Page 2 of Any Port in a Storm

Nick feigns shock. “I would never.”

“We both know that’s not true.” I guess it’s not entirely accurate that I’ve grown up to want someone else bossing me around. Especially not when that person is Nick O’Connor.

He pulls my sleeve. “Come on.”

“Why should I?” I take in his blue sweater and dress khakis, making him look so quintessentially professorial that I almost burst out laughing. I’ve never met someone who so fully encapsulates the spirit of academia.

“Because,” he says, his accent creeping in like it always does when he’s being especially earnest, “I want to toast your accomplishment.”

A flush hits my cheeks, even though I’m desperate to shield him from the knowledge that I still find his lingering Irish drawl irrevocably hot. He’s been living in Boston for well over a decade at this point, and a lot of his accent has faded, but when he gets emotional or his thoughts rush out, it always comes back.

“I guess one drink can’t hurt.”

His blue eyes light up, the brightest thing in this dim ballroom. “That’s the spirit.”

“So, do you have any big plans for spring break?” I survey the hodgepodge of assembled humanities students and faculty, most of whom look about as tired as I feel. At this point in the semester, it’s tough not to let your inner bedraggle play on your face.

Nick inclines his head. “I’m actually going home.”

My gaze snaps to his. “Home, home?” Nick’s parents still live in a cozy cottage just outside Kilkenny. We’d planned a trip to Ireland together when we dated last year, and he’d shown me countless photos of his hometown while we made lists of the places he’d bring me. Calling off our relationship had been hard, but cancelling the Ireland vacation was another heartbreak all its own.

“Yeah. My grandpa’s turning 90. I figured I couldn’t miss that.”

“No, of course not.”

“It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen my family, anyway. I haven’t been back since…” He looks down guiltily. “You know.”

I nod. Because I do know. Nick ended up taking our Ireland trip with his roommate, Max, because the tickets he’d bought were nonrefundable. We were supposed to go together last August, ahead of the fall semester. But things between us fizzled out before that, and I ended up spending the summer on the beach in Maine with my cousin, Ivy, instead.

Well, I spent most of the summer writing my dissertation inside our rental. But at least the beach was waiting just outside my window.

“That’ll be nice. You’ll have to hit up Powerscourt for me.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Text me some pictures.”

He opens his mouth, then forces it shut again. “Yeah,” he says finally.

The gulf between us has never felt so deep; all the words left unsaid swirling past in every eddy of the current. Part of me wants to reach out and grab them; to drag the truths back to air before they’re too waterlogged to make sense of.

Another part of me isn’t sure I’ll ever be ready to hear them.

Nick downs the last of his wine. “So, how’s Porter?”

“Oh. Um, he’s fine.” This is so not what I want to be discussing right now. Even if it does feel like the natural segue, given all of the subtext about our relationship.

I met Porter last summer at an antiquated dance hall that Ivy and I went to a few times. He lives just outside Boston, and we’ve been seeing one another on and off ever since.

It’s nothing serious, much to Ivy’s chagrin. “When are you going to bring him to the beach?” she asked me last week on the phone.

Ivy hit the romance jackpot when she fell for Oliver Clarke, a brooding, brilliant bookstore clerk she met on day one of our trip to Ogunquit. She’s had quite the happily ever after, and now she and Oliver run the bookstore together. I miss having her nearby, but I’m elated that she’s thriving in such a beautiful place.

I hadn’t known what to say to Ivy, really. Because I have no intention of bringing Porter to the beach. I like him, certainly. He’s charming, and he always plans the best dates. Sailing, high-end restaurants. Dancing, backstage passes. We have tons of fun together, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s got the build of someone who never skips leg day.

But what we have is casual. Exceptionally so. Even nine months in, we only go out once a week, if that. I’ve never left so much as a toothbrush at his apartment, even though I’ve spent countless nights in his bed. And we’ve both agreed it’s fine to see other people. I haven’t exercised that right, but I’m pretty sure he has.

Things almost feel…transactional. But transactional in a way that’s mutually beneficial. We plus-one for each other; we go on dates. He pays—always, no matter how much I argue. Then we go back to his place and have sex, and it’s fine. Not great, but enjoyable.

And then we don’t talk again for days. It’s like we’re both filling a void for each other, and it’s pleasant, but there’s no depth whatsoever.

I’ve been fine with it. Up until I defended my dissertation last week, my focus has been entirely on my work anyway.