Chapter 21
EGGS OVER EMOTIONAL
NOLAN
Syrup. Burnt toast. And enough caffeine to revive a dead man.
That’s Buzzy’s Diner.
Which is perfect, because I’m not dead—I just feel like it.
I slide into the booth across from Tammy, who’s already halfway through a stack of pancakes like she’s training for a carb-based Olympic event.
She’s wearing gold hoop earrings, a denim jacket over her office blouse, and an expression that says she’s about to reorganize my entire life with color-coded tabs and a smile that dares me to stop her.
“You’re late,” she says, spearing a piece of pancake without looking up.
“You ordered without me.”
“Because I know you. You’d have rolled in here, moaned about how you’re starving, then spent ten minutes fake-scanning the menu like you weren’t gonna order the same three things you always do.”
“Okay, rude—but also correct.”
“Glad I could validate your nonsense.”
I flag down the server, order my usual—black coffee, eggs over easy, bacon, whole wheat toast, and I add on a Belgian waffle.
“Ha! I ordered four things.” I settle back against the red vinyl booth. Tammy watches me for a beat, chewing slowly. Then she swallows, wipes her mouth, and gives me a look.
Shit. Here it comes.
“So.” She takes a delicate sip of her orange juice like she’s not about to interrogate me. “You gonna tell me what the hell is going on with you, or do I have to keep guessing?”
I blink. “Define ‘going on.’”
She points her fork at me. “Don’t play cute. You’ve been off. Not just post-Chloe-off—worse. Broody. Distracted. And now you’re making shirts for some girl.”
My jaw tightens. “I should’ve never shown you, or asked for your opinion because you’re never gonna let that shit go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” She levels a glare. “Is that what’s got you all you twisted? Did you make the shirt for Rorie Adams? The woman you had me investigate.”
“Investigate it a tad over the top.”
Her glare hardens. I hesitate. Sip my coffee. If we were in a movie, this would be about the time the tumbleweeds breeze between our standoff.
Tammy pounces. “Holy shit. It’s Rorie, isn’t it?”
“No.” I set the mug down. “The shirt was someone else.”
Her brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
I exhale, rub the back of my neck. “Okay. There’s this… person. I accidentally texted her by mistake the night of the Chloe Catastrophe. Wrong number. She responded. We kept talking.”
Tammy sets down her fork. She’s locked in now. “And?”
“And nothing. We text. It’s… fun. Easy. She’s smart. Keeps me in check.”
“And Rorie?”
My silence answers her.
Tammy shakes her head. “Two women. One you’re professionally pitted against, and the other you’ve never met in person?”
I groan. “Perfect. It sounds like a dating app horror story.”
“It sounds like you're a man in need of therapy and a whiteboard.”
“Mystery Texter’s just a friend. And Rorie?” I pause. “Well, she’s the splinter in my dick I can’t tweeze out. Sharp, buried deep, and somehow flares up when I least expect it.”
“First off, gross.” Tammy squints. “Secondly, is that a metaphor for feelings or a spicy medical condition?”
I groan. “I don’t know what it is. All I know is she’s under my skin. And in my head.”
Tammy’s quiet for a beat. She reaches over, grabs my toast, and takes a bite. I give her a look
“You’re a disaster,” she says, crumbs in her voice.
“You worried about me?”
“I’m always worried about you, you idiot.” She waves a hand. “You spent a year trying to be someone you weren’t for Chloe. Now you’re finally showing your real self—and if that girl sees it too? Let her.”
I blink at her. “That was… almost sweet.”
She shrugs. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still stealing your toast.”
“Don’t be worried.” I stab a piece of egg, but don’t eat it yet.
“Don’t get murdered,” she replies. “Who knows who your mystery texter really is? You know?”
“It’s not like that with either of them. I’m not trying to fall in love. I’m just trying to figure out which version of myself I’m supposed to be now. And they both get different pieces of me. But they both make me feel like I’m not completely crumbling.”
“I’m here for you. Imogene too.” She taps my plate with her fork. “Now eat your eggs. You’re gonna need the protein to survive tonight.”
I frown. “Tonight?”
“Shelby Davidson. Happy hour.” Tammy grins. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t forget.” I smirk. “But thanks for the reminder.”
She sips her juice again, smug. “Don’t worry. I already blocked it on your calendar and added a thirty-minute pregame slot so you can rehearse your charm.”
I chuckle. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m your assistant.”
“Same thing.”
She tips her glass toward me. “Remember, Nolan—whoever this mystery girl is, and whatever the hell you think you’re doing with Rorie Adams, don’t lie to yourself about what you want.”
I nod slowly. And try not to think about how I want both women to be the same person.
“Which is the Asher Cross account.”
Oh, right. And that too.
After breakfast, I wandered the city half-heartedly sipping a lukewarm latte and pretending I had errands to run. I didn’t.
What I did have, however, was a phone full of unsolicited dick pics.
Not of me. No, no.
I wore one joke shirt—ONE—and suddenly every man within a ten-block radius decided I was the chosen one.
The Keeper of the Dongs. The digital dick oracle.
And now, like the generous bastard I am, I’m about to forward the worst of them to the only person on earth who might actually appreciate the absurdity: Textually Frustrated.
I hope you’re somewhere safe because I’m about to send you something deeply disturbing.
Why do I feel like I need to call my lawyer before I open this?
Too late. Sending.
[Image attached]
WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL, CARL?!
Are you impressed?
Or deeply, profoundly afraid?
I need to dunk my phone in holy water.
Wait! Is this YOU?
I never said it was MY dick. Should I?
You should have prepared me before scarring me for life.
I’ve received too many of these in my time, TF. My inbox is basically a shrine to unsolicited manhood. Some are artistic, some are distressing, and others…well, I’ll admit, some have made me question my own self-worth.
Are you telling me there’s a spectrum of dicks in your phone?
A dick-tionary, if you will.
I WILL NOT!
Too late. You’re in this now.
I hate that I’m about to say this but… send more.
Are you serious?
Look, if I have to live with what you just burned into my retinas, I might as well see what else is out there. Consider this an educational experience.
I appreciate your scientific curiosity.
[Image attached]
OH MY GOD. THIS ONE HAS PROPS.
Yep. That’s “Creative Enthusiasm.” He used shadows and everything. True commitment to the craft.
I have so many questions.
You and me both. But none I actually want answered.
[Image attached]
…Is that a sock puppet?
Meet “Whimsical Horror.”
He sent this with the caption: “Let me be your puppet master.”
I’m calling the police.
No, no, no. I have one more. This next one’s special.
[Image attached]
WHY DOES THIS ONE HAVE A BACKGROUND STORY?
Because some men go the extra mile, TF. This guy titled his “The Lone Wanderer” and wrote an entire paragraph about how his dick is on a quest for love and acceptance.
Please tell me you responded.
Of course I did. I told him his dick was brave and I wish him well on his journey.
You’re a true humanitarian.
I do what I can. But now I have a serious concern.
What’s that?
Are we penis-shaming? Should we be penis-shaming? Is this wrong?
There’s a difference between shaming and acknowledging that some men have too much free time and questionable artistic vision.
Fair point.
So, keep sending them?
Oh, absolutely! This is my new favorite segment of our friendship.
I’m honored.
But if you ever send me an unsolicited one of YOURS, I will find you and break your face and your phone.
Let’s be honest… you’d be curious.
I will deny that in a court of law.
Oh, this is fun. I’ll title this chat “Dick Talks with TF.”
I hate you.
No, you don’t.
…Send another one.
Already on it.
[Image attached]