Page 65 of The Storm

“Thank you,” I tell Mom. “This is… really great.”

It’s not, but the last thing I want to do is show how I really feel.

She ushers me farther into the room, and for the next few hours, I get a front-row seat to an out-of-body experience while I’m marched between relatives and friends and giving generic answers to all the questions about “your ordeal.” I wave off my grandmother’s efforts to shove plates of food into my hands, accept hugs, laugh at all the right moments, and bob my head to the music from Dia’s playlist. I do my absolute best to seem normal. And happy. And thankful.

Most of all, though, I do my best not to seem too obvious in my efforts to corner Nick. Admittedly, this is not the best moment to have a serious conversation. Or any conversation, honestly, especially since I’m not so sure what it is I even want to say. All I really know is that being so far away from him feels wrong. It makes me restless, so I keep obsessively checking that he’s still there. Like a lunatic.

I turn my back once, and he’s gone anyway.

I look for him, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“Hey.” I grab Dia’s arm and pull her away from the crowd of aunts and uncles as I circle the first floor. “Have you seen Nick?”

“He was headed upstairs a little while ago.” She shrugs before she goes back to her conversation.

I slip out of the room and start up the stairs, and then I stand in front of Nick’s firmly closed door, hand hovering in the air. I don’t know if I should knock. I want to, but what if he isn’t interested? And what would I even say? How would I explain why I’m here?

In the end, I turn around and go back downstairs.

Like a coward.

I rubmy palm over my face and blow out a breath. A glance at my phone tells me it’s almost one a.m. I’ve been trying to fall asleep for a while, and it’s just not happening. My thoughts won’t quiet and my body won’t settle. At this point, the idea of lying in bed is more exhausting than not sleeping.

I head downstairs to grab a glass of water and watch the weather channel, or whatever it is people do when they’re dealing with insomnia.

As soon as I push the kitchen door open, I stop dead in my tracks.

I’m not alone.

Nick snaps his head up, and for a bit, we just stare at each other.

I step closer, drawn to him like a magnet but also cautious, because that dangerous territory I didn’t care about before? I’m less flippant now. I can’t do the smart thing and walk away, though.

“What are you doing?”

He looks down at the counter and then at me. “It’s called a sandwich.”

I wasn’t hungry before. I haven’t been properly hungry for a while. But suddenly I am.

I pick up one of the bottles he has out and peer at some of the containers on the counter before I look at him again. “Are you sure? White wine vinegar? Who puts vinegar on a sandwich.”

“People who are smart enough to know what dressing is?” he says.

I put the bottle back down. “If you say so.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a pointed look. “For the record, I’m a fucking awesome cook.”

“Good for you,” I say dismissively. I pick up another container and scrunch my nose. “Kimchi?” I make a wholeproduction of sliding it back onto the counter and shake my head skeptically, just shy of tutting for the extra touch.

“Since when—” he starts, but then he huffs, grabs two more slices of sourdough and slaps them onto the cutting board before him.

I grin and rest my chin on my hand as I sit down at the counter. I watch him assemble the sandwiches. The only source of light is the one above the kitchen island, so it’s just Nick and me in the circle of light with everything else around us encased in darkness, almost like we’re the only two people in the world right now.

He slides a plate in front of me with a mocking flourish.

We eat in silence. When I’m done, I push the plate away and lean back.

Nick’s lips press into a tight line.