Page 152 of Any Port in a Storm

sometime in the not-too-distant future

The waves crash against the shore, a soothing metronome underpinning the passage of time. There’s something staggeringly beautiful about it that almost defies explanation.

I’ve always loved the beach, but in light of recent events, being able to feel sand beneath my palms, to bask in the hot sun—I’m grateful in a way I can’t quite express.

“It’s gorgeous out here today,” Ivy remarks, breaking my reverie.

“Sure is.”

“Is it weird to be back, given everything that’s happened?”

My thoughts flow—from the loss of my grandparents and my dissertation to the drama with Spillinger, to Porter to lockdown to Nick. So much has changed. It almost feels like an entire lifetime has passed in the last few years.

In some ways, I suppose it has.

Because my old life feels like a faint memory, and my new one, a bright ray of hope, dancing on the waves.

“I just feel lucky, I suppose.” My voice catches on raw emotion. “I don’t take any of it for granted anymore.”

“I know what you mean. After all the loss, all the fear…the way the world shifted.” She shakes her head. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same again.”

“I don’t think any of us will be,” I agree, thinking of Grace. Of Nick’s grandfather. Of the way fate has arranged, and rearranged, the tapestry of humanity, teasing the threads apart and weaving them back together until it’s barely recognizable.

The fact that I get to be back here, in this place so tethered to my childhood, with my oldest friend, feels frankly miraculous.

“Ivy!” Oliver calls from the porch of Beach Haven, breaking my reverie. “Food’s ready.”

“Be right there,” she shouts back. “Hungry?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “I’m starving.”

We traipse back across the sand, the weirdest déjà vu hitting me—all the years we spent here, with our parents, our grandparents. Our high school boyfriends, then, that pivotal summer when Ivy met Oliver.

The sun casts long shadows across the beach as it dips below the horizon, and I can practically see past versions of ourselves dancing in the dim light. I smile at the ghosts—they’ll always be a part of me. Of us.

We climb onto the porch, where Oliver’s set out quite the spread. Grilled chicken and esquites and watermelon, all shoved roughly to one side of a round café table to make room for a humongous vanilla layer cake.

The screen door slams, and Nick comes out balancing a tray of mojitos. “I hope you like mint,” he says wryly. “I might have gone a little overboard.”

I wave my hand in the air. “Your culinary work has never disappointed me. I’m sure they’re great.”

He grins as I take a sip.

“Whoa. That is, indeed, minty.”

“I threw myself into this project because Oliver wouldn’t let me help with any of the food.” Nick pouts.

“That’s because you and Laurel are our guests,” Oliver says over his shoulder. “It would be awfully rude of me to expect you to cook.”

“Yeah, but it might have prevented a cocktail that tastes like toothpaste,” Ivy jokes cheerily, setting hers to the side.

I burst out laughing.

“Oh, Ivy. I’ve missed you.” I throw my arm around her shoulders.

“I’ve been telling you for ages to come to the beach,” she teases.

I look up at Nick, who’s beaming at me from behind his mojito, and my heart smiles, too. “I think I was just waiting for the right travel companion.”