. “This is delicious.”

“Of course it is,” he jokes. “I’m an excellent chef.”

I snort. “And modest, too.”

He turns and flashes me a brilliant grin. “That’s me. In all seriousness, though—talk to me about your plans for after graduation.”

“I honestly don’t know. I guess I hoped inspiration would strike, but I’ve been so caught up in my dissertation, and teaching, that I haven’t even had the mental bandwidth to consider next steps.”

“Well, that makes total sense,” he agrees, spatula in hand. “That’s a lot for your brain to process.”

“It is. But I’d sort of set aside this spring, post-dissertation, as the time when I could figure out what I want.” I shake my head. “It’s not bearing any fruit so far.”

“I’m not sure you can schedule life-changing decisions like that,” Nick says softly. “Life doesn’t abide by a calendar.”

“Unfortunately, being a slave to structure is all I’ve ever known.”

He considers me thoughtfully. “Let me help you.”

“Help me with what?”

“Help you figure it out,” he says, laying down the spatula. “I mean, I did give you carte blanche to call in a favor.”

“Mmm,” I hum. “This is true. And how do you propose you can assist?”

He takes a beat, then nods, like he’s made a decision. “Clear your afternoon.”

“You say it like I had back-to-back appointments,” I tease.

“If we’re going to do this, you’re going to have to trust me,” he says, more serious now.

I consider his blue eyes, filled with light and compassion. His hair, messier than ever. His rumpled Hawthorne University Cross Country t-shirt, which I assume he stole from Max. “I trust you,” I breathe.

A faint smile plays on his lips. “Good. Finish your breakfast. And be ready to go by noon.”