Page 74 of Any Port in a Storm

I stand, a bit unsteadily, and head over to the jukebox. Pushing the button, I flip through a catalogue that includes a shocking amount of Radiohead, the entire discography of Steely Dan, and a smattering of ‘80s pop.

“Okay,” I tell Nick when I get back to the table. “I found the perfect song.”

He raises an expectant brow.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Hmm. Can you be trusted with such an important decision?” Amusement hovers at the corners of his lips.

I prop a hand on my hip. “Excuse me, let’s not forget what I did for you today.”

“Touché,” Nick agrees. “Go for it.”

I grab the quarters from his outstretched palm, roughly shoving away the urge to lace my fingers through his, and skip back toward the jukebox. After I throw in the coins, I thumb through the flip book until I land on a page entirely devoted to Steve Winwood. Imagining the joy on Nick’s face when he hears “Valerie,” I hit play.

Silence.

I push the button again.

Still nothing.

I grit my teeth. Twice in one day, the things I want for Nick are going to evade me?

“Excuse me!” I catch a passing waitress. “I’m having a hard time getting the jukebox to work.”

“Oh, sorry, hon,” she says, balancing a tray in the crook of her elbow. “That thing hasn’t worked for years. Management just keeps it for the aesthetic.”

I drag my feet back toward our table. “Jukebox is broken,” I grumble, handing Nick his quarters.

“Aw. I’m sorry.”

“I found the perfect song for you.”

He does a bit of a double-take. “For me?”

I nod balefully. “They had “Valerie.” I thought it might be the cherry on top for your perfect day.”

Nick’s expression softens. “You’re sweet.”

I shrug. “I just thought we could dance or something.”

He smiles gently. “Don’t worry. I have an idea.”

TWENTY-ONE

now

“And this is Ophelia, one of John Everett Millais’ most famous paintings,” Stacy, the curator at the Tate Museum in London, is saying. She pans the camera around, and my jaw drops.

This has always been one of my favorite paintings, in large part because it combines two of my favorite things: women in literature and art. Ophelia is the ultimate tragic figure, and, while I’m not huge into Shakespeare, her plight has always resonated with me. She’s stripped of her agency, used as a pawn, and ultimately can’t overcome her trauma. It’s haunting.

And the Millais painting captures that haunting aura so, so well. Ophelia, floating on her back in a pond, hands raised as if in behest, surrounded by flowers so colorful they look like they could spring to life, right from the canvas. The greenery all around her, just as verdant as the grass on the Esplanade. Her dress, exquisite in its finery, its weight both literal and figurative, dragging her to a watery grave.

I don’t want to peel my eyes away from it.

But I’ve always been able to feel Nick’s eyes, and I can tell he’s watching me.

“What?” I ask in a low voice, even though we’re on mute.