Page 9 of Any Port in a Storm

His hair looks messier than usual, sideswept with finger tracks running every which way. He’s in gray sweats and a maroon Hawthorne University History Department hoodie, his phone in his hand.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder if you just woke up.” I step aside so he can walk past me.

“You know me too well.”

I do. Because right now, I’m remembering him sliding into my bed wearing those sweats; me crawling over him and pulling them off, my hair falling all around us as we tangled in my sheets in the evening shadows. Me wearing that very hoodie while I made my coffee in the morning, Nick sneaking up behind me with a surprise hug and a kiss against the inside of my neck.

I gulp down the memories. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He plops onto my couch without waiting for an invitation. “My roommate kicked me out.”

“What?”

“The exposure.”

“Oh. Right, of course.” I sit on the other side of the couch, leaving an entire cushion between us. “How can I help?”

“I just…I didn’t know where else to go. I need to make some calls; figure out where I can stay. Everywhere I thought of was an immediate no—I can’t go to the library, or the union, or the quad.” He shakes his head. “Everywhere I could think of, there’d be too many people. And it’s freezing today, or I’d just wait outside. But…you live alone, and I knew you were at the party, too, so…”

“So you knew I’d be isolating, too.”

“Exactly.” His gaze skates up to meet mine, something like terror reflected there. I can’t tell if he’s mirroring me or if I’m mirroring him. Or both. “Is that okay? If I can just have an hour, I’m sure I can find an Airbnb or something.”

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Yeah, whatever you need.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Hey,” I scoot closer to him on the couch, and, against my better judgment, rest my hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

Nick cocks his head. “Is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“This has all the markings of a pandemic, Laur.”

I laugh nervously. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“That’s the thing—it’s usually not obvious until it’s too late. But look at history⁠—”

“Nick, no.” I shake my head firmly. “We’re not going to do that. I know you like to draw parallels between everything, but this isn’t medieval Europe. We have a literal center for disease control here. They’re going to…well, control things.”

He draws a shaky breath. “I hope you’re right.”

“It’s going to be okay,” I repeat, with greater conviction than I feel.

“I’m sure part of it for me is that I’m stuck in a foreign country,” he says, looking at the floor. “And I have nowhere else to go.”

It hits me all at once, then, why he’s so upset. He can’t go back to his apartment, and that’s the only home he has. He doesn’t have parents a half hour away like I do. I don’t even think he knows anyone outside of Boston, other than Grace.

Realizing how isolating that must feel makes me want to wrap him in the tightest hug imaginable, but I think that could prove problematic for several reasons. So instead, I squeeze his shoulder. “Can I get you some breakfast?”

Nick’s face warms with gratitude. “I guess I am pretty hungry.”

Grateful for an activity to keep me busy, I hop off the couch. “Consider it done. Go make your calls.”

Thirty-six calls, one omelet, and two cups of coffee later, Nick’s no closer to finding a short-term rental. “Everyone’s terrified,” he explains. “They don’t want strangers coming into their in-law apartments right now.”

“Can you blame them, really?”