Page 68 of Any Port in a Storm

“Mmm,” he says, tossing a smile sidelong. “Thanks, Laur.”

“Well, in any case, I appreciate your help.” I run my pointer finger along the edge of my coffee cup. “I don’t think I could do this without you.”

“Yeah right,” he scoffs. “There’s absolutely nothing in this world you couldn’t do.”

“I don’t know about that,” I start, but he cuts me off.

“You spent an entire beach vacation inside at a desk, writing about dead poets.” He turns to face me. “If you want something, nothing’s going to get in your way.”

I’m torn between laughing and crying. Because, I’m realizing more and more with every passing day, the thing that’s usually standing in the way of what I want is actually just myself.

“I think,” I say after a moment, “that’s actually part of my problem.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been working toward the same thing my whole life. I’ve always loved school; it’s really all I cared about. My parents encouraged me to go all in with my research, and, because my mom was so into academia, I guess I never thought beyond that for myself.” I dig into the rich soil beside me with a forked twig, channeling my frustration into the earth. “And she’s always been so focused on her career, it felt natural to me to throw myself into my own, you know?”

Nick’s watching me intently. Like he’s not only listening, but like he’s actually hearing. Like he cares. “Go on.”

“Right.” I inhale sharply. “It’s just that I never bothered to take a step back to see if the train I’d hopped aboard was really the one I wanted to keep riding, I guess.”

“Really? Locomotive analogies?”

I nudge him playfully with my knee. “I think you understood my point.”

“You’re at the end of the line, and you’re not quite sure how you got there?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, watching the wind lift a lock of his hair. “Exactly.”

“I don’t think you’re alone in that, Laurel. Lots of people struggle to figure out what they want to do with their lives.”

“But I just finished a PhD in feminist literature.” I try to sound self-deprecating, but I’m fighting the urge to cry. “That’s…rather limiting.”

He reaches a tentative arm across my shoulders. “We’re going to figure it out.”

I wasn’t expecting physical comfort, and I didn’t realize how badly I needed it until I notice tears dripping down my chin.

That’s how it is, though, isn't it? When you’re carrying yourself for so long, and you finally find somewhere safe to rest?

“Hey,” Nick whispers, reaching out to wipe my cheeks with his thumb. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Is it?” I hiccup.

“Of course it is,” he says with a kind of quiet confidence I can’t help but find beyond attractive. Like he’s got me. Like nothing bad is going to happen.

“But I don’t think…well, I’m not sure I want to teach,” I say through sobs that keep growing in intensity, no matter how much I beg them to stop. “And that’s basically what I spent the last decade preparing myself to do. And the world’s going to hell all around us, and…I’m scared.” A shudder rattles through me. “I’m scared that we’re going to die; that my parents are going to die. That you’re never going to get to go home; that the university will never reopen. That there won’t even be jobs to apply to because everyone will be stuck quarantining for the rest of their lives. That we’re never going to see life beyond the walls of my apartment.”

“Now you sound like me.” Nick pulls me closer into his chest.

I can’t help a sputtering laugh. “What do you mean?”

“Assuming the worst,” he says, running his thumb up and down my shoulder in a soothing rhythm that matches the breeze. “I seem to remember you reassuring me at the start of all this that we weren’t about to enter a global pandemic.”

“Yeah, and look how that turned out,” I reply glumly.

“Okay, but it’s going to be different for you.”

“How do you know?”