Chapter 33 #2
Carl and Jackson.
It’s nothing. Coincidence. There’s a million Chloe’s in this world. Probably two million.
Back to the Big Stream team page.
Jackson Butler.
Account Manager.
Oh my god.
No. Way.
Grabbing my bag, I frantically dig for the sleek black business card from my galaxy gift. The one I couldn’t bring myself to throw away.
Fingers trembling, I pull up Carl’s number and read left to right. Right to left. Then again.
Well, fuck.
No.
I’m seeing things. That’s the only explanation.
To prove this absurd theory wrong, I enter the digits into my phone.
One. Two. Three.
It autofills.
Carl the Doll Collector.
My blood goes cold. I stare at the screen.
No, no, no, no, no, no.
Carl is Nolan.
Nolan is Carl.
I’ve been texting Nolan. Every. Day.
The man I confided in at 2AM.
The man I compared sock colors with.
The man I humped like it was my last night on earth.
My heart sprints. My vision blurs. I’ve been launched out of my body.
Same. Fucking. Man.
Tell me something crazy that happened today.
How about the fact that my comfort stranger is the same person who once made me see stars without ever taking off my clothes?
I start choking on absolutely nothing. My phone nearly blasts itself into the sun.
…uh.
Flawless.
That bad, huh?
You have no idea.
You could say that.
You okay?
Oh, buddy. I am the furthest possible thing from okay.
Gotta go. Emergency.
Before he can respond, I chuck my phone across the bed like it might self-destruct then I faceplant into a pillow and scream into the void.
I’ve made some bad choices in my life.
But this? This takes the fucking cake.
And I have to get on a plane.
To an island.
With him.
There’s not enough vodka in the world.
Kill me.
Or better yet, kill him.
No. That’s not fair. This isn’t his fault. Not exactly.
But still.
Our stars will never fade.
My ass.
I don’t even think. I claw across the bed, snatch my phone up, take a screen shot of Carl’s number then video conference the two emergency contacts tied directly to the last functioning part of my brain.
It rings twice before Jeremy’s face pops up, mid-yawn, his hair rumpled and one eye half-closed. “You better be dying,” he mumbles. “Or actively committing arson. Otherwise, I’m hanging up and haunting your dreams out of spite.”
“It is.” Voice on the edge of hysteria. “It absolutely is.”
Maya joins the call next. Her face is puffy, eyes a little red. Crying. She’s been crying.
Her hair is in a messy top knot, and she’s wearing a hoodie—in the summer—I know for a fact is Asher’s. Before I can even think about saying anything, she straightens, schooling her face into something more neutral.
“Stop analyzing me and tell us why you called.” She sneers at the screen.
Jeremy squints. “Wait. You’re crying. Oh my God, you’re—”
Maya cuts him off. “I’m not crying. My allergies are acting up.”
Jeremy narrows his eyes. “What are you allergic to, Maya? The truth?”
Maya flips him off.
“Okay, but for real, Rorie.” She waves me on. “What’s going on?”
Jeremy leans forward. “Yes, what is the drama? Give it to me. Inject it directly into my veins.”
Taking a deep breath, I white-knuckle my phone.
“Carl,” I say. “I found out who Carl is.”
Jeremy gasps so hard he nearly chokes on air. Maya blinks.
“It’s Nolan,” I whisper. “Carl is Nolan.”
Jeremy releases a scream that could shatter glass. Maya exhales. Long. Steady. Worried.
“Are we sure?” she asks, still eerily calm.
I show them the business card on my screen. “Typed in the number. This popped up.” I share the screen shot of Carl’s contact.
Jeremy falls over. Just disappears off the screen. His phone goes sideways.
“Jeremy?” I call.
His phone shifts. He’s on the floor. Face down. Motionless.
Maya shakes her head. “I think you killed him.”
After a beat, Jeremy shoots back up resembling a vampire rising from the dead. “Bitch, I told you once and I’ll tell you again. This. Is. A. ROM-COM.
I rub my temples. “Jeremy—”
“No, Rorie. Listen to me.” He points a finger at the screen.
“You texted a mystery stranger for emotional support. You got all kinds of naughty with a man in a public restroom. He sent you a gift memorializing the fucking stars. Now he turns out to be the mystery stranger? This is Hallmark if Hallmark had horny writers.”
“This is a nightmare.”
Maya crosses her arms. “Or it’s a red flag buffet with a side of emotional sabotage.”
Jeremy gasps. “Excuse you, I am manifesting love. Don’t harsh the vibe.”
“You’re manifesting delusion.”
With a groan, I flop backward onto my bed. “I don’t know what to do. My brain is a blender and everything hurts.”
Maya softens. “Focus on the event. Don’t let this derail you. You’re too close to lose your grip now.”
She’s right. I know she is.
Maya continues, voice gentler now. “You can’t risk blowing this opportunity by getting caught up in some complicated mess with someone who’s already fucked with your head.”
Jeremy huffs. “Or she could win the Pitchpocalypse and the man and become a goddess of legend. Ever think of that?”
Maya levels him with a stare. “Real life, Jeremy.”
Jeremy huffs. “Boring. Zero stars.”
I cover my face with an arm.
Jeremy is wrong.
Maya is right.
I need to stay focused.
And yet.
I drop my arm and glare into the camera.
“You’re both the worst.”
Jeremy grins wider. “I know.”
Maya sighs. “I’m aware.”
I hang up before they can say anything else, because at this point, I’m already too confused.
There’s a message from Carl waiting for me.
Talk to me.
Can’t. There’s a full-blown bee rave in my stomach. DJ Anxiety is spinning tonight.
Because now I know.
And he doesn’t.
I need to walk away. Let it go. I’ll ghost him.
Or continue and pretend I never saw his face on that website or connected the dots between Chloe, Jackson, and that old, angry text.
I’m not sure what just happened. But whenever you’re ready, whether it’s in five minutes or five years, I’ll be here to listen.
No pressure. No expectations. Just… me…if you ever want or NEED to talk about anything.
I mean, I’m practically hosting a therapy podcast over here, and you’ve been an excellent listener to me. A true pro. But it’s mostly been about me. My drama. My ex. My choices.
His words hit hard and fast.
Squeezing my eyes shut, frustration coils around my ribs—barbed wire pulled tight.
The typing bubbles flash for a moment. He’s trying to decide if he wants to keep pushing. Then it disappears.
Tension grows between us, stretching across the distance, even through a screen.
For the first time since we started this weird, accidental friendship, I don’t know what to say to him.
I wait for another message.
It doesn’t come.
And I never reply.