10. Dash #2
She snorts, fucking snorts. “I’m good, Dash; save your flattery for the bunnies and bridesmaids.”
“I don’t do flattery. I speak the truth.”
Before I can say anything more, the music starts, and the whole room looks toward the aisle.
It’s a good thing I am sitting on the left of her.
That way, no one will notice that I could give a fuck about seeing the girls wearing that dreadful brown color, and the ceremony will slow me down from making a further ass of myself without putting in the time.
Training.
Train myself to be patient. Train her to see me past whatever it is she sees and toward a man who will swirl her bean better than any fictional character in her books or bastards who see what’s “been unleashed,” like those assholes said, but has always been there.
Lauren makes her grand entrance. White dress fitted to enhance, veil trailing, chin tilted just high enough to scream watch me.
It’s how she likes it, center stage, lights on her, attention soaking into her skin.
I never disliked her confidence or the fact that she liked to play center …
until I realized the expense all that came to Noelle.
Noelle, who’s wearing a dress that’s simple, elegant, cut in a way that skims her frame and lets her own beauty do the heavy lifting.
She thinks it’s a leftover, that it was a last-minute find.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell her the truth; it was picked for her.
Her hair is in soft waves, eyes lit by the candles lining the aisle.
She’s stunning. Always has been. Always will be.
And no one else in this room—bride included—comes close.
The officiant drones on, words as dry and practiced as a scouting report. “Sacred bond … everlasting devotion …” None of it sticks. It’s filler, not feeling.
Then the vows. His voice steady, too polished, like he’s reciting from a brochure.
And hers—Lauren’s—hands shaking as she clutches her paper, eyes darting down and up, down and up.
She trips over a line. “I promise to honor, protect, and … uh—” Her laugh is brittle, a crack in porcelain.
The room titters with polite sympathy. She scrambles, finds her place again, pushes through with a voice pitched high enough to make me cringe.
Beside me, Noelle elbows me. What she doesn’t do is gloat. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches, calm and gracious.
The kiss comes, applause erupts, and everyone rises. I stand and watch Noelle, her smile genuine.
She catches me looking and rolls her eyes. “I love happy ever afters.”
As the newlyweds walk hand in hand out the door, Lauren’s scanning the crowd, smile in place, and when her eyes land on us, it’s obvious we were exactly who she was looking for.
She mouths, “ I need you ,” to Noelle, who nods.
Then Noelle looks over her shoulder and up at me like, what was that?
“No clue, but you and I need to go find a drink as soon as we get out of here.”
The applause dies down, and the herd starts moving, all smiles and chatter as we funnel out.
Noelle keeps her chin level, not rushing, not dragging. I stay close enough that my arm brushes hers every couple of steps.
We’re almost to the doors when I hear it, her voice cutting through the din like a whistle on the ice.
“Noelle!”
Lauren.
Noelle stiffens, just for a second, before she pastes on a polite smile and turns her head.
I lean in. “You still drink those …? What was it you used to pound back at the hockey house? Sour apple whatevers?”
Her eyes flick to mine, surprised into a laugh she tries to smother. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do. You were the first to puke at our place.”
“Probably ought to stick with wine.” She opens her small clutch and pulls out her phone.
Lauren
Bathroom emergency in the bridal room. 911!!!
“Ignore it.”
“I came here expecting this.”
“You …” Her arched brow has me shaking my head. “I’ll get you a drink.”
“You don’t have to. Go, have fun, find someone to occupy?—”
“I’m here to have fun with you ,” I tell her and smile over my shoulder as I walk away.
At the bar, I order two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon and lean against the rail while the bartender nods and gets to work. That’s when I catch it—voices just behind me, low but sharp.
“I cannot believe she wore that dress. So obvious. Attention-seeking much?”
“Lauren’s livid. I heard her telling Madison earlier she should’ve expected it from Noelle.”
“And she’s still pissed she lost Louie, you know. Like, get over it—it was forever ago.”
My jaw grinds, wanting to put them in their places, to tell them they’re fucking wrong.
I turn just enough to clock the girls—perfect hair, fake tits, same noses, therefore same surgeon , champagne flutes in manicured hands, smug like they’ve earned the right to spit poison just bt existing.
I don’t say anything, but I also don’t stop staring until after they see me and catch the fuck on that I heard their shit. Noelle won’t hear any of that shit from them or me. She doesn’t need to. I’ll carry it for her.
The bartender sets the drinks down, and I drop a few bills on the bar, grab them, and head in the direction I saw Noelle heading.
I follow the hall where she disappeared when Lauren beckoned her, the sounds of the reception fading behind me. That’s when I see him.
The groom.
I always thought he was a good-looking enough guy.
Nerdy, a little stiff, the kind of guy who gives lap dog energy.
Safe. Always there, wanting to be part of something.
Hell, he tutored me in physics, and instead of money, he wanted an invite to the hockey house for parties, negotiated at least two invites a month.
I gave him an open invite. We weren’t dicks.
Even now, when he attends games and we run into each other, he brings that same energy.
Tonight, he’s not giving off the same vibes. He even looks different. Hair combed back, tux tailored to perfection, owned, not rented. He’s still that new-money confident, but now he’s got an edge.
“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour,” he says, smirk curling. “Didn’t think you’d have time for this kind of thing.”
“Window opened,” I answer. “Figured I’d take it.”
He chuckles, adjusting his cufflinks like they need the attention. “Good. People like seeing you here. Big statement, having a pro at the wedding. Looks good for all of us.”
There it is. He doesn’t want me here for our old college connection; he wants me here for my name, a trophy guest.
And then he twists the knife.
“Crazy, right? Me ending up with Lauren and not you.” He holds up his finger, platinum ring shining. “One of us brought home a win at Hayward, am I right?”
“Yeah, Louie, real prize. Don’t forget that it’s up to you to keep it going strong. You don’t get a next season in marriage, right?”