Chapter 30
OUTLOOK SAYS I’M A COWARD
NOLAN
The second I hit send on that email, my chest caved. Due to my own cowardice.
I did it.
I pulled the plug on something that didn’t feel casual. On something that, for one night, felt like a beginning. I hit pause, trying to protect us both but the truth is, I panicked.
That article about lovebombing? Chloe’s voice in my head calling me over the top with gestures? Rorie’s cautious-vibe email?
All kindling into this wildfire of doubt, and I let it burn straight through my better judgment.
Now I’ve iced her out in a professionally worded rejection that reads more like a cease-and-desist than a conversation.
By the time I get home, my body is coiled tight with tension, jaw aching from how long I’ve been chewing on this regret.
My mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the second I hit send. The email was short. Neat. Respectful. The kind of message you write when you’re afraid of being seen too clearly. When you’d rather ghost your own vulnerability than admit you might’ve felt something.
I practically engraved distance into the signature line.
So if Rorie was already pulling away, I just handed her the scissors and told her to cut the cord.
Fuck!
I step into my loft and let the door slam shut behind me, the sound ricocheting through the stillness like a verdict. I rip off my tie, drag my jacket from my shoulders, and toss it somewhere I won’t see it for a while. My clothes hit the floor in a trail of self-sabotage.
Vinyl crackles in the background, moody, low, some jazz track I usually lose myself in.
But tonight, the silence is louder. And for the first time in a long time…
I don’t want to be alone with it.
I collapse onto the bed, arms flung out like I’ve just survived a war. And in a way, I have. The emotional equivalent, at least. Except this battle? I started it. And now I’ve got no one to blame but myself.
Staring up at the ceiling, my mind drifts where it wants, which, predictably, is straight to Rorie.
That maddening, beautiful, complicated woman has carved herself into my thoughts, lodged deep beneath the skin. And I hate it.
But I wanted that. I wanted her.
What did I do instead?
I freaked out.
I scroll through the article again, slower this time, looking for a punch to the dick I know is coming.
· Intense gifts early on.
Yep. That’s a big fucking check.
· Over-the-top flattery and attention.
Okay… yeah. I basically told her she made a bathroom sink holy ground. That probably counts.
· Creating a sense of “us” too quickly.
Christ.
· Idealizing the person before really knowing them.
Triple check.
· Emotional whiplash—hot one moment, cold the next.
I literally just hit pause. I am the whiplash.
My thumb stalls on the next line.
· Frequent “coincidental” run-ins or manufactured meetings that make it feel like fate.
Shit.
Because yeah, we’ve had a lot of “coincidences” lately, haven’t we? The rooftop. Trivia night. Cross’s party. Even Muncan’s, where I just happen to buy my steaks, even though it’s on the other side of the goddamn city.
I toss my phone onto the bed, watching it bounce once before landing face-down like even it’s ashamed of me.
Jesus.
I just scrolled through a checklist of romantic manipulation tactics and found my name on every single one.
This isn’t who I am. This isn’t what I do. I don’t get swept up. I don’t lose control. I sure as hell don’t send women constellations after a week or so of knowing them and then hit them with a corporate-sounding “let’s pause” email like an sentimental cyborg.
And yet… here I am. Practically waving a red flag.
There’s only one person who can talk me off this ledge.
With a groan, I reach for my phone.
You up?
That sounded like a booty text. It’s not.
I might be having a psychological emergency.
I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling. TF’s gonna rip me apart for this.
I deserve it.
Hey, Stranger. How was your day?
Long. You?
I’ve had better. Ate an obscene amount of takeout and spent an embarrassing amount of time debating whether folding laundry is a capitalist scam.
Interesting take.
Thank you. I’m starting a movement. #WrinklePride.
Her messages come in rapid-fire bursts of sarcasm and wit that always manage to disarm me. It’s muscle memory at this point, my fingers replying before my brain can analyze every word. And that’s why I don’t stop myself from typing the next one.
I hooked up with someone.
Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.
Then—
Oh?
Oh? That’s all I get?
I drop a grenade and you send me one syllable like we’re not deeply entangled disasters with a flair for theatrics?
Get invested, TF. I need judgment or fanfare or at least a dramatic gasp.
Okay, fine—
GASP.
CLUTCHES PEARLS.
Faints onto a velvet chaise.
Happy now?
Now tell me:
Was it good?
Was it bad?
Was it so amazing it’s now your Roman Empire?
I regret it.
That bad?
No. That GOOD!
The typing bubbles start. Stop. Start again.
And that’s a bad thing?
