Page 57 of Any Port in a Storm

My dad claps him on the back, so hard that Nick jumps a little. “Nonsense. You’re our guest. Laurel, why don’t you take your friend out? Show him some of the sights?”

I smirk. “In Brookline?”

“You could go to Rafferty’s,” my mother suggests. “It’s a locals’ bar. Maybe you’d run into some high school friends there. Isn’t Kelsey coming home?”

Kelsey and I were close as kids, but we haven’t spoken in several years. Still, the idea of running into old friends does seem appealing.

The idea of running into old friends with Nick by my side is perhaps even more appealing.

“Want to go?” I ask Nick.

He shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

As it turns out, Rafferty’s is less a locals’ bar and more just a straight-up dive bar. The cloying smell of warm beer accosts my nostrils the minute Nick holds the door open for me.

“We don’t have to stay here,” I mumble, lurching to the side as a woman swimming in her own polyester hair extensions stumbles into me.

Nick throws up a protective arm, which settles on my low back. “It’s not a problem. Plus, it seems like your parents wanted us out of their hair.”

I giggle. “They really did, huh?”

“I’ll refrain from any kind of suggestive ‘stuffing’ jokes to ensure your comfort.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You basically just made the joke regardless. Thanks a lot.”

His grin is enormous.

“I hate you,” I grumble.

“You so do not,” he teases. “I’ll go grab us some drinks. What are you in the mood for?”

“Maybe an IPA?”

“Whatever makes you hoppy,” he quips.

“Ugh, you and your puns,” I groan, but I laugh anyway.

I watch Nick head toward the bar, taking in his tousled hair, glinting in the low light; his black jacket, unzipped just enough to reveal a blue button-down. His favorite pair of jeans, which he always tells me are worn in to exactly his shape.

It’s a shape I’m trying not to look at too closely, because I am committed to being his friend and not getting distracted by the way his post-breakup jogs around campus have left him even more toned than usual.

I tear my gaze away and focus instead on his black boots, the only part of him that ever looks edgy. I love them, though, because he is a little edgy, underneath it all. It’s like his boots are a hint at all the layers of Nick that are hidden from view. The sides of him that only I get to see.

Just then, I catch a glimpse of another man walking right toward me. Instinctively, I shrink into the jukebox at my back, mind spinning with excuses to shut down whatever come-on is imminent.

And then I see his face.

“Alex,” I breathe. The room is spinning furiously, and I think I might be spinning right along with it.

“Laurel!” He lurches toward me a little, and I realize he’s drunk. Alex always did like to imbibe.

“Musicians work better with a little booze in their systems,” he’d announce before sneaking shots from his dad’s liquor cabinet.

I’m not sure what I ever saw in him, really.

Before I can think of a way to extricate myself from what is apparently becoming a conversation, Alex offers a crooked grin that reeks of vodka. “It’s great to see you. You look amazing.”

My heart skips a beat or three as panic sets in.