Page 47 of At First Dance
“No,” she says. “But I recognize fear when I see it. I’ve lived with it long enough.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
She steps closer. “What if it works? What if those kids show up and fall in love with the land the way you did?” I swallow hard. “What if you gave them a place to breathe?” she whispers.
I stare at the pitchfork in my hand like it holds the answers. “I’m not a teacher. I’m not built for that.”
“You’re built for exactly that,” she says. “And if you can’t see it, that’s your problem. But don’t pretend it’s mine.”
Ivy turns and walks out, boots crunching on gravel as she disappears into the rising sun. And I stand in the barn, heart hammering, walls cracking, because she’s not wrong.
I’m terrified. Not of the camp but of hoping. Because hoping means caring. And caring means falling. And falling means losing everything. Again.
The day drags. I mend fences that don’t need mending. I clean out the feed bins—twice. I reorganize tools I could find blindfolded. Anything to keep me from pacing the damn yard like a restless fool.
But no matter how hard I work, her voice echoes in my head.
What if it works? What if you gave them a place to breathe?
I hate how much I want to believe her. How easy it is to picture it—kids running through the pasture, barefoot and wide-eyed. Ivy smiling as she watches them dig up carrots or bottle-feed a calf.
I’ve never told anyone I want to start the camp. Not really. Maybe I mentioned it in passing to Lila once, years ago. Doris, clearly. But that was before I realized how deep my roots had twisted into this solitary, quiet life. Before the weight of responsibility convinced me I didn’t have time for dreams.
Now here Ivy is—bright eyes and stubborn hope—trying to shine a light into corners I boarded up a long time ago.
Damn her.
By evening, I’m bone-tired and no closer to peace. I catch sight of her a few times through the kitchen window. She stays near the cottage most of the day, a notebook balanced on herknee, lips moving silently like she’s working out lyrics or writing a letter she’ll never send.
She never looks toward the house. Never tries to talk to me again. But I feel her there, just the same.
By the time the sun dips behind the trees and the frogs start up their twilight song, I give in and make dinner. Something simple—pan-fried chicken and green beans, cornbread on the side. Enough for two.
Habit, maybe. Or hope.
I sit down at the table, staring at the empty seat across from me, the steam from the plate curling up like it’s mocking me. She doesn’t come. Of course, she doesn’t.
I’m not exactly rolling out the welcome mat.
I scrub the dishes in silence and pour a bourbon, stepping out onto the back deck with nothing but the night and a hundred bad ideas for company.
The sky is streaked with navy and silver, stars just starting to pop. The cottage window stays dark. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
She’s right. That’s the worst part. The thing under my skin, burning like a goddamn fever. She sees right through me. Not because she’s famous or beautiful or used to getting what she wants. But because she knows what it means to carry fear like armor. To live behind glass. To pretend not to want more.
We’re not so different. That realization? It hits like a kick to the chest.
I open my eyes again and look toward the dark silhouette of the guest cottage. And I know something has to give. Because she’s not going to stay forever. And if I don’t figure out what the hell I want soon, I’ll lose the one thing I haven’t even dared to hope for.
The knock is soft. So soft that I almost think I imagine it. I sit up straighter in my chair, glass still in hand, and wait.It comes again. Three delicate taps against the back door, like a question she’s not sure she has the right to ask.
I stand, heart already kicking against my ribs. When I open it, she’s there—barefoot in the grass, with her arms wrapped around her middle like she’s holding herself together. That sweatshirt swallows her frame, and the porchlight casts her eyes in shadow.
“I didn’t know if you were still up,” she says quietly.
“I am.”
She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder toward the cottage. “I didn’t want to sleep yet.”
