Page 22 of The One Night Dash
Then it hits me: Lauren …would know.
“Absolutely not,” I say, slamming my laptop halfway shut.
Hemingway paws at it immediately, meowing his protest. I glance down at him and huff a laugh. “You’re absolutely right. Hemingway may have used his real name, but the women I grew up admiring didn’t always get that freedom.”
I think of Mary Ann Evans, who became George Eliot to be taken seriously. The Brontë sisters—Charlotte, Emily, and Anne—who wrote as Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. Even Louisa May Alcott, who used pseudonyms before publishing Little Women, was able to come out later in her career. They disguised themselves to survive, to publish, to tell the stories they weren’t supposed to tell.
And here I am, afraid of what people might think about frothy metaphors and espresso-eyed baristas.
Maybe hiding behind a name isn’t cowardice. Maybe it’s tradition. A shield. A way to make space where I can be both ridiculous and real without letting Lauren—or anyone else—get the satisfaction of mocking me for it.
Hemingway nudges the edge of the screen with his nose until I reopen it.
“Fine,” I murmur, fingers finding the keys again. “But if I end up publishing under ‘Frothy Bean,’ it’s on you.”
At some pointbetween whipped-cream metaphors and deciding if “espresso-dark eyes” was too much—it wasn’t—I must have passed out. The last thing I remember is Hemingway’s purr rattling louder than any twelve-pound cat should be able to.
The buzzing wakes me—low, insistent, rattling at my side. Without thinking, I fumble for it, pressing it to my ear.
“Hello?” My voice is scratchy, weighed down by sleep.
A girl’s voice cuts through, sharp with confusion, “Who’s this?”
I blink, rubbing my eyes. “You called me. Who’s this?”
“This is my brother’s number.”
My stomach drops. Dash’s phone. Right. I have Dash’s phone.
“Oh—oh my God. Okay, I can explain.” I shoot up, words tumbling out before I can even stop them. “This is Noelle. I went to college with your brother, Dash. There was a coffee incident. My coffee. I spilled it. On my dress, I’d just bought for a wedding I have to go to. Which, long story short, is hopefully being saved—fingers crossed—but my phone is dead, and he has two, so he offered me one until I get mine replaced. Actually insisted. Totally an accident. I promise I wasn’t snooping, I didn’t evenlook at it until it rang, and honestly, I was half-asleep and thought it was mine, which it isn’t, obviously.”
There’s silence on the other end.
I flop back against the chair, wincing. “That … sounded way guiltier than it actually is. Is this Briar?”
“It’s fine and yes.” She sighs. “Honestly, you sound nicer than he would if I called this early.”
That makes me laugh, some of the awkwardness easing. “Well, I think he said the team was taking an early flight, so …”
We drift from there, easy as if we’ve known each other longer. She asks me what I liked about Lincoln, and I correct her that her brother and I went to Hayward together before he transferred. I do tell her that some of his teammates’ wives were there, and one played college soccer until she was no longer able to due to health issues. She knew Ellie Stone, Leo Stone’s wife. She said she was one of the best, and it sucked that she was taken out by her autoimmune disease and not something like an injury that would heal.
Throughout this conversation, I am remembering what I said to Dash about safety. So, I nudge the conversation in that direction.
“Classes and soccer are keeping you busy?”
She sighs, and her tone shifts. “School’s great. Soccer’s great. It’s just … boys that aren’t.”
I laugh. “Boys plural?”
She groans. “Don’t even get me started. The latest was Mr. Highlighter.”
“Mr. Highlighter?”
“Yeah. He picked up a highlighter I dropped, said really nice things, and seemed … different. But last night, when his car wouldn’t start, so our date would have to be canceled, he said, ‘But I can make you dinner at my place.’”
“Oh boy, please tell me you told him?—”
“I didn’t even think about it, you know? Have wheels, will travel. He was nice … until he wasn’t.”
