Chapter 3
NOLAN
Three hours later, I’m slouched over the bar at Jack’s—a hole-in-the-wall dive that reeks of cigarette smoke and stale beer. The lighting’s dim and jaundiced, the world around me blurred like the brand new memories I’m now trying to erase.
The bar’s sticky under my forearms, scarred with initials and God knows what. I stare into the amber depths of my glass as though it might give me answers. But after three of them, I still have none.
My gaze drags to my phone, cracked and scraped from its violent introduction to the elevator wall. It lies facedown now, silent and useless—like me.
Rishi slides onto the stool beside me, throws a finger in the air to flag the bartender. I texted him about an hour ago, told him about the whole mess.
“Thanks for coming,” I rasp.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
That’s Rishi in a nutshell, loyal to the bone and weirdly intuitive about my stress levels. He’s been showing up since the beginning.
First week on the job, I blew a key slide in front of Thatcher. He covered for me like it was nothing, then bought me a beer like I’d earned it. He’s talked me out of three rage-fueled email drafts, one questionable haircut, and a doomed office romance—well, he tried on that last one.
Rishi’s the guy who drags me out when I need a drink and drags me back when I need reality. The one who sees what I don’t say. Who pushes when I need it. Who shuts up and sits beside me when I need that more.
We’ve weathered firings, mergers, heartbreaks, and too many client dinners where the egos were massive and the appetizers microscopic.
He’s not just my teammate.
He’s my tether.
Rishi looks me over. “Jesus, did you get hit by a truck full of misery and regret?”
“Close,” I mutter. “It was a Benz. Driven by my girlfriend. Into Jackson’s lap.”
Rishi winces. “Too soon for jokes?”
“I hope they both choke on his trust fund.”
“That’s more like it,” he says, nodding approvingly. “I was worried you’d be in full ‘Nick from New Girl’ mode, writing sad poetry and humming Adele into your bourbon.”
I scoff and take a long sip. “Already did that. Moved on to rage.”
“Good.” His hand slaps my back. “Rage we can work with.”
The bartender delivers Rishi’s beer, he snatches it up and takes a sip.
“She didn’t even try to explain. Just…sat there.”
“She’s not worth the aneurysm,” Rishi says. “She’s a coward. And he’s a parasite. What’s your play now?”
“I don’t know. Burn their lives to the ground?”
“Healthy.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow. “I gave her everything. Every unguarded piece of me. And she torched it.”
“You’re better off,” Rishi replies, still trying his best to uplift me. “Seriously. Chloe always looked like she practiced crying in the mirror. And Jackson? He’s just gross.”
“How did I miss it? I’m a strategist. I see people.”
“Yeah, well, strategists make shit poker players. You loved her. That was the tell.”
My jaw clenches. “She made me believe I mattered. That I was... safe. And the whole time she was screwing Jackson.”
Rishi’s gaze sharpens. “No. She was screwing her own future. You? You’re going to be fine. You’re Nolan fucking Rhodes. You get back up.”
“Easier said than done, my friend.” I down the rest of my drink and toss a hundred on the bar. “Let’s get out of here before I put my fist through the jukebox.”
“Now that’s the energy I came for,” Rishi says, standing.
We step out into the night, the city slapping me in the face with its clean summer air and neon charm.
“Where are we off to?” Rishi asks, keeping pace beside me. He’s got that casual swagger, the kind that says: I could be at the office winning an account right now, but instead I’m making sure you don’t spiral into a country song.
“I don’t know.”
Rishi cracks his neck. “Wanna go to my place and get blackout drunk? Or do we go full Fight Club and find a bar with peanuts and bloodstains?”
“Pretty sure that was the bar we just left.”
He grins. “Okay, plan B: strip club. Breakups were practically invented to fund those places.”
I give him a look. “I’m not that guy.”
“Every guy’s that guy for about thirty-six hours after something like this. There’s healing in glitter and shame, my dude.”
I shake my head, but I hesitate, and Rishi notices.
“Ah, there it is. You are tempted.”
“Only because it’s been a while,” I confess.
He blows out a breath. “Understood. Still, credit for the restraint. That’s personal growth.”
“Yeah, well, personal growth can kiss my ass.”
“There’s a whole subgenre of guys who try to heal with green juice and yoga. You don’t strike me as one of them.”
“I caught my girlfriend screwing the CEO’s nephew. I saw his dick. I want bread and vengeance.”
“Atta boy.” He laughs. “I’ve got the perfect place. Come on.” Rishi jerks his chin toward the corner.
We end up at a twenty-four-hour pizza window sandwiched between a tattoo parlor and a place that sells knockoff sneakers out of the back.
Rishi orders two slices. “Grease and carbs. Step one in heartbreak triage.”
I lean against the wall while we wait, the scent of hot dough and body odor coats the air.
Taking our pizza to the curb like the classy professionals we are, we sit on the edge of a planter filled with what may or may not be a dying shrub.
“You know what the worst part is?” I ask around a bite.
