21. Noelle
TWENTY-ONE
NOELLE
I can’t even begin to process all of what just happened, except that I hurt him. I hurt Dash so deeply I could see it on his face, like I’d taken a knife to him. My words weren’t meant to cut, but to protect myself. And yet, they did.
The silence after he left is heavy, pressing down on my chest, suffocating, until my phone explodes in a flurry of dings, the group chat lighting up like fireworks. Nalani, Sofie, and Claudia; my girls are relentless.
Nalani
Okay, spill. Why are you all over social media right now and your besties are still clueless!
Sofie
We’ve seen the pictures. The videos. You two are literally the ship of the season.
Claudia
Tell us EVERYTHING.
Photo after photo floods in.
Photo one: Dash and I at Lauren’s wedding, his arm slung around my shoulders, my head tipped back mid-laugh. He’s in a suit that looks like it was made for him, jaw shadowed, eyes crinkled in amusement.
Nalani
Honestly? Y’all are giving Nicholas Sparks vibes, but hotter.
Sofie
Find me a man who looks at ME like that. You’re not allowed to let this one go.
Claudia
This isn’t even candid. This is destiny in high-def.
Photo two: The Turkey Trot. Dash, still gorgeous, jogging beside me, our strides matched without even trying, well, on my part, anyway. I’m flushed and laughing; he’s pretending to trip me.
Nalani
Couples who wobble together gobble together.
Sofie
This is rom-com GOLD. Someone write the screenplay.
Claudia
Even sweaty, y’all are disgustingly cute. I’m offended.
Photo three: Again, the Turkey Trot. Me on his back, my brothers ahead of us, clueless, people behind us laughing, and some scandalized by the cheating. He looks so happy. I look like I’m trying not to be. That hits.
Nalani
Rule-breaking, back-carrying, look-at-him-smiling kind of love. The rest of them don’t even matter.
Sofie
Cheating? Please. This is the definition of winning.
Claudia
You’re hanging on like you don’t want to, but your eyes are screaming otherwise. Girl, we SEE it.
Next is a video of Koa from their kitchen.
“I’m just gonna say it. I’ve known Dash for nearly a decade, and I have never— never —seen him like this. Dude’s in love. Not crush, not fling. Love-love. The kind that sticks. He’s in this for the long haul, so buckle up or go into witness protection.”
The thread explodes with heart emojis, from the girls.
I don’t respond. Not to a single one. My thumb just scrolls. Scrolls and scrolls.
Every photo is another knife in my chest, but not because I don’t want him— God, I want him —but because of how stark the difference is.
Every angle of Dash screams safety, warmth, devotion.
Nothing like Jimmy. Jimmy’s smiles were masks, brittle and sharp.
Dash’s are unguarded, real, almost boyish.
Jimmy’s touch had always felt like ownership.
Dash’s touch, even in a photo, appears to convey reverence.
Jimmy’s words, even before that night, were entitled. Dash’s … team.
They ship us. They cheer us on. And, for a second, I want to lean into the absurdity. Instead, my stomach twists. Because they don’t know the truth—not about Jimmy, not about how all of this has shattered me tonight, and not about the way I just pushed Dash away when he tried to stay.
The messages keep pouring in, the screen lighting up until I almost can’t look at it.
But I do. Because avoiding them feels worse.
And I hate myself, because even as I bleed from tonight’s truth, my heart keeps betraying my fears.
I’m finding every difference. Falling harder for the man I just pushed away.
And then, as if the girls hadn’t unknowingly gutted me enough with their screenshots, they start dropping old photos. Not recent ones. Not wedding or trot. Before. Before Dash and I were even a thing.
A pic from an Icehouse booth. I’m squeezed into the corner, a half-empty basket of fries in front of me.
Dash is at the end, turned completely in my direction, his arm draped over the backrest, body language screaming “Focus.” I’m mid-story, animated, hands flying.
He’s not even pretending to listen to anyone else.
Nalani
Ma’am. The way he’s looking at you? We should’ve known THEN.
Sofie
This isn’t casual. This is heart-eyes in the wild.
Claudia
Somebody tell Dash subtlety exists.
Another pic from Icehouse, after a Bears win. I’m leaning over the bar to order, hair falling forward, laughing at something the bartender said. Dash is a few stools down, beer in hand, but his gaze is all mine. Not creepy, not predatory—locked in and smiling fondly, softly.
Nalani
He’s not watching the game. He’s watching YOU.
Sofie
Beer in hand, but clearly drunk on you.
