Page 97 of Any Port in a Storm

But this is Nick, and the last time we were at a crossroads like this, I shot him down in a pretty big way. A way that it took us several months to come back from.

After Philadelphia, we were still friendly, certainly. But for the first few weeks, I didn’t quite know how to navigate us. I sequestered myself in the library a lot; Nick picked up an extra lecture for a colleague on maternity leave. We were like two ships in the night for a time, with Grace trying desperately to drag us back into port by forcing group outings and movie nights.

Eventually, things started to feel less tense. By the third themed dinner Grace planned, we were actually making eye contact again. It took six movie nights before we made any physical contact whatsoever. And on the eighth karaoke outing with Grace and Max, I leaned in for a hug, which Nick readily returned.

I’m not sure where that leaves us now, standing in the shallow end of this public pool. I realize I’m the one who shut the door on the idea of an us three years ago. It feels like the ball is in my court. But then again, he’s hedging at making a move right now. Maybe he’s waiting for me to somehow indicate I’m interested.

I would’ve thought the way my breath hitched whenever he got close would send that message.

All things considered, maybe he needs to feel more sure.

Just then, a whistle blows, startling me out of my lusty musings.

“Pool’s closing until 12:30,” the lifeguard shouts. “Time for my lunch break.”

I spring away from Nick, immediately mourning the loss of the heat from his body, as he drops my wrists. “No problem,” he calls at the same time I mumble, “Okay.”

“I’ll just grab our towels,” he says, hustling to the stairs.

“Thanks,” I start, and then my voice catches at the sight of him emerging from the water.

Because he’s perfect. Tall and lean and toned, a smattering of freckles across his shoulders. His hair, wet and dripping to his abs and lower, his bathing suit cutting exquisite lines across his impeccably toned thighs.

As I drag myself out of the pool and accept the towel he’s offering, it takes everything in me not to salivate.

We go back to my apartment to change, then Nick suggests our favorite Mexican restaurant for lunch. Conversation flows from work to Grace’s new medication to a party Nick’s parents are throwing. It never circles back to the highly charged moment we had in the water.

But that moment is all I’m thinking about. The entire time I’m eating my fajitas; the entire time he’s waxing poetic about some primary source documents he got to see at the public library. My brain is goo, my heart is mush, and the ache between my thighs is humming.

I want him.

With every passing minute, though, it feels harder and harder to get back to our almost in the pool. I start to second-guess: did I overthink what he said? Did I really feel his erection against my thigh in the water? Was he just fooling around? Or was he actually flirting with me, but then thought better of it?

By the end of the night, things are a little more subdued, though my libido hasn’t quite simmered down to its usual state of rest.

Still, it doesn’t feel right to bring up what happened. I’m not even sure what I’d say. There’s a plausible deniability about it all now—was it just a game? A momentary lapse of judgment? Because nothing actually happened—like so many of our almosts, this could be explained away in a thousand ways. It might, in fact, be nothing.

At least for Nick.

As for me, it’s decidedly something. A something that won’t stop circling through my mind for the entirety of The Empire Strikes Back, through the ice cream we grab afterward, through the three hours we spend doing trivia quizzes online.

And it is definitely still something when Nick falls asleep on my couch at one in the morning with a smile on his face.

TWENTY-SEVEN

now

We have our first charades night with Nick’s family three days after his grandfather ends up in the hospital. Lucy had planned the event with all the vim and vigor you’d expect from a kindergarten teacher (which she is), and the idea of cancelling didn’t sit right with anyone, even in light of recent events.

“I’m really nervous about this,” I tell Nick while we wait for Lucy to start the Zoom meeting.

His hand skims along the hem of my t-shirt. “Why?”

“Because,” I say, trying to ignore the want swirling in every place he touches me. “I’m afraid they might hate me now.”

“They don’t hate you,” he soothes, sliding his hand to rest on my waist. “And, anyway, my opinion’s the only one you should care about.”

I press a kiss to his cheek. “You think awfully highly of yourself, Nicholas.”