“That she picked Jackson?”
“That she picked him, and I still want her.”
Rishi doesn’t flinch. He nods and wipes sauce off his thumb.
“Yeah, well. Hearts are stupid. Brains know better, but hearts? They’re like toddlers with access to fireworks.”
I laugh, despite myself.
Rishi eyes me as we toss our empty pizza plates into a can. “You don’t wanna go home.”
He says it like a fact, not a question.
I exhale through my nose. “It’s too quiet. It’ll feel like the furniture’s judging me.”
“Bro Code, Section Nine: No man gets left to sulk in a silent apartment post-breakup. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
He’s already walking. “Everywhere.”
What follows is less a plan and more a fever dream of tomfoolery:
8:43 PM – we hit the Korean grocery on 38th and buy two random bottles of imported soju, a jar of pickled quail eggs, and a single peach.
“For luck,” Rishi says, tossing it to me.
9:11 PM – we’re at Bryant Park, daring each other to jump the fountain. We don’t—but we almost do. Two tourists ask if we’re TikTokers. Rishi says yes.
9:58 PM – we find a random stoop, sit on it like old men, and pass the soju back and forth.
“I thought she was it,” I say, continuing my woe is me rant.
“You were all in.”
“I was ready to build a life with her.”
“You were only halfway through the blueprints.”
“I made a digital presentation.”
Rishi winces. “With music.”
“I know where Jackson parks his Audi.”
He lifts a brow. “You don’t say.”
10:32 PM – we’re standing in front of said Audi. It’s gleaming under the garage lights, pretentious as hell. Like its owner.
“I might want to commit a misdemeanor,” I mutter.
“I’m not saying we key it,” Rishi says. “But if someone were to draw a very accurate micropenis on the hood… I wouldn’t stop them.”
Rishi pulls a travel-sized tube of sunscreen from his jacket pocket.
I hesitate. “Why do you have sunscreen on you?”
Rishi shrugs. “You never know when emotional vengeance and UV protection will collide. It’s SPF 30. Messy, but non-permanent. Like your last relationship.”
Ten minutes later, Jackson’s car is sporting the worst rendition of manhood imaginable in bright white cream.
Security yells in the distance.
We run.
11:30 PM – we’re posted up at the edge of a rooftop bar in Hell’s Kitchen, sweating out adrenaline and sunscreen crime, city lights bleeding around us.
I swirl the last inch of my drink, throat raw from too much soju and not enough answers. Rishi leans against the railing, scanning the crowd.
He nudges me. “Feel better?”
“Not even close.”
“But slightly less homicidal?”
I consider. “Yeah. Slightly.”
He claps me on the back. “That’s progress.”
I grunt.
“Yo,” he says, tipping his chin. “Is that…?”
I follow his gaze.
White tank. Pointy heels. Black hair draped over one slim shoulder. She’s laughing with two friends—one, a woman with a slick, straight blonde bob, and the other, a guy I don’t know, but I hate his shirt.
The tank she’s wearing is doing unspeakably excellent things for her boobs. Even the bartender’s pretending not to look.
“That chick was at Vanguard today. From the Laurel Group. What was her name?” He thinks it over, then snaps his fingers. “Rorie Adams.”
The name clicks. The posture. The laugh. That spark in her eyes I saw at Stanfield some months ago is now full of fire as she sits there in heels and confidence.
“What are the odds?” Rishi asks.
“Shit,” I say under my breath. “I’ve seen her before.”
“What?” Rishi asks, tracking my face. “You know her?”
“No,” I say slowly. “But… yeah. I mean, I ran into her once.”
He cocks a brow. “Literally, or figuratively?”
“The latter. A few months ago,” I say. “She was leaving Stanfield as I was walking in. Dropped her phone. It cracked. I picked it up.”
Rishi nods. “Smooth.”
“It wasn’t like that. She looked… defeated. Hollow. I don’t know why, but I told her that cracks mean change.”
Rishi stares at me. “Dude.”
“I wasn’t flirting. But for the half a second we stood face-to-face, I felt whatever she was carrying with her that day. It was pretty heavy.”
“You sure it’s her?”
I nod, eyes on that beaming white smile. “Yeah, it’s definitely her. But I haven’t seen her since. She was an up an coming force to be reckoned with, but then she dropped off the face of the earth.”
“Go say hi.”
I watch her throw her head back at something the guy says. She turns. She sees me. And then it’s a flash. A flicker. Recognition crackling across the rooftop like lightning.
Reality and the weight of the day slam into me, crushing any ounce of confidence I might’ve still had.
I shake my head. “Yeah, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a wreck. Not to mention, she’s probably still pissed you smoked her at Vanguard today.“
“Nah, it’s business,” he says. “She’s an adult.”
“No.”
After a beat, she turns back to her friends, laughs again. But it’s different this time. Forced.
I stare at them. She’s trying not to look. But she’s failing.
“Not tonight.” I exhale, set my glass down.