Claudia
We should’ve started the ship here, tbh.
Another from Icehouse. A group shot—players, friends, all bundled up in coats, cheeks pink from the cold.
I’m a little off to the side, hugging myself.
Dash is angled just enough toward me, shoulder brushing mine, though he didn’t have to.
His head’s tipped down, like he’s listening for something I might say.
Nalani
Gravity, babes. He just leans your way without thinking.
Sofie
This ain’t friendship energy.
Claudia
Honestly, is he even aware of anyone else in this photo?
Again, a picture from Icehouse. I’m bent slightly over the green felt, lining up a shot I’ll probably miss. Dash is behind me—not too close, not inappropriate—but watching with a grin so soft it doesn’t look like him at all. Like I’m something fragile, he can’t stop himself from admiring.
Nalani
Not pool. Not the game. Not anything else. Just you.
Sofie
Exhibit A in “he’s been gone for you since forever.”
Claudia
The man is literally beaming. Someone save him.
Scrolling through those old shots, the truth smacks me harder than anything. He didn’t just start noticing me when I was covered in coffee. He has for a long time. Unknowingly? Quietly? Patiently?
And somehow, that makes tonight’s fracture cut deeper. Because now I see every difference, every contrast, every quiet devotion, and I don’t know how to believe I deserve it.
And just when I think the girls are done digging, Nalani drops another one. College. Hayward. The hockey house parties. Back when Lauren was still in the picture. Back when I didn’t even dare imagine Dash looking at me that way.
The picture is in the living room. Lauren’s perched on the arm of a couch, red Solo cup in hand, laughing at something Dash just said.
But his head isn’t turned toward her. Not even a glance.
His eyes are angled across the room, straight at me.
I’m caught mid-conversation with freaking Allen, oblivious. He looks, curious.
Nalani’s
Welp. Lauren who? His whole face is screaming NOELLE.
Sofie
Somebody zoom in on those eyes. Tell me that’s not devotion.
Claudia
Imagine being in the room and not realizing you’re the only one he sees.
Another picture pops up. Lauren’s across from Dash, his “partner” for the game, both holding cups.
But the camera caught him between tosses, and he’s not watching the ball, or Lauren’s smirk, or anything else.
His eyes are off to the side, locked on me again.
I’m blurred in the background, cheering someone else’s shot.
His grin again is softer than it should be for a game.
Nalani
Bro was playing a different game entirely.
Sofie
Not beer pong. Heart pong. And girl, you won ages ago.
Claudia
Lauren could’ve been on fire, and he still would’ve been looking at you.
And another, a bonfire in their backyard .
Lauren’s curled into Dash’s side under a blanket, head tipped toward him.
From a distance, it looks picture-perfect.
But zoom in, and his head isn’t angled toward her.
It’s tilted just slightly, eyes fixed across the firepit where I’m roasting a marshmallow, my face glowing in the flames. Dash Sterling was looking at me.
Nalani
That’s not a bonfire glow. That’s a Noelle glow.
Sofie
Even when she was right there, he couldn’t stop looking at you.
Claudia
Girl. He’s been yours since Hayward. Lauren was just noise.
Seeing those photos now makes my stomach flip.
I drop my phone on my bed and cry because while I was fighting to survive, so was he, but just like tonight, he didn’t want sympathy or me to make him “feel better,” he was fighting for me.
Me
Please don’t respond to this message with anything Dash-like.
Dash
Okay.
Me:
I should have asked you if you were okay.
I should have wiped your tears dry. I should have never said you were like him.
You are the anti him. I shouldn’t have told you to leave because I was mortified you knew my biggest secret.
Embarrassed that you would see me differently.
Because I really like the way you see me.
And when you said I love you, even if it didn’t mean that big kind of love, I should have told you I love you, too.
I hit send so fast, before I have time to delete it or overthink it.
I see his dots popping on then stopping and starting over, and over again, for at least … a solid two minutes, until one comes through.
Dash
It’s not big, Pembrooke. It’s fucking huge.
When I wake, I’m facedown on my phone, the screen black and dead.
My cheeks are sticky, lashes clumped from tears I don’t even remember crying myself to sleep, though.
My two cats are pressed against me like little heaters; one tucked behind my knees, the other curled against my ribs.
Angel souls. I believe it. No one could ever convince me otherwise, because when I was at my ugliest, my soggiest, my snottiest, they stayed. They didn’t flinch. They … stayed.
“I have to pee and find my charger,” I whisper, easing out from their warm little fortress without disturbing them further.