Chapter 6
UNKNOWN NUMBER
RORIE
There’s nothing like coming home with sore feet, smeared lipstick, and absolutely no idea where your left earring is. Ugh!
The door clicks shut behind me with a soft thud, and I kick off my heels with a groan. Cool relief floods up from the plush rug as it meets the soles of my aching feet.
My apartment greets me like an old friend—cozy, chaotic in a way only I can decipher.
Unopened mail leans over the edge of the kitchen counter.
A jacket I meant to hang up days ago lounges across a dining chair, possibly claiming permanent residence.
It smells faintly of candle wax and lavender cleaner, but there’s a whiff of a less charming scent—probably the leftovers I forgot to throw out.
Still, it’s home. Cluttered, imperfect, but safe. And all mine.
I shed my dress, swap it for an oversized tee, and collapse onto the couch.
The cushions sigh beneath me, worn and familiar.
My fingers graze the spine of the small town romance I’ve been half-ignoring for weeks.
I flip to the bookmarked page, but the words blur, too sweet, and too tidy for my frayed mood.
Should’ve picked up that dark romance. The why choose with pages and pages of smut. Definitely a better fit for my current mood.
With a dramatic sigh, I toss the book aside and pad barefoot into the kitchen. Ice cubes clatter into a glass. The vodka tonic bites cold and clean, cutting through the ambient drone of appliances and the quiet shuffle of the city outside my window.
I take a sip. Let the cold burn distract me.
What the fuck was that with Nolan Rhodes tonight?
One minute he’s looming at a rooftop bar like a fallen angel in rolled sleeves, and the next he’s tossing verbal grenades left and right. And I let it happen. Worse, I enjoyed it. For a full thirty seconds, I forgot to hate him. I forgot his firm beat me. Again.
I take a longer sip, trying to wash the thought down with vodka and denial.
I mean, really. What was that?
His stare felt like he was dissecting me, sorting reactions for some internal dossier.
For a bit, I let him win the stare-down. Barely. But still.
Infuriating.
And, unfortunately, hot.
Not that I noticed.
Okay, I noticed.
But only in the anthropological sense—like observing a wolf in business casual. A deadly predator with feral patience. Probably smells expensive too.
I top off my drink, grab my dad’s gold compass from where I keep it on the counter, and slip it into my pocket on instinct.
The balcony door groans as I push it open. The city greets me with humid air tinged with exhaust, and remnants of whatever someone grilled earlier in the day.
Leaning against the iron railing, glass in hand, I listen as Astoria hums below—footsteps on pavement, a burst of laughter, the low roar of the N train sliding through shadows.
Above, the sky offers nothing. No stars, just haze. Still, I search for constellations I know I won’t find. A habit leftover from nights spent on the hood of my dad’s Jeep, listening to him trace the stars with quiet certainty.
“If you ever get lost, Rorie,” he once said, pressing a compass into my palm, “look for the North Star. You need a North and an Anchor.”
I remember the needle trembling, then settling. Him smiling like he was handing me a secret map to the universe.
A guide. And a tether. Something to follow. Something to hold onto.
Only, I don’t know which I’m missing.
Maybe both.
My mom was my North. Big dreams, bigger beliefs. She saw me completely, even when I didn’t.
My dad was my anchor. Steady. A soft voice in the darkness.
Now, they’re both gone–taken months apart. It’s poetic in its own way, knowing they’re up there together. That they couldn’t bear to be apart in this world.
But losing my mom was like losing gravity. Then my dad followed way too soon after, and the ground beneath me vanished.
I’ve been chasing stability ever since.
I press the compass into my palm. It’s solid. Familiar. Still pointing.
But I’m adrift.
Ever since I lost them, my career has collapsed. The grief has swallowed my focus, shattered my confidence, and left me in a world that keeps moving without them.
If they could see me now, Would they be disappointed?
I feel like they would. Only because they raised me to press on through the storms of life. And I’m not. I’m stuck.
