I took his hand.
This time, when we walked out to the middle of the dance floor, people still watched us. But it was different. The phones were down. The laughing was gone.
Some couples moved over to make room for us.
Noah pulled me close. My head fit right under his chin. It always has.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
I thought about lying. It would have been easy. “Yeah, I’m great.” That’s what I’d been saying for four years.
Then I chose the truth.
“Not completely,” I said. “But I’m still here.”
His hand tightened around mine. Gently.
“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”
Halfway through the song, somebody tapped my shoulder.
I turned around.
It was Ali.
He was standing there in his rented tux with his hands in his pockets. He looked at the floor. Then at me.
“I just wanted to say,” he said. “I should’ve said something. Back there. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know what to say. So I just nodded.
“The dress is nice,” he said. Very fast. And he walked away before I could answer.
Noah watched him go.
“Huh,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Huh.”
After prom, Noah and Jada and I went to the Waffle House on Route 9. That’s what everybody does after prom in our town. It’s tradition.
I sat in a booth in my green dress and my Prom Court sash and ate a plate of hash browns, scattered, smothered, and covered. Jada stole half of them.
The waitress was an older woman named Darlene. She looked at my dress. She looked at my sash.
“Well, ain’t you something,” she said. “Pecan waffle’s on the house, king.”
“Queen,” Jada corrected her.
“Whatever he wants to be, sugar,” Darlene said. “Waffle’s still free.”
I laughed so hard I got syrup on the dress.
I didn’t even care.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.