Chapter 22 Noelle
NOELLE
It’s sad how much can change in an instant.
One minute I’m standing in the kitchen like I have a hundred times before with the same tile floor, the same hum of the fridge, the same smell of coffee in the air, and between one breath and the next, everything broke.
The argument replays in my mind constantly, looping like a broken film reel, every word sharper and crueler in hindsight.
I keep thinking if I could just go back and stop myself or soften the blow somehow things would be different.
But that’s the problem with truth, it doesn’t care how ready you are to face it.
Dad had started in on me again, with another lecture about boundaries.
About respect and how inappropriate it was for me to get “cozy” with his friends.
His jaw had been set tight, his hands braced on the counter as he spoke, using it to anchor himself.
I’d tried to stay calm at first, to explain and reassure that nothing was going on, but he just wouldn’t stop.
Then something inside me snapped.
The words came out before I could think, bitter and raw and final.
I told him the truth: that his worst fears weren’t just paranoia, that they’d already come true long before the town’s gossip ever reached him.
That I’d slept with all three of them.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Dad’s face had gone blank at first, like the words didn’t quite compute.
His brain couldn’t process what I’d just said, refusing to take in the information he’d been so worried would come to fruition.
Then the color drained from his skin, leaving him pale and stricken, a shadow of the man I’d always seen as unshakable.
His mouth opened but no sound came out.
When his knees finally gave way, the sound of him hitting the floor was almost delicate.
He’d sat there on the cold tile, his broad frame hunched, his shoulders trembling as he tried to hold himself together.
I remember the way his hands had covered his face, the sound of his breath breaking apart into ragged sobs.
“Why?” he’d choked out, his voice barely human. “Why would you do that? Don’t you want better for yourself? My little girl…with my friends?”
I’d wanted to reach for him, but I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t speak.
Every inch of me felt numb.
I didn’t have an answer that would make sense to him.
There was no way to explain the complicated, messy, aching thing that had grown out of a single weekend that was supposed to be no strings attached.
I had no way to make him understand that what happened hadn’t been manipulation or rebellion, it had been connection.
Love, even.
But all I could say, all that came out was, “You trust them. You call them incredible men. Doesn’t that mean I’d be safe and loved? Why wouldn’t you want that for me?”
That had broken him even more.
He’d stared at me like I was someone else, someone he didn’t even recognize.
His expression twisted, not just with pain but confusion, disbelief, and betrayal. “Because they’re my friends, Noelle. You were supposed to be off limits. You were supposed to have better than this. You’re my little girl.”
“Better than men you call family?” I’d asked softly because I couldn’t help it. “Better than people who’ve never hurt me? Who’ve only ever protected me?”
He couldn’t answer.
Or maybe he refused to.
When he looked at me again, something in his eyes had gone dull.
The anger was gone, burned out, leaving only exhaustion behind.
He’d wiped the tears from his face with the heel of his hand, his voice hollow as he stood. “I need space. I can’t…I can’t look at you right now.”
And that was it.
He turned and walked out, leaving the front door unlocked behind him.
I remember standing there, staring at the spot where he’d just been, my fingers gripping the edge of the counter just to stay upright.
That was three days ago.
The silence since then has been deafening.
No calls, no texts, just the memory of his voice breaking when he said “my little girl” and the echo of that door closing behind him one last time.
It’s strange how something that was supposed to be freeing, like telling the truth, has ended up costing me everything.
Eli’s confusion makes it all that much worse.
Every morning since the fight, it starts the same way.
His little footsteps pad softly down the stairs, his curls sticking up in a dozen different directions from sleep.
He climbs onto the couch beside me, clutching his blanket and blinks up at me with those big, trusting eyes of his, and snuggles against me.
“When’s Grampy coming home?”
The words twist in my chest every single time.
“I don’t know, honey,” I tell him, the same answer I gave yesterday and the day before. My voice stays as even as I can make it, because if I let myself feel anything at this point I’m going to completely shatter down the middle.