My eyes scan over the stars one last time but the couch beckons. I head back inside and sink into it, digging out the remote from between the cushions. I scroll until I land on my brainless, trashy reality TV the Bachelor Barn.
Somewhere between an on-screen tantrum and an overcooked proposal, I grow bored and reach for my phone. No messages. Just me.
Instagram tempts me. And of course, there he is.
Quinn. Grinning with a drink, surrounded by guys who wear matching polos and call it culture. Caption: Work hard, tequila harder. #BossLife #VibesOnly.
“Vibes only?” I mutter. “You wear loafers without socks.”
He looks happy. Unburdened. My grief was a detour he didn’t have time for.
Meanwhile, I’m here, half-drunk, smeared lipstick, mascara smudged, grief curled around my ankles like a slithering snake.
Every serious relationship I’ve had taught me the same lesson: love is temporary. People leave.
It’s safer to expect nothing. At least that way, you see it coming.
A message dings my phone.
Curious, I open it. And immediately wish I hadn’t.
Jackson?! His dirty dick is a perfect match for that rank ass pussy of yours, Chloe. Enjoy!
Whoa.
I blink. Then read it again.
It’s unhinged. Horrifying. And… kind of fascinating.
Who sends this?
More importantly, who receives this?
I should ignore it. Go to bed.
Mischief flares in my chest. It’s been a long day. And honestly, I could use the distraction.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. The words practically write themselves.
Wow. That’s... poetic.
An immediate response.
Fuck. You. Chloe!
Typing bubbles appear. Disappear.
Shit. Wrong number.
I snort.
Yep.
Who the hell is this?
Who do you want me to be? Chloe?
Anyone but Chloe.
Clearly.
And just like that, I’m texting a stranger. Which was not on my vision board for today. Yet, here I am.
You text like a stand-up comic testing material.
You text like you’re auditioning for the lead in Sad Boy: The Musical.
I’m not sad. Or musical.
Says the guy rage-texting about genital hygiene.
Moment of weakness.
A moment? Is that what we’re going to call it?
Just trying to paint a picture.
Mission accomplished.
Why are you responding then?
Entertainment value. And you have decent punctuation.
I could be catfishing you right now.
Please. Even if you’re a middle-aged man named Carl who collects porcelain dolls, I’ll take my chances.
Jokes on you. Carl’s doll collection is world-renowned.
Can Carl spell world-renowned?
Probably not.
I don’t know why I’m still texting. Maybe because so far, it’s fun. Or because the silence tonight is too heavy.
So, tell me about you.
I’m guessing this is your smooth segue into: are you male or female?
Busted.
Soooo…
Does it matter?
Not really. Just curious.
Fair.
Female?
Correct.
And now let me guess… you’re going to jack off later while rereading our entire thread?
Only if you promise to narrate it like an audiobook.
I’m not opposed. But I also am.
To answer your question, I’m selectively social, emotionally elusive, and still baffled by fitted sheets. Basically, I’m a human starter pack of red flags—but I do recycle.
Recycling’s hot.
Also, fitted sheets are a trap. Sent from Satan.
Got any skeletons in your closet I should know about before continuing this absurdly odd conversation?
Only if you count the shoes I refuse to throw out. You?
Oh, I’ve got skeletons. But they’re color-coded and alphabetized.
Psychotic. And yet, still not impressive.
Sarcasm and trauma aren’t enough?
For friendship? Maybe. For entertainment? The jury’s out.
But, go on, try to impress me.
Okay. I can cook, fix anything with duct tape, and once won a bar trivia night by naming all the Spice Girls’ middle names.
Who are the Spice Girls?
Please tell me you’re joking.
A little. Proceed.
Baby Spice…Melanie Jayne.
Googling as we speak.
Wow. Zero trust.
You’re a stranger. I trust nothing.
Fine. Google away. But I’m right.
If you’re wrong, you owe me.
And if I’m right?
Then I owe you. But don’t get cocky.
Already cocky. Stay tuned. I’m just getting started.
I will say, you’re definitely more interesting than the reality show I had on.
