Page 110 of At First Dance
I push up slowly, legs unsteady, and shuffle to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. As the water trickles down my cheeks, I glance up. My reflection looks pale. Washed out. But my eyes—they’re clear.
And I know without a shadow of a doubt I can’t stay here. Not when my body is screaming for peace. Not when my soul is begging to go home. Not when there’s a man with rough hands and kind eyes who’s probably still wondering why I left in the first place.
I left my notebook at his house, but the truth is, I left more than that. I left myself.
Chapter Twenty-one – Rowan
The sky is streaked in early morning pink when I step out onto the porch, coffee in hand, and take in the view.
Dew clings to the grass. Stuff that glistens like frost even though it’s nearly September. The barn doors are already open, thanks to Holt being an overachiever, and the low rumble of Crew’s voice carries on the breeze as he corrals the last of the folding chairs toward the south pasture.
The same pasture where, two weeks ago, I hauled a warped trailer floor and half-rotted lumber out of a shed behind the chicken coop and started to rebuild something I hadn’t let myself dream of in years.
A stage.
It’s nothing fancy—just a low wooden platform with fresh sealant and new steps, rigged with borrowed fairy lights that twinkle like the start of something. But to me, it looks like hope. Or something I’m not quite brave enough to name yet.
I take a slow sip from the mug and let the silence settle around me. It’s the last bit of quiet I’ll get before the place fills up with twenty-five screaming kids and a half-dozen volunteer chaperones. My mother and Bailey practically moved heaven and half the PTA to make today happen. I owe her more than I can say.
I’m just thankful Otter Creek Farms already functions as a produce pickup location so we didn’t have to worry about parking. Years spent as a strawberry and pecan farm for the town and surrounding counties help.
“Hey!” Crew’s voice cuts through the air. He’s already sweating through his T-shirt, carrying a stack of laminated signs under one arm. I’m not even sure how he’s here since he justplayed a game in Florida last night. “You planning to supervise or just stand there brooding like a romance novel cover?”
I grunt. “Brooding. Obviously.”
He grins. “Figured.”
I walk down the porch steps and meet him halfway, taking one of the signs without asking. He eyes me sidelong.
“You sleep at all?”
“Some.”
“Liar.”
I don’t answer. Just drive the stake into the dirt and press down until the “Welcome to Otter Creek Farm Camp” sign stands straight. The lettering is a little crooked, but the message is clear.
This is happening.
Kids. Laughter. Dirt under their nails. Learning where eggs come from and how to saddle a pony. Maybe even standing on that makeshift stage at the end of the day to sing something into the sky.
And not just because Ivy believed in it. Because I do. Even if she’s not here. Even if she’s still in Nashville, fighting off the world with a camera in her face and that fake smile she hates.
Crew claps a hand on my shoulder. “It’s gonna be good, man. You’re good at this.”
I nod once. “Hope so.”
“I thought she’d come back to see it.”
I look out toward the stage.
Every day, but I don’t voice that out loud. Part of that is my fault, though. I let my fear keep me from telling her explicitly that we were doing a run-through of the camp this weekend. Though I’m positive Bailey told her.
Instead, I walk toward the barn and call over my shoulder, “We’ve got gates to tie off.”
Because today isn’t about her. It’s about the kids.
Even if everything in me still wants to believe she’ll walk through that field like she did that first day—lost, stubborn, beautiful—and this time, stay.
