Page 7 of Any Port in a Storm

I’m debating whether it would be more awkward to call out her obvious lie or stay here with Nick after she leaves.

She runs away before I have a chance to choose.

Nick looks decidedly amused. “Is that your roommate?”

“Yep. That’s Grace. Ordinarily, I’d sing her praises, but she’s rather high on my shit list at the moment.”

“Hmm.” His lips tip up. “Not in the mood to talk to me?”

“Oh,” I start, my faculties slipping away more with every hit of his lilting accent. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” He grabs two books and his messenger bag from a nearby chair.

“It’s just…” I consider excusing myself from the conversation, but he’s looking at me earnestly, and I suppose on some level, Grace was right—I really do need to make some friends. Even if they happen to be hot European men. “Grace wants me to branch out a little. Socially.”

“That seems…rude?” Nick holds the door for me as we exit the lecture hall.

“No, she means well. I was pretty isolated last year. I was dealing with some personal issues, and I think she just wants to make sure I don’t spend the entire semester pounding coffee in my bed again.”

“I’m sorry to hear you were struggling.” His bag bumps into my hip, and he instinctively reaches for it, pulling it back to his side as his fingers brush against me. “Sorry about that,” he says, looking mortified.

I don’t feel mortified. In fact, I’m feeling like I want him to bump into me again. “No problem,” I say, trying to still my pounding heart. This is not going to happen.

“Can I walk you back to your dorm?”

No, I want to scream. Stop being chivalrous on top of everything else. Don’t you see how hard a time I’m already having here?

But I just smile and accept the offer. And we talk about history the whole way, and by the time we get to my building, I’ve somehow agreed to meet him for coffee in two days so we can prepare for the Crusades debate, which I’ve also somehow promised I’ll attend.

It’s at that very moment I realize I’m in trouble.

THREE

now

It’s been a week since the CAS party, and I’m still catching myself daydreaming at least once an hour about Nick’s face when we clinked our Chinet cups in toast to my dissertation defense. He was beaming out a mixture of pride and something that looked an awful lot like longing. It’s hard not to overthink it.

But I have two classes to teach today, and I need to focus on getting through the rest of the semester without majorly crashing. Completing my dissertation was such a herculean task; what I really need now is that nice beach vacation Ivy keeps suggesting.

Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen anytime soon.

Maybe I’ll dress up today. And I should definitely curl my hair. I’ve discovered that pretending to be okay goes a long way toward helping me feel that way.

In fact, it’s kind of my entire modus operandi.

I’m about to plug in my curling iron when my cell phone rings on my nightstand.

“Hi, Sandra. What’s up?” I squeeze the phone between my shoulder and my ear, sliding hangers in the closet as I look for my favorite blue wrap dress.

Sandra’s the English department administrator. We’ve gotten pretty close over the years. “Have you heard about this virus on the news?” Her voice sounds shakier than usual.

“Oh. I think so? The one that’s dangerous for the elderly?” I make a mental note to call Ivy and ask her to check in on Maisie, the kindly older woman who co-owns the bookstore with her and Oliver.

“Yeah. Well, as it turns out, it’s actually much more of a threat than we thought.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Sandra’s breath rattles on the other line. “It’s here, Laurel. In Boston.”