Page 92 of At First Dance
“If it’s a mistake,” I whisper, “at least it’s mine.”
Then I end the call.
My hands are shaking as I shove the phone back in my pocket, the weight of that conversation pressing down like a summer storm on my chest.
But I don’t cry. I just stand there and breathe. One breath. Then another.
Until finally, I turn back toward the barn and start walking—toward the horses, toward Rowan, toward something that feels real.
By the time we get back to Rowan’s house, the light is thick and honeyed, the porch casting a long shadow across theyard. My chest still pinches from the call with my mother, but it’s Rowan’s quiet that tugs at me more. He holds the door, lets me pass, and it swings shut on the breath between us.
Inside smells like wood and lemon oil and him. He goes straight to the kitchen, opens the fridge like it offended him, then shuts it with his forearm. A low sound escapes him—half grunt, half breath.
“Eggs on toast?” I offer, keeping it simple.
He grunts again—then stops himself. Both hands are planted on the counter. Head drops. He draws a long breath like he’s hauling a net out of the water and wants what’s caught to come up clean.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, voice rough but steady. “I’m… working on not being an ass when I don’t have the words yet.”
I lean on the island and wait him out.
He lifts his head to meet my eyes. “I got jealous when you and Crew were laughing in the barn.” He says it plain, like he refuses to make it ugly. “Not because I think there’s anything there. I know what that was—PR, headlines, a job. It’s the shorthand you two have. He’s known you longer. He knows details I’m still learning. And I wanted”—his jaw flexes—“I wanted to be the one you look at that way.”
Something unknots in my ribs. “I was talking about his disastrous attempt at roping. He ate dirt in front of a second-grade field trip.”
A reluctant smile tugs his mouth. “Good. He deserved that.”
“And,” I add, stepping around the island, “you’re allowed to say all of this out loud. Preferably before you turn into a storm cloud.”
He huffs, nods. “I’m learning. Slowly. But I’m learning.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
His hand finds the small of my back, tentative. “Let me try again.”
“Try.”
He takes the pan from me, sets it on the burner. “We’re making dinner together,” he says, quiet authority back in his voice, but it’s softer now. “And then I’m taking you somewhere that isn’t a kitchen or a café or a barn. I don’t want to argue with you. I want to… show you.”
“Show me what?”
“That I can be good at this.” He swallows. “At you. At us.”
Heat stings behind my eyes. I blink it clear and hand him the butter. We move around each other like we’ve been doing this for years—my hip bumping his gently and his fingers brushing mine when he passes the salt. Nothing dramatic, just the ordinary intimacy I’ve starved for.
He puts on a playlist from his phone, something low and warm, a steel guitar threading the space. While the eggs set, he catches my hand and tugs me into the open patch of floor. Barefoot on old wood, we sway. No steps to memorize, no audience. His chin tips to my hair; my cheek finds his shirt. He breathes out like the tension’s finally found a door.
“I don’t want to keep messing up,” he murmurs. “So I’m going to say the thing instead of making a story about it.”
“Rule number one,” I say into his chest. “Say the thing.”
He pulls back just enough to see my face. “Say the thing: I want you here. With me. And when I get it wrong, I want you to tell me—then let me fix it.”
The timer on the stove dings. He kisses my forehead—simple, devastating—and slips away to plate dinner.
We eat at the counter, knees touching, sharing a single fork because the drawer only gave up one and neither of us was willing to wash another. He slides the crispiest corner of toast to my side without comment. I call him noble; he callsme dramatic. It feels like the beginning of something we both recognize and are a little afraid to name.
When the dishes are rinsed, he wipes his hands on a towel and turns to me with that steady, I-built-a-fence look. “Grab your sweater,” he says. “And the quilt from the back of the couch.”
