Page 61 of Any Port in a Storm

Because I think, on some level, this exercise and this particular moment in time might be the most real my life has felt in ages.

I somehow make it through four lectures today, but I’m barely paying them any attention. My mind keeps drifting to the sheet of paper on my desk, on which I’ve added increasingly detailed responses as the day’s gone on.

My tolerance for paperwork, as it turns out, is relatively low. I prefer a structured daily routine, and I need an uninterrupted lunch break in order to gather my thoughts. I enjoy independent work, but I need a job with plenty of social interaction.

Defining my perfect day is somewhat more challenging. I realize Nick is looking for a career-oriented response, but it hits me as I’m staring off into space for the better part of an hour that I can’t answer the question at all. Not where work is concerned, and not more generally.

I can’t decide if it’s pathetic or just profoundly sad that I don’t even know what kind of day I most enjoy.

Nick’s in my bedroom, teaching from his fake desk (we cobbled together a desk-like setup with the side of my dresser and a dining chair), so I’m left to my own devices for hours. Usually, he comes out to grab coffee or a snack in between lectures, but today, he stays in my room pretty much all day.

I know him too well to imagine it’s a coincidence. He’s almost certainly doing it to give me privacy so I can focus on the “homework” he’s given me.

That realization pangs so hard I actually start to tear up. With everything in me, I hate what happened last summer. Nick and I were so good together. He’s so good. I wish I could go back in time and undo the way we ended.

At 5:30, I cautiously knock on my bedroom door.

“Come in,” he calls in a rich baritone.

“Thanks,” I say, pushing open the door. “I just figured I’d get cleaned up for dinner.”

“Right.” He shuffles a mess of papers into a pile and shuts his laptop. “Let me get out of your hair.”

We’ve been extremely cautious about taking turns in the bathroom, of which my apartment features just one. He does his work in my room, and I work at my desk. Whenever I need to change, he heads to the living room. I have no idea where he’s been getting dressed, because he’s up before me every day. For all I know, he could be sneaking past me into the bathroom, which is just off my bedroom, every morning. More likely, he’s getting dressed in the corner of the living room before he starts our coffee.

Staying together has been shockingly smooth, all things considered. Granted, thanks to the city-wide “flatten the curve” initiative, our two-week quarantine has now turned into an indefinite purgatory. Not that it feels like purgatory, really. Honestly, I’ve been feeling immensely grateful that I don’t have to do this alone.

“Do you need help with anything?” I ask, rummaging through the bathroom drawer for a brush. My hair tends to frizz up, and I want to calm it down before dinner.

Not that this dinner means anything.

It’s just that the idea of Nick cooking for me…deliberately…feels different. Both familiar and new. We’ve eaten almost every meal together since he moved in, and he’s done his fair share of cooking. Thank god, too, because he’s definitely far better in the kitchen than I am.

Still, the forethought involved in this meal strikes me as more important, somehow.

I just want to look my best.

“Nah,” Nick says, hand on the doorknob. I can just make out the laugh he’s burying from the corner of my eye. “Did you finish your homework?”

I fight the urge to say, “Yes, professor,” with every single fiber of my being, settling instead for “Yep.”

“Excellent. See you soon.” He shuts the door.

I slowly pull the brush through my hair, considering. Wondering. Is he only doing this out of guilt? Obligation? Because I’m letting him stay here; because of what happened last summer?

Is he doing it because we’ve been friends for the better part of a decade? For the entirety of our adult lives?

Is it simply the natural outlet for a teacher trapped, far away from his students, desperate to help someone who’s struggling to find the right path?

Or is it, I wonder, averting my eyes so I don’t have to face the truth in my own reflection, because of what he told me—that he hasn’t moved on? That he can’t make it work with anyone else? That he’s jealous? Is this some sort of misguided attempt to win me back?

The thought stirs something beneath my navel, but I shove it away. Nick and I were friends far longer than we were anything else. And it ended in disaster.

Stuck here as we are, venturing down that path, even a little bit, could prove nothing short of catastrophic.

Fifteen minutes later, the smell of garlic lures me to the kitchen. Nick’s chopping broccoli on a cutting board, and steam’s rising from the stove beside him.

“Well, something smells amazing out here,” I say, sidling up behind him.