Page 24 of At First Dance
“Well, I’ll be,” he says, eyebrows lifting. “You two beat the sun.”
“Didn’t sleep much,” I say, managing a smile. “I wanted to give you a heads-up. I’m… heading out for a couple of days.”
He nods, like people leaving and returning is just another kind of weather. “We got your car up on the lift. The front wheel assembly’s bent, and there’s some undercarriage rash. Parts are ordered. I’ll call when they land.”
“Could you—” I press my fingers to the zipper of my Coral Bell Cove windbreaker, steadying. “Could you hang onto it until I get back? I’ll handle the bill, I promise. If you need a card on file—”
He waves me off. “We’re not the city. You’re fine. We’ll make her right. You do what you’ve got to do.”
Something eases in my chest. “Thank you.”
Carl tips his thermos toward me. “Safe travels, Miss Ivy.”
“See you soon,” I say, and try to believe the words when they leave my mouth.
Bailey squeezes my forearm, then glances toward the street. “You want me to drive you all the way, or…?”
“I want to walk a bit. Join me?” I ask. Bailey easily falls in step beside me, letting me ruminate in my own thoughts.
We drift through the edges of downtown like ghosts—no destination, no plan, just a gut-deep need to move.
By the time we reach the boardwalk path that leads to the shoreline, my boots have scuffed enough loose grit to fill a bucket. The sky has lightened to a soft blue, but the breeze rolling off the bay chills my face, teasing strands of hair loose from my bun.
I welcome the sting of salt air. It’s honest, unlike everything else.
Across the street from the beach access point is a little souvenir shop—one of those narrow storefronts with faded postcards clipped to spinning racks and sunscreen bottles piled beside novelty mugs. A wooden crab above the awning readsSandpiper Gifts & Sundries.
I stand in front of the closed doorway for a second too long, blinking at the cheerful clutter. A small light in the corner blinks on, illuminating the room in a soft, warm glow that feels like a hug.
A wall of hats catches my eye. They’re all terrible. Bright colors. Embroidered puns. One saysShell Yeahin glitter script.
We walk the path down to the sand, every muscle aching like I’ve spent the morning climbing a mountain. Maybe I have—emotionally, at least.
The dunes give way to smooth, pale sand peppered with shells and patches of dark grass. A gull cries overhead, diving toward a cluster of seaweed. Farther down the shoreline, a golden retriever chases waves like it’s born for it while its sleep-deprived owner sips from a mug.
I find a spot near the weathered lifeguard chair and sit down, tucking my knees up to my chest. The sand is warm beneath me, grounding in a way nothing else has been in days. Bailey silently joins me.
My phone vibrates, and instead of ignoring it, I look.
Celeste:
Evangeline Quinn
1 Missed Call. 1 New Voicemail.
I stare at her name.Myfull name, of course.Evangeline Quinn,as ifIvyis a costume I put on for award shows and press junkets. She rarely uses my stage name.
I don’t listen to the voicemail. I don’t need to. I can already hear her voice in my head.
“You need to get in front of this. We’re hemorrhaging media control.
“Your tour crew is waiting on you.
“There’s a makeup campaign pending. You can’t ghost them.”
What she means isyou can’t ghost me.
I turn the phone off and bury it in my tote bag, the sand curling into the hem of my jeans like it wants to keep me here. For a moment, I let it.
