Page 101 of Any Port in a Storm

“It is, but I’m loving it, to be honest.” He’s positively illuminated in the dim light of the bar.

“Of course you are.” I squeeze his arm. It’s meant to be teasing, but it makes the room spin a little. With wanting; with heat.

Or maybe that’s just the alcohol.

“You know me. I’m a huge nerd when it comes to primary source documents.”

My mind flashes back to our museum crawl a few years back, and the look on Nick’s face when he held the Oscar Wilde letter.

“I do know this.”

He reaches for my hand under the bar, running his thumb over the back and making my heart skip a beat or three. He doesn’t even have to say anything; I know he’s thinking of our Philadelphia trip, too.

“It’s such a fabulous library,” Grace is saying on my left. I catch my breath, remembering we’re not alone here; that this night is actually meant to support Grace, who drove all the way in from Springfield just to take her mind off Leo. “I remember doing some research there in undergrad.”

“Oh, yeah. For that English project with Dr. Jones, right?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

It doesn’t escape my attention, as the conversation moves on, that Nick is still holding my hand.

And I don’t mind. Not even a little bit. But it still feels wrong, somehow, because I don’t think we’re friends who hold hands like this.

Friends who travel together, sure. Friends who have each other on speed dial. Friends who celebrate holidays together. Friends who accidentally make out and then put an immediate stop to it and never speak of it again. Friends who have hot foreplay in a pool that amounts to nothing whatsoever.

But holding hands—in public, no less—feels like new territory.

About twenty minutes later, Grace asks me for a hug, and I drop Nick’s hand. I don’t think she ever noticed us canoodling under the bar, and I certainly didn’t want to call her attention to it, all things considered.

She’s gotten pretty weepy, which I think is at least partly due to the alcohol, and it seems like maybe it’s time to call it a night.

“Do you want to go back to my apartment?” I ask gently.

“If you do,” she replies, slurring a little.

I cast a glance to Nick, who downs the last of his soda and hops off the barstool. “Come here, my friend,” he tells Grace, sliding an arm around her waist. “Let’s get you outside.” To me, he adds, “My wallet’s on the bar; leave a big tip.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

“Also, don’t forget to bring my wallet when you’re done,” he teases. “Meet you outside.”

I settle up with Megan, then slide Nick’s change back into his wallet. As I do, my eye catches on the photo insert, which I’ve never noticed before. The first sleeve contains a picture of Nick and his sisters; the next, one of his parents. There’s a shot of Nick, Grace, and me from a particularly ritzy wedding we attended together last year that had not one, but two, photo booths. I smile to myself, remembering the doughnut bar that must have cost a small fortune, and how Grace shoved one Bavarian creme in each pocket of her dress for later.

I flip to the last spot, expecting to see another family photo, or maybe a picture of Caspian, the dog Nick grew up with that is somehow still thriving at his parents’ house.

My jaw drops when I realize the picture is not only not of Caspian, it’s of me. Of us. It’s the picture Grace took the night of autumn formal several years back; the one where she’s yelling at us to move closer.

In the photo, my eyes are full of mirth—I think I’d just been laughing at something Nick said. He’s half-looking at me, half at the camera, and the expression on his face—it’s overflowing with something. Something I’m hesitant to name, but that I’m pretty sure has something to do with the way he held my hand under the bar.

I’m hot all over; dizzy and more than a little unsteady as I pocket Nick’s wallet and head for the exit. I’m doing the best compartmentalizing of my life to push my feelings aside—I need to go take care of Grace.

No matter how hard I try, though, I’m losing the battle.

I guess that shouldn’t come as a surprise. I’ve never been able to ignore how Nick makes me feel.

“Well, she’s asleep,” I say a half hour later, pulling my bedroom door shut and padding back over to the bed. Nick’s perched awkwardly on the edge with his ankles crossed in front of him. “Want to watch something?”

“Sure.” He grabs the remote off my dresser and clicks on the television. “Looks like our choices are the news, the weather, or…Frasier in syndication?”