High praise. What show?
The Bachelor Barn. A trash dating show. They make you look stable by comparison.
Ouch!
No offense.
Honestly, none taken.
The conversation unfolds like improv with a somewhat charming maniac. We trade insults and odd truths. I now know all the Spice Girls’ middle names, and we’ve developed a backstory for Carl the Doll Collector that includes three failed marriages and a surprisingly successful Etsy store.
Unknown is reeling from a breakup. I’m avoiding mine. We’re both emotionally unstable and unreasonably witty.
My cheeks ache from grinning. The silence that used to crush me is now filled with unexpected banter and badly timed jokes from someone I don’t know.
The text thread goes quiet for a bit, and I’m slightly concerned I offended him. Or maybe he just got bored of me.
Then he resurfaces and we shift. From banter to honesty. From flippant to raw.
Unknown tells me what happened—that he walked in on Chloe, when he was going to ask her to move in tonight.
I’m the biggest idiot alive.
Why?
I never saw it coming.
I stare at the screen trying to think of what to say that might make him feel better. But for once, I can’t find a joke.
How long were you together?
A year.
Consider it a blessing. Better now than later.
Guess you’re right.
I’m absolutely right. People can be selfish assholes. That’s not your burden.
Speaking from experience?
Sort of. Different situation.
Different how?
Just... different.
In the hours that we text, we don’t say everything. But we say enough. He asks about me, but doesn’t push. And I don’t explain. My life is mine. Messy, unfinished, and not for tonight.
I failed.
The word slams into me. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just…familiar.
Because yeah, I know that feeling.
Of trying so hard to hold it all together—career, grief, expectations—only to watch it crumble in your hands anyway.
Of chasing wins that never come.
Of being the girl who used to sparkle and now can’t even land a pitch.
Of wondering if the people you lost would still be proud of you if they could see you now.
Fail.
That word sticks to everything lately. And seeing it typed out like that—from a stranger who feels just cracked and broken as I do—makes it harder to pretend I’m fine.
You didn’t. She did.
Easier said than felt.
I get it. But you’ll feel better once you take out the trash. Marie Kondo her ass.
Who?
Never mind. Just declutter your life. Starting with her.
Her? Done. Him? Complicated.
I work with him.
Oh, plot twist.
Yeah.
So what’s the plan? You gonna murder him? Hide the body?
Depends. You got any tips?
Classified. That’s Friend Zone material. Access required.
How do I apply?
Accidental text friendships are uncharted territory. There should be rules.
Such as?
Rule #1: No oversharing, especially about bodily fluids or functions.
Failed. Next?
Rule #2: No deep questions after midnight.
Already failed that one too.
Rule #3: Keep it snarky. No “live, laugh, love” energy.
What about Pinterest quotes?
Immediate termination.
Harsh. But okay.
Rule #4: Texting stops if I’m hungry or sleepy.
Rude. I’m less important than snacks?
Yes.
You’re a savage. Rule #5?
Never text “lol” unless you actually laughed.
Did someone hurt you?
Yes. And I’ve never recovered.
Looking forward to unpacking that more, but I’ll “haha” with integrity from now on.
See. Growth.
You’re oddly good at laying out rules.
And you’re weirdly tolerable for a guy who opened with a genital rant.
Awe, thank you, I’m touched.
You should be. It’s the nicest thing I’ve said all day.
Should I be concerned about how low your bar is?
Constantly.
Well, the rules are set. I should probably get some sleep. Thanks for the therapy sesh.
Next time, I’m charging.
Worth it. Goodnight, Snarky Stranger.
Goodnight.
I’m smiling, surprised by how easy that felt.
Before setting the phone down, I slip a hand into my pocket and pull out the compass. The needle wobbles once. Then steadies.
North.
Anchor.
I’m neither tonight. I’m just someone standing still beneath a sky that won’t stop spinning. But for now, that’s enough.
To be here.
To still look up.
To still believe the stars are worth chasing.
And to find bright ones in the most unexpected places.