Page 12 of The One Night Dash
“You’re a business owner, that’s pretty damn cool.”
I sigh and then nod. “Took some work to figure it all out, but yeah, it is a dream come true.”
“You plan to make any other dreams come true?” he asks.
I consider telling him about my writing aspirations, my future family, my crochet aspirations, but decide those conversations are ones I should reserve for my talks with Hemingway or on nights with my girls when I’ve drank too much wine.
“Nope.”
He eyes me suspiciously, but also, maybe not. Maybe it’s all in my imagination.
“Do you have dreams other than playing pro?”
“Never wanted much more than to just be happy, you know. Take care of my mom in the way she took care of me and my sisters.”
“That’s kind of beautiful.” My thought comes out in words.
A slow smile creeps up his face. “That’s how I know you’re good people, Noelle Pembrooke.” He chuckles. “Your family close, too?”
I hate this question, because how do you answer it without explanation?
“I’m the oldest of three. I have two younger brothers.”
“They live here in NYC?”
I shake my head. “They live with our mom and their dad.”
“Your dad live here?”
“He did. He, um, moved to the city here after the divorce.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, clear my throat, and straighten my shoulders. “He passed away my senior year at Hayward.”
“Shit, Noelle, I’m sorry.”
I force a laugh. “It happens.”
He chuckles. “Sure does. We lost my dad when I was eight.”
My heart starts to sting. “I’m sorry, Dash.”
“Shittiest part of life is loss,” he says, looking at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. It’s not his intention; it’s that I am uncomfortable being seen. “Doesn’t go away—the missing them part—but that pain does lessen.”
“Yeah,” I agree.
There’s a moment of silence that I want to fill, but thankfully, it’s brief.
The SUV eases to the curb in front of a brick storefront with a sun-bleached“Caruso’s Wash House”sign above the door. Looks like the kind of place that hasn’t changed its font since the 80s.
Dash steps out first, the driver holding the door open like it’s all choreographed. I slide out after him, garment bag balanced carefully in my hands.
Inside, the place smells faintly of starch, old cologne, and the hum of warm steam.
“Sal,” Dash says with that relaxed, we’re-already-friends tone. “Got a little emergency.”
The man behind the counter looks up from the press, eyes crinkling. “You still can’t iron?”
Dash smiles. “Wouldn’t dare put the professionals out of business. This one’s hers,” he adds, nodding to me, then unzips the bag to reveal the damage.
Sal leans forward, making a sympathetic noise. “That’s gonna take some coaxing.”
