Chapter 55 North & Anchor
NORTH & ANCHOR
RORIE
The briny scent of the sea drifts through the open doors as I run my fingers over the leather-bound journal in front of me.
Outside, the waves roll lazily against the shore, the winter light stretching gold and pale pink across the water as a quiet promise.
Somewhere nearby, the town’s Christmas lights blink against the gathering mist, their colors blurred at the edges.
Inside, the café is alive. Laughter blends with the soft crackle of an old Nat King Cole record spinning on the antique player behind the counter. Pine and cinnamon hang in the air, threaded through with the bite of roasted coffee and the buttery crumble of fresh scones.
I glance up at the sign above the counter with deep green lettering carved into weathered wood.
North & Anchor.
Every time I look at it, pieces of glass loosens in my chest. I’m now tethered to something real. Something mine.
I never thought much about the names of things growing up, but this one... this one was waiting for me to understand it.
My parents were two halves of the same coin—adventure and home.
Mom was the dreamer, the woman who could unfold a map and spin a whole world out of the creases. She made the future feel wide and shimmering, like the universe itself was a dare.
“No matter where you go, baby,” she’d say, her voice soft but sure, “just follow your North. Your heart will know the way.”
And for the longest time, I believed her. I thought North meant movement. That to follow it meant chasing something—success, love, something bigger than myself.
Dad was different. He was the anchor—steady, unwavering, the kind of person who made a house feel like home just by being in it. He believed in staying, in building, in holding onto what mattered.
“A life well-lived needs both,” he used to tell me. “Something to chase and something to come back to.”
And they had both.
Smiling to myself, I remember the small, weathered boat they took to the lake on summer weekends. North & Anchor.
It wasn’t much—some cracked paint, rusted metal, and an engine that needed more convincing than it should have—but it was theirs. It was where Dad taught me to navigate by the stars, where Mom showed me that some things—some people—are worth holding onto.
At the time, I never thought about what it meant. It was just a boat. Just a name.
But now? Now, it’s everything.
I left New York thinking I was running away. Escaping, so to speak. But it wasn’t about leaving at all.
It was about finding.
Because when I landed in Port Townsend, where my Aunt Jane lives, with its salt-heavy air and cobblestone streets, it didn’t feel like running. It felt like breathing again.
I was no longer drifting.
I was building.
So I bought a bookstore, in honor of how my parents met.
And when it came time to name this place, there was only ever one choice.
Because that’s what my parents gave me—the freedom to explore and the reminder that I’d have a place to come home to.
And I’ve finally found it. Still, some days, it doesn’t feel real.
Six months ago, I walked away from everything I thought I wanted—New York, my career, the constant chase for the next big deal. I packed my bags, bought a car, and just drove. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I needed out. To breathe. To find myself in a way I never truly had before.
I landed here. Port Townsend, Washington.
Aunt Jane was waiting for me in town straight out of a postcard, with its historic waterfront, cozy stores, and a rhythm that moves just slow enough to make you stop and take it all in.
Here, people know each other’s names. They dawdle over coffee, watch the ships pull into the harbor, and talk about the tides like they’re old friends.
And now, I know them too.
I glance around the shop half-expecting to wake up and find this is just another impulsive idea that never quite made it past the dream stage. But it’s real.
North & Anchor is part bookstore, part coffeehouse, part writer’s retreat for anyone who needs it. Shelves line the walls, filled with handpicked novels, travel journals, and books about the sea. And of course, a romance section housing everything from cozy to downright filthy.
The tables are mismatched, collected from antique stores and refurbished with love. Every corner holds something meaningful—faded maps, compasses, a vintage anchor I found at a local maritime shop.
The space feels like me in a way nothing else ever has. And for the first time in a long time, I’m settled.
Almost.
Because not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.
Taking a sip of my coffee, I stare out at the water, my thoughts drifting before I can stop them.
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.
I hate that 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 from living.”
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.