Page 91 of Any Port in a Storm

He clears his throat, then looks up with what seems to be great effort. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. “It’s, uh. My grandfather.”

I reach for his hand just as he says, “He’s got Covid.”

My heart plummets. The news has been overflowing with stories lately: morgues full to the brim. Bodies in refrigerated trucks. Nursing homes swept by the virus and suddenly left eerily empty.

I’d been worrying about Nick’s grandfather, who was pretty spritely for nearly 90, but who was prone to pneumonia. Still, I hadn’t wanted to say anything—Nick was having a tough enough time missing out on his trip home as it was. And I know he’s been doing plenty of his own worrying.

“I am so, so sorry.” I scooch closer and wrap him in a tight hug. “Is he in the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Nick says through a ragged breath. “They’ve got him in intensive care. My mom says…well, it doesn’t seem great. But they’re trying something with him—flipping him on his stomach, I guess? They said that might help him recover faster.”

“Well, that’s a good sign,” I reply, desperate to ease his pain. “Both that they’re doing it, and that he’s somewhere willing to experiment for a better outcome.”

“It is.” His chin wobbles. “But he’s old, Laur. He’s really fucking old.” He laughs then, but it comes out hollow; bitter. “I don’t know that I’m ever going to see him again.”

Something shatters beneath my ribs. Because he’d been so excited to go home—to celebrate his grandpa; to see his family. Then he got stuck here, with someone who’s never been able to give him what he needs. Someone who’s never been able to commit to love him the way he deserves. And now, not only can he not go home, but the people he’s missing may not even be there when he eventually does get back.

I don’t know what to say. Because he’s right: he may never see his grandfather again. I can’t fix that for him. And it’s killing me that I’m powerless to help.

A tear rolls down my cheek. “What can I do?”

He shakes his head, burying a sniffle. “This is enough.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Ah, but you are,” he says, leaning over to kiss my cheek. It makes me shiver, makes my stomach lurch. I want to kiss him back, to tell him every word I spent the morning rehearsing: that I love him. That I think I’ve always loved him. That I want to figure it out, want to be together, whatever the cost.

But now is not the time.

“I’m going to make us some tacos, okay?” I brush his hair off his forehead, then press a gentle kiss to its center.

Something lifts in his face. It’s like he heard my inner monologue and he’s saying it back: that he loves me, too.

“It isn’t dinnertime.”

I shrug. “We’ll have lunch tacos. And then I’m going to cuddle you on the couch, and we’re going to watch your favorite movies all afternoon.”

Nick wipes his eyes and shoots me an amused look. “You don’t have my favorite movies.”

“I have Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.”

He reaches out to squeeze my hand. “I stand corrected. That’s definitely one of my favorites.”

“See?” I grab a pan from the cabinet.

“But don’t you have other classes to teach?”

“Nah. I’m calling in sick. This is too important.”

He starts to protest, but I cut him off. “Non-negotiable, Nicholas. You’re going to let me take care of you for a change.”

His blush comes at the same time as his smile. “I’ll allow it.”

We make it through all of Planes, Trains, and Automobiles and half of From Russia with Love before Nick falls asleep in my lap. There haven’t been any more romantic overtures; just lots of cuddling and me rubbing his back and telling him I’m here. He looked like he was going to cry several times, but he managed to keep it together pretty well, all things considered.

I certainly wouldn’t have minded if he’d cried. Hell, I’ve wanted to cry all day.

My mind keeps drifting back to losing my own grandfather, not all that long ago. How he was the kindest person on earth; how he led our family with grace and courage and joy. How, as it turned out, he had his own secrets, buried deep, that kept him from the happiness he deserved.