Page 53 of Any Port in a Storm

“Go?” I can’t hide my alarm. “We can’t go anywhere.”

“Ah, but we can,” he says. “And I thought you promised to trust me?”

My mind jumps to that day in the campus coffee shop, planning for the Crusades debate, when I promised the same thing. It takes everything in me to ignore the way my heart flutters at the memory.

“I trust you,” I say.

His smile blooms. “Good.”

A few hours later, we’re slipping on masks I ordered from Amazon and racing out of the apartment building as quickly as humanly possible.

“I don’t want to breathe in this air,” I say, gasping.

“It’s okay. We’re almost out,” he assures me.

When we get outside, the streets are deserted, so we cautiously peel off our masks. “Do you think this is okay?” I ask.

“I think so. We’re headed to the car, anyway.”

“Yours?”

“Laurel,” he drawls. “How could you drive when you don’t know where we’re going?”

“I’m still a little puzzled by this,” I admit. “But—I trust you.” I poke him in the ribs in a way I mean to be teasing, but he lurches away like I’ve branded him. Maybe physical contact isn’t a good idea.

Nick holds the car door for me, then runs around to slide into the driver’s seat. The streets are empty, and the trees flanking them are just starting to bud with the promise of spring. It’s been warmer than usual the last week or so, and I’m mourning the loss of concerts on the Esplanade, Frisbee in the quad, and any number of other quintessentially spring-in-Boston activities that it seems we’ll miss this year.

I’m so lost in watching the sunshine cast shadows on the streets that I don’t even realize we’re at the Esplanade itself until Nick parks the car.

“I should’ve known you’d bring me here,” I tease.

“Oh?” He wrestles a bag from the back seat. He hadn’t let me look in it before we left my apartment.

I shrug. “This is where we brought Grace that day. When she was having a tough time.”

Nick looks down as we get out and walk toward the river. “Yeah. I remember.”

“So, what are we doing here?”

“Well,” he says,” pulling a sheet and a Ziploc of brownies from the bag and laying each on the grass, “I thought I’d appeal to your Pre-Raphaelite sensibilities and get us out into nature.” His gaze meets mine. “So we can focus on all the vivid details that make life beautiful.”

My breath hitches. We’re not even together, and this might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. “Wow,” I manage. “That’s…perfect.”

He gestures for me to sit. “Brownie?”

“Absolutely.”

The first bite is heaven. I knew Nick was great in the kitchen, but I think I’d been repressing the memories a little, paltry as my meals typically are. “This is delicious,” I say after a minute.

“Good.” He draws his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he looks out over the water. “Now I want you to just look around you.”

“Okay?”

He nods, like that’s enough. “Just take it all in.”

I start to reply, to ask him why; what this is all for. But then I remember my promise, and I shove the words back down.

And I trust him.