Chapter 3

As I sat shivering on the bench, clutching the torn fragments of my parents' photograph, a familiar voice cut through the rain.

"Rachel? Oh my God, Rachel!"

I looked up through swollen eyes to see Emma Vance rushing toward me, her bright red umbrella a stark contrast against the gray Seattle night. Her chestnut hair was shorter than I remembered, styled in a chic bob that screamed Paris, and despite the weather, she looked effortlessly put together in a leather jacket and dark jeans.

"Emma?" My voice cracked, barely audible over the pattering rain.

She dropped beside me on the bench, immediately pulling me into a tight embrace that smelled of expensive perfume and warmth. I hadn't seen my college roommate in years, not since she'd left to study fashion design abroad.

"What happened to you?" she demanded, her eyes widening as she took in my ruined makeup and soaked dress. Then, with characteristic decisiveness, she stood and pulled me to my feet. "No, don't tell me here. You're freezing. We're going somewhere warm."

Before I could protest, she had flagged down a taxi and was ushering me inside, her arm firmly around my shoulders as if afraid I might dissolve into the rain if she let go.

"Capitol Hill," she instructed the driver. "The Emerald Lounge."

I leaned against the window, watching raindrops race down the glass, each one like a tear I no longer had the energy to shed. "I don't think I'm up for a bar, Em."

"Exactly why we're going," she replied, squeezing my hand. "Some sorrows need to be drowned properly, with good cocktails and loud music to drown out the thoughts in your head."

The Emerald Lounge was packed with Friday night revelers, but Emma somehow secured us a small booth in the corner. The low lighting mercifully hid the worst of my appearance, though I still felt like a shipwreck amid the carefully curated outfits surrounding us.

"Two Parisian Sunsets," Emma ordered when the server approached. "And keep them coming."

She turned to me, her expression softening. "Now, tell me everything."

The words poured out of me like blood from a wound—seven years with Connor, the concert, the public proposal to Victoria, the cruel confrontation in the parking lot, Madison destroying my photograph. With each revelation, Emma's expression darkened, her fingers tightening around her glass.

"That absolute bastard," she hissed when I finished. "And that witch of a sister. I always told you he wasn't good enough for you."

"You did," I admitted, taking a long sip of my cocktail. The sweetness burned down my throat, warming me from the inside. "I should have listened."

"No use in should-haves now," Emma said firmly. "The question is what comes next."

I stared into my drink, watching the ice slowly melt. "I don't know. I have nothing, Em. No home, no job—"

"You have you," she interrupted. "The brilliant, kind woman who got straight A's in marketing while the rest of us were struggling to pass. The friend who stayed up all night helping me prepare for finals even when you were exhausted."

My sobs returned, drawing sympathetic glances from nearby tables. Emma slid closer, wrapping an arm around me.

"You deserve better, Rachel. It's time to rebuild."

Something in her words pierced through the fog of my despair. Rebuild. The concept seemed impossible, yet the tiniest spark of determination flickered to life.

"I need to call someone," I said suddenly, fumbling for my phone. "I need to call Nathan."

Emma's eyebrows shot up. "Nathan Clarke? The guy who asked you out like a dozen times in college?"

I nodded, my fingers trembling as I scrolled through my contacts. I hadn't spoken to Nathan in years, but I'd never deleted his number. He'd been persistent, kind, and I'd rejected him every time because of Connor.

Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed call.

He answered on the third ring. "Rachel?" His voice was deeper than I remembered, tinged with surprise and something else I couldn't identify.

"Nathan, I—" My voice broke. "I need help."

There was only the briefest pause before he responded, "Where are you? I'll be there in twenty minutes."

True to his word, nineteen minutes later, Nathan Clarke walked through the door of The Emerald Lounge, carrying a paper bag and two coffee cups. His tall frame was broader than I remembered, his once boyish features matured into handsome angles. His eyes found mine immediately across the crowded room, and the gentle concern in them nearly undid me all over again.

He approached our table, setting down the coffees and a small paper bag that smelled of fresh pastry.

"I thought you might need something besides alcohol," he said softly, sliding into the booth across from me. "Black coffee and croissants. And a safe ride home, wherever that might be tonight."

As I looked at him—really looked at him for perhaps the first time—I wondered how I had never noticed the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet strength in his presence. And I wondered what else I might have been blind to all these years.