Page 67 of The One Night Dash
For the first time since Jimmy had assaulted me,raped me, I breathed without flinching.
And when I finally drifted off to sleep, it was to the smell of garlic still in the air, the soft scratch of his page turning steady in the background, and my feet on his lap.
The next morning, I woke in the same place, and Dad was in the kitchen. He never left my side all night. I knew this because I woke up to nightmares, and he was there.
“Earl Grey?” he asked, and I nodded.
I hadn’t even taken a sip when there was a knock on the door. Dad opened it, and Mom was there, Rick behind her; both of their eyes were red-rimmed. Her voice broke as she told me Jimmy had overdosed.
I wipe away a tear and notice Joel has passed the house. “Sorry, Miss Pembrooke, I must have missed my turn.”
I knew he did it on purpose.
“Thank you, Joel. And it’s Noelle.”
“Uh-huh.”
By the timeJoel slows in front of the cedar-shingled colonial, I’ve wiped my eyes, smoothed my hair, and pasted on a smile I don’t quite feel. The driveway curves toward the wide porch, and for a moment, the house looks like something from a postcard—white trim gleaming, bay windows catching the November sun, the scent of salt air floating in on the breeze.
I draw in a breath, let it out slowly, and then step out of the SUV. Walking up to the house, I try to shake the feeling of not belonging as the door looms closer than I want it to, because I still hold on to the hope that one day I will no longer feel like a visitor in a house where my family lives.
I rap my knuckles lightly on the frame, and a second later, Mom swings it open, eyes brightening when she sees me.
“Oh, honey—why would you knock?” she scolds gently, pulling me into her arms before I can even answer. She smells like rosemary and flour, warm and familiar. “This is your house, too.”
I don’t argue that it isn’t, never has been. I just let her hug me, stiff at first, then softer, melting into the mother’s hug I have missed so much.
“Come on, come on,” she fusses, shuffling me inside. “Lunch is ready.”
The kitchen is a flurry of motion—sunlight slanting across the long oak table, dishes already spread out: roasted chicken, sweet potatoes with charred edges, green beans tossed in garlic. The Holland version of comfort food.
Rick is at the head of the table, standing to refill his iced tea, his smile tight but polite. My brothers sprawl at the other end, sneakers squeaking against the tile.
“Hey, Noelle!” Caleb waves, his hair still damp from a shower, cheeks flushed. “We had a scrimmage today. Coach says we’ve got a real shot at playoffs.”
Ethan perks up, too, smaller, leaner, eyes shining behind his glasses. “And I caught a pass. Like, a real one. Not pity yards.”
I can’t help it; I laugh. “That’s not pity, Ethan. That’s skill.”
He beams, and for a moment, it’s almost easy.
They keep chattering—about football, classes, Thanksgiving break coming up, and which teacher gives the hardest tests. It’s ordinary, and I let it wash over me, fork moving between bites of chicken and sweet potato.
And when my eyes slip to the window, where the harbor stretches wide and glittering beyond the lawn, I let myself believe, just for an afternoon, that maybe I really can belong again.
The room doesn’t feellike mine, because although it was mine, it never really was. I’ve only spent a handful of nights here over the past five years since they moved here from Michigan. Pale blue walls, a white quilt perfectly tucked at the corners, the kind of furniture you’d expect to see in a model home. My name isn’tinside the books on the shelves, no posters taped up with curling edges. I never unpacked here. Still, when I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dips under me, as if maybe it’s been waiting.
My phone buzzes. Dash.
Dash
I wanted you to feel me when I’m on the ice. If you feel the same, there’s a pair of my game day boxers in your bag. No pressure. No expectations.
My brows shoot up, and I rummage through the bag I dropped at the door, still undecided whether I’ll stay or not. There they are. A matching pair of what I saw him in this morning.
I stare at them for a long second before snorting at myself. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. And yet?—
In the bathroom, I slip them on, cinch the waist with a hair tie, and snap a mirror selfie. The boxers hang low on my hips, comically oversized, but I grin as I send it.