Every time he frowns, a tiny crease forms between his brows. “Why not? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.” It’s the truth, at least.
Eli doesn’t understand this kind of hurt.
In his world, things are still simple: people argue, they leave, and then they come back and make up.
Everything gets fixed in the end because that’s how stories in his books and cartoons always go.
He doesn’t yet know that sometimes love isn’t enough to make people stay, and betrayal will always destroy things no matter how much you love that other person.
I make him breakfast every morning after that, trying not to count down the days till Christmas morning.
I’m scared Dad won’t come back and I’ll have to answer even more questions and come with more excuses for Eli.
Every time he sees the empty chair where my dad used to sit every morning, his little face falls again.
While he accepts our new normal as best as he can, I can’t help but feel guilty all over again each time I see his eyes linger in the spots my dad always could be found in.
I hate myself a little more each day as time continues to pass.
I end up sending a text to Callum, Grant, and Dean on Christmas Eve.
It’s late, close to midnight, while the world outside is silent except for the soft whisper of wind against the windows.
The house is dim, lit only by the glow of the tree in the corner, its lights blinking lazily.
Eli is asleep upstairs, his stocking already filled as he dreams, blissfully unaware of how everything else in my life has completely fallen apart.
The message sits half-typed on my phone for nearly an hour before I finally hit send.
My fingers hover over the screen, trembling, because I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m drawing a line that I can’t uncross.
It isn’t a holiday text, not even close.
There’s no “Merry Christmas” or “Hope you’re all safe and warm.”
It’s just a few short sentences that feel like cutting out pieces of my heart and tossing them away every time I read them.
I can’t talk to you anymore. Please don’t contact me again. Eli and I are moving soon. Good luck to you all.
That’s it.
No further explanations. No goodbyes.
Then I do the most cowardly thing of all.
Before any of them can respond, before I can see a single gray bubble pop up or hear my phone buzz and completely send me into another downward spiral, I block them.
All three.
My fingers move fast, the motions mechanical and practiced. Callum’s first, then Grant, then Dean.
Each block feels like ripping another piece of my soul right out of my body.
It’s cowardly, I know.
Maybe even cruel, but I can’t risk it. Not tonight when I’m already hanging on by a thread.
Because if I see one of their names light up my screen, if I see even a single message bubble appear, I know I’ll cave. I’ll open it, I’ll read it, and then I’ll start second-guessing everything all over again.
So I get ahead of the curve and make the first cut.
When it’s done, I set the phone face down on the coffee table and just sit there, staring at the blinking lights on the tree until they blur. My chest aches in a way that doesn’t feel entirely physical, like there’s too much pain inside me and nowhere for it to go.
It’s so quiet that I can hear the clock ticking on the wall in the kitchen, counting down the last few minutes of Christmas Eve.
The sound is almost mocking.
I wish things could be different. I wish my life didn’t turn out this way.
If I could go back six years, I’d do everything differently.
I’d tell my dad the truth before it curdled into a secret that poisoned everything else.
I’d tell him what really happened, what I really felt back then before it became something twisted and forbidden by silence and time.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be here sitting in a half-empty house pretending this silence is what I asked for.
Maybe I wouldn’t be trying to explain to a confused little boy why the people who once used to fill this house with laughter don’t come by anymore.
But life doesn’t work like that.
You can’t rewind time no matter how many times you get on your hands and knees and beg.
You can’t undo the words you never said or the ones you finally did.
Still, the wish clings to me.
If I’d just told my dad the truth six years ago about what happened, about what I wanted, maybe the fallout wouldn’t have been so catastrophic.
He wouldn’t have had to find out like this after years of secrets and lies, and maybe that would’ve been better.
He would’ve hated it, he always would have, but maybe time would’ve softened him.
At least it would’ve been the honest way to go about things.
And maybe, just maybe, we’d have found a way through the mess and found something happy on the other side.
Instead, here I am sitting alone on Christmas, replaying every mistake that brought me here like a punishment I can’t stop inflicting on myself.