Page 54 of Any Port in a Storm

There’s a cherry blossom tree immediately to our left, and its buds are just starting to give way to lush pink blossoms. It’s a little early in the season, but I suppose this week’s unseasonable warmth has coaxed them out of their cocoons ahead of schedule. Not that nature really has a schedule. It just does things in its own time; on instinct. When the moment feels right.

A fuzzy bumblebee crawls along one branch, humming to itself and bustling about the petals. For a moment, I become the bee—feeling the soft blossoms, the whir of wings. It strikes me as remarkable, then, that even as my world has shifted on its axis, nature has continued to sing the same sacred songs, oblivious to our plight. To our suffering.

Beyond the tree, the Charles waits, sparkling waves dancing in the bright sunshine. Most of the boats on the river are docked today, probably thanks to lockdown. On a typical warm day, the river would be dotted with life. But there’s a stunning serenity to seeing all of the ships in port today—a safe harbor from the storm that’s sweeping the world. Like they’ve been tucked away by a loving hand until the moment is right for them to set back out for their next adventure.

The grass on the Esplanade is thick and lush and so, so green—a color I haven’t seen much of over the last several weeks. The last few years, really, as nose-down to my work as I’ve been. I suppose the ground is often the last thing I notice when I’m enjoying a scenic vista, but today, I’m struck by the profound sadness of ever missing something so verdant and stunning.

There’s no one else around, aside from another couple sitting a good hundred yards away on a bench. The world is silent; no traffic, no trains. None of the hustle and bustle of city life that’s come to feel like a heartbeat to me.

Just my breath, and Nick’s, and the gentle breeze, swirling all around us. It kisses my skin—a promise; an oath. The world is still here. The world is still beautiful.

Life is still beautiful.

I lift my gaze to Nick’s. “It’s beautiful.”

He doesn’t look away. “Staggeringly.”

“Thank you for helping me remember.”

He smiles, then bumps his knee against mine. “Hey, I’m a professor. Making sure you remember is my job.”

SIXTEEN

five years earlier

“So, how are you doing?” I ask over brownies and a late-night study session on my couch. Grace is out with Roger, and Nick and I are forcing ourselves to focus on work by body doubling.

He looks up from his book. “Fine. I got a lot of writing done today.”

“That’s good. But I meant…how are you?”

Nick takes a long drag from his coffee cup, then draws his lips into a line. “I’m okay.”

It’s been three weeks since Alyssa dumped him, and he’s remained surprisingly reticent about the whole thing.

I slide the book out of his hands. “I’m worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve barely talked about what happened, and it seems like you’re not processing it.”

He seems torn between a grimace and a grin. “I’m processing it fine.”

I sit up, crossing my legs beneath me and leaning toward him on the couch. “By burying your feelings? Come on.”

“Like you’re much better,” he retorts. “I don’t think I’ve heard you say Sam’s name a single time since the night we got pizza.”

The words catch me off guard, but when I think about them more carefully, I realize he’s right. “I guess it’s just easier for me to forge ahead,” I say after a moment.

“Well, maybe that’s what I’m doing, too.”

Yeah,” I muse. “Maybe it is.”

He picks up his mug. “So, how are you?”

“Fine. I miss Sam, but he didn’t break my heart.” I toy with the throw pillow beside me. “Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

“What do you mean?”