Nolan.
After all this time, he still takes up residence in the back of my mind, and in my heart. He’s a presence I can’t quite run away from.
I’ve tried.
Sometimes, late at night, I catch myself typing his name into Google, hoping for anything that will tell me where he is, what he’s doing. But his social media is practically nonexistent. No updates. No new posts. Nothing but old corporate features that mean nothing to me now.
Maya and Jeremy toss me breadcrumbs from time to time.
I know he left Big Stream after the pitch event. I know he started his own consulting business—Rhodes & Co. (because of course he named it something cool and perfect).
Who the & Co. is, though? I have no idea.
And that’s it.
I don’t know if he’s happy. I don’t know if he ever thinks about me the way I think about him. If he ever wonders what would’ve happened if we hadn’t both walked away.
Ihatethat I still wonder.
Nolan once told me the best pitches come from something real—something that leaves a mark. And when we sat under the stars that night, wrapped in nothing but silence and story, I gave him mine. North and Anchor. My parents. My heart. He didn’t say much, probably because he already knew about them, but he listened. God, he listened.
So when he left me that bracelet, tucked in a linen bag like some kind of quiet vow, I knew. He wasn’t just trying to win a pitch. He was trying to give me something back. Something to hold onto.
At the time, I thought it was some cosmic connection, something bigger than the both of us. I still do.
Even though our story ended, I still think he came into my life—accidentally,cosmically—for a reason.
And I cherish that.
I run my fingers over the anchor, feeling the smooth wood against my skin. My other hand drifts to the compass I keep on the counter, the small gold thing that’s been with me since I was a child. It’s a little tarnished, but still points north, steady as ever.
Just like me.
Just like this place.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up as a familiar face steps inside—Emily Lawson, one of my regulars. She’s in her late twenties, like me. She’s a genius. The youngest literature professor at Seattle Pacific University, who spends her holidays and summers here, sipping black coffee and working on the novel she’s been writing for years. She gives me a knowing look as she heads to the counter.
“You’re in that head of yours again,” she says, her voice warm and amused.
I laugh softly, rubbing a hand over my forehead. “That obvious?”
She just smiles. “You’re a thinker, Rorie. That’s a good thing. Just don’t let it consume you. It’ll stop you fromliving.”
A small chuckle escapes me at the word.Living.
That’s what I’m trying to do here. To be fully present. To stop chasing after things I can’t define.
This life—this town, this shop, these people—they’re exactly what I was meant to find.
For once, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I take a deep breath, smile bigger, and turn back to the café, ready to start the day.
CHAPTER 56
WHERE THE COMPASS POINTS
NOLAN