It is.
Sounds like someone’s overthinking.
Sounds like someone doesn’t know the full story.
So tell me.
I stare at that message, thumb poised and ready. I could ghost this entire conversation, pretend I’m busy. But the truth is, I’ve been carrying this around all damn day. And somehow, she’s the only person I feel safe enough to admit it to.
It wasn’t just a hook up. It was a revelation. And also a mistake.
I’m confused. I thought you said it was good?
I did. That’s the problem.
What’s the worst that happens? You see her again? Hook up with her again? Date?
The worst that happens is I lose everything.
There’s a longer pause this time.
There’s more to this.
Yeah. There is.
Typing bubbles. Stop. Start. Stop.
What’s wrong? You don’t trust her with your heart?
I don’t trust myself.
I rest my head against the headboard, closing my eyes as the confession hits the air.
But you want to be with her?
My jaw clenches. Because, yeah. That’s exactly the problem.
It’s too soon.
Too soon for what?
For anything. I should be dating. Exploring. Rebounding.
Not falling headfirst into someone who makes my brain glitch every time she looks at me like I’m not a mess.
No reply. Not yet. Then—
So… you want her. But you’re pushing her away. Because it’s inconvenient?
Because it’s a disaster waiting to happen.
You’re just scared.
That one doesn’t land soft. It knocks the breath right out of me. She’s not wrong. Before Chloe, I wasn’t like this. I didn’t second-guess every good thing. I didn’t weigh every choice like it might be the one that sends the whole thing crashing down.
But now, I don’t trust the pull. Not even when it feels… true, or right.
So, why is my first instinct to treat it like a threat?
Oh, I know why!
Because finger fucking someone in a public bathroom weeks after having your heart ripped out doesn’t exactly scream stable mental health.
I’m terrified.
I don’t know if I can tell the difference between something fleeting and something worth persuing.
And if it is worth pursuing? I’m afraid I’ll ruin it.
That’s a heavy thing to carry alone.
I read her message again.
And again.
For what it’s worth, you’re being way too hard on yourself.
But if you ever need someone to talk to... I’m here.
No pressure. Just—here.
That simple reassurance hits like a balm. She doesn’t offer solutions. She just offers herself.
Thanks, Trouble.
Anytime, Problem.
I smile. It’s stupid how much better I feel.
Wait. One last thing.
What?
I’m about to send you something exclusive.
Brace yourself.
I laugh, already curious.
A photo loads.
It’s… her elbow?
Behold. My WENIS.
What the actual hell?
Excuse you, that’s top-tier content.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at elbows the same again.
My wenis is stunning, and you will show it some respect.
I’m actually uncomfortable.
Now you have a piece of me.
You’re welcome.
I’m stunned. And grinning like an idiot.
Alright, I’ll match your energy.
Feast your eyes.
I send a photo of my ankle.
Sir. That is aggressive.
This is who I am.
Raw.
Vulnerable.
Bare-ankled.
It’s just… so much. I feel…
Exposed.
Be honest. You’re swooning.
I’m deeply moved.
Emotionally shaken.
Good. That’s the goal.
Remind me, what was the point of this conversation?
Just to make you smile, or hopefully laugh.
Did it work?
Yeah. It did.
This whole picture exchange was stupid. Pointless.
And yet—I laughed.
Actually laughed. The kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that makes you forget—for a second—that everything around you is burning.
I stare at the screen long after her last message, heart finally slowing its frantic pace.
For the first time all damn day, the pressure in my chest loosens its grip.
Cross. Thatcher. Jackson. Rorie.
All still there.
Still loud.
But TF’s words landed somewhere quieter. Somewhere buried.
She didn’t try to fix me. Didn’t press. She cracked a joke, tossed me a lifeline, and sat in the dark with me like it wasn’t something that cost her anything.
And that was enough.
What kind of person does that for someone they’ve never met? What kind of friend is she to the people who know her in real life—who get her laughter in person, who get to see her face when she smirks, who get to trace the exact shape of her sarcasm with their own hands?
The question creeps in like fog through a cracked window—quiet and unwelcome.
What if were her?
What if the voice behind the screen—the stranger who gives me peace when the rest of the world feels like it’s closing in—
is Rorie?
No.
No, it’s not. It can’t be. She wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t lie.
Would she?
I scrub a hand over my face, hating that the thought came at all. Hating even more that it stuck. Because if TF was Rorie—if this softness, this gentleness, this safe place I keep crawling back to…was her—then maybe we’d be okay. Maybe I’d have known her better before I broke her.