Page 23 of Echoes of Us
A shley's feet carried her away from the party without conscious thought.
Tears blurred the campus paths into smears of lamplight and shadow, her heels clicking against the stone in a rhythm that matched her racing heart.
She should go back to her dorm. Should hide under her covers and try to forget how Cole had destroyed something so precious.
Instead, she found herself heading toward the physics building.
She didn't want to examine why. Didn't want to acknowledge how some part of her craved the quiet grace of the other Westwood twin, how her battered heart sought the gentle understanding in those identical gray eyes.
The building's lights were mostly dark, but a warm glow spilled from the third-floor windows. Of course, Dale would still be here, probably grading finals or working on research. Always the dedicated one, the steady one, the
She collided with a solid chest as she rounded the corner, strong hands catching her arms to steady her. The scent hit her first - woody and earthy, so different from Cole's darker notes. Her fingers curled into soft wool as she fought to regain her balance.
"Ashley?" Dale's voice was soft with surprise. His glasses were slightly askew, a stack of papers tucked under one arm. When he saw her face, his expression shifted to concern. "What happened? Are you-"
She meant to step back. Meant to apologize and flee. Instead, she found herself swaying forward, drawn to his warmth like a moth to a flame. His hands tightened on her arms.
"Hey," he murmured, and somehow that gentle tone broke something in her chest. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she choked out, trying to withdraw, but his grip held steady. "I shouldn't- I don't even know why I'm here."
But she did know. Because Dale was everything Cole wasn't right now - kind and stable and real. Because when he looked at her with those familiar eyes, she saw only understanding, not cruel amusement.
He set his papers on a nearby ledge and drew her closer, one hand coming up to brush tears from her cheek. The gesture was so tender, so achingly familiar, that for a moment, she forgot which brother was holding her.
Their faces were close now, his breath warm against her lips. It would be so easy to lean in, to lose herself in this softer version of the man she loved. To let Dale's gentleness ease the sting of Cole's cruelty.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she felt his breath catch. For a heartbeat, the air between them crackled.
Ashley jerked back, horror flooding her veins. What was she doing? This wasn't fair - to Dale, to Cole, to herself.
"I can't," she whispered, stepping out of his embrace. "I'm sorry, I just... I can't."
"I understand," Dale said softly, though she wasn't sure what he understood. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
She hesitated, arms wrapped around herself against a chill she'd just noticed. The thin party dress offered no protection from the night air seeping through the building's old walls.
Ashley tried not to stare as Dale pulled his sweater over his head. The white shirt he wore beneath rode up, exposing a strip of the toned abdomen so achingly similar to the one she knew by heart.
Heat crept up her cheeks, doubling her guilt.
"Here." Dale handed her the wool sweater. "You're freezing."
She accepted the sweater despite the guilt, drawing in its scent as she pulled it on - cozy and warm. Dale’s sweater smelled like home.
"My office isn't far," he smiled reassuringly at her, "I can make tea."
His workspace was exactly what she'd expect - organized stacks of papers and books, a half-drunk coffee cup repurposed as a pencil holder, and a photo of him and his mother.
Dale busied himself with an electric kettle tucked between stacks of physics journals.
The soft domestic scene made her chest ache.
"So," he said, handing her a steaming mug. "Want to talk about it?"
She curled her fingers around the warm ceramic, watching the steam rise in lazy spirals.
"He used to read me poems," she found herself saying.
"Beautiful ones, thoughtful and special.
He'd leave them for me to find when I needed them most. He.
.." She swallowed hard. "He took care of me. Noticed things no one else did."
Dale's expression softened. "Breakups are hard. It's only natural to find yourself missing the person who used to be your point of balance."
Dale’s words and the quiet of his office wrapped around her like a blanket, broken only by the soft whirring of his computer and the distant hum of the building's ancient heating system.
There was something about his presence, about the safe space he created without trying, that made long-buried memories float to the surface. Maybe it was the late hour, the warmth of his sweater against her skin, or just the way he made silence feel like comfort.
"It's funny," she said softly, the words rising unbidden. "The things you can see through a child's eyes."
Dale didn't speak, he just shifted slightly in his chair to show he was listening.
"Like... like how someone can smile while their eyes stay dead." She could remember it, see it. "The way my mother's hands would shake when she poured coffee in the mornings. How she'd stare at Dad's empty chair like she was trying to wish him there."
She was surprised to feel tears sliding down her cheeks. When had she started crying?
"I was nine when I found out." The words caught.
She took a sip of tea, trying to steady herself.
"My father... he was in love with someone else.
She was Mom's closest friend and had been for years.
They did everything together - dinner parties, family vacations.
Her husband was Dad's golf partner." A bitter laugh escaped.
"The perfect couple. Until they weren't."
Dale slid the tissue box closer without comment. His silence felt like permission.
"He never knew I knew. Still doesn't. But I watched my mother fade like someone was slowly dimming her light. And the worst part?" Fresh tears spilled. "She blamed herself. Like maybe she'd pushed them together, introducing them, creating all those memories."
She dabbed at her eyes. "It ended eventually.
Her friend moved to Chicago with her husband.
No dramatic confrontation, no public scene.
Just... distance. Empty chairs at dinner carefully worded Christmas cards.
And my parents..." She swallowed hard. "They stayed together.
Built something different. But I'd learned by then.
Learned to watch for the signs, to read between the lines.
The way Mom's hand still shakes when her friend's name comes up in conversation.
How she gets this look, this horribly forced brightness, whenever Dad mentions them.
Twenty years of friendship just... erased. Like it never existed."
Dale made a soft sound of understanding, and somehow, that broke something loose in her chest.
"I promised myself I'd never be her," her voice cracked. "Never be the woman who had to analyze every gesture, catalog every smile, wondering if..." She stopped, realizing she was describing exactly what she'd been doing with Cole all week.
Fresh tears spilled, catching her off guard. Dale wordlessly offered another tissue.
"Sorry," she whispered. "I've never told anyone this. I don't even know why I'm telling you now."
Dale's response, when it came, was gentle. "Sometimes the heaviest secrets are the ones we've carried alone the longest."
Ashley looked into his eyes and then at his soft, hopeful gaze that made her heart beat faster.
Oh God.
She was doing exactly what her father had done - playing with people's hearts, creating impossible situations.
Here she was, seeking comfort from Dale while longing for Cole, letting one brother's kindness soothe the other's cruelty.
The very thing she'd sworn she'd never do - make someone question if they were enough.
"I have to go," she whispered, standing so abruptly her tea sloshed. “Thank you so much. I think I needed that.”
“You don’t have to, stay-”
"I'm sorry, but I- I can't be here." Ashley left his office in a rush, her steps trying to erase the damage that she’d already done. She ran like her life depended on it.
She ran because she wasn't afraid of becoming her mother anymore. She was afraid she'd already become her father.