Page 56 of At First Dance
I’m grabbing OJ and soup. Be there after I drop off an order. Nap now. No arguments.
Me:
Bossy
Bailey:
Useful??lie down. text if you get worse. I mean it.
I set the phone on the step. The shade from the oak shifts, dappled sunlight crawling across my knees. Somewhereclose, Butterscotch bleats like she remembers the exact pitch of my voice when I named her. The sound makes me smile, then ache. I want to go pet her soft nose and tell her secrets, but when I stand, my legs feel like they’re packed with wet sand.
Nap, then. For once, I don’t fight the suggestion. Inside, I pull the blanket down and crawl onto the couch, convincing myself I’m lying here just long enough for the room to stop nudging sideways. I close my eyes, and the list in my head tries to start again. Nashville, flights, outfits that say “adult” and not “doll,” what I’ll say if Mom usesmomentumlike it’s holy.
Sleep drags me by the wrist anyway.
The dream is loud—the roar of a crowd, the bass of a song I didn’t get to finish. I try to sing over it, and my voice won’t come. When I wake, my throat hurts like I swallowed sand, and my skin is doing that prickly, too tight thing. I shove the blanket off. Immediately, goose bumps erupt.Pick a temperature, body.
Phone. Right. I fumble for it, miss, and nearly fling it into the basket with the extra towels. The screen is a smear of notifications. I squint until Bailey’s name comes into focus.
Bailey:
Running 10 behind—line at the bakery was sinful. How are you?
Me:
Fine. just tired.
Bailey:
Liar. temp?
Me:
Don’t have a thermometer.
Bailey:
On it. ETA 20.
I put the phone down and try to sit up. A weird wave of vertigo sloshes from my chest to my head. The room doesn’tspin, exactly. It ripples. My hands shake, and that little tremor makes my heart beat too fast.
I close my eyes and do the things I’ve been taught: inhale four, hold four, exhale six. Repeat. Repeat again with my palms flat on my knees. Heat sweeps my face, and a chill sweeps my arms.This is fine, I tell myself. I’ve done stages with bronchitis and label meetings with migraines. This is a nap and a bottle of orange juice. This is not the end of the world. It’s not a seizure.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a quieter voice says,Or it’s your body finally cashing a bill you’ve been ignoring.
The knock is soft, two knuckles to the frame. “Ivy?” It’s Rowan, not Bailey.
Relief hits so fast I’m embarrassed by it. “Come in,” I croak, and wince at my zombie voice.
He steps inside, bringing cooler air with him. He takes one look at me, and a crease cuts between his brows. I’ve never seen it that deep. “You’re pale.”
I try for a joke. “That’s my new brand.”
He doesn’t smile. “Bailey said you weren’t feeling right. She got called to fix a frosting disaster. I was closer.”
I nod, and the simple motion feels like too much. “I’m okay. Just—” I rub my arms, and the shiver that rides up my spine answers for me. “Apparently, summer colds are a thing.”
He comes closer and kneels so we’re eye level. He smells like sun and hay and the citrus soap he keeps by the kitchen sink. “Can I touch your forehead?”
