Page 101 of At First Dance
Silence, and then a sound that is not a sob and is notnotone. “Say it,” she asks.
“I am proud of you,” I say, and then, because it is true and we are past the point of pretending otherwise, “and I love the way you are being brave for yourself.”
The breath she takes is a new kind—sharp on the intake, soft on the out like a hand unclenching. “Rowan.”
“I know,” I say, because I do, and we aren’t going to ruin a good sentence with a hurry.
I’m proud of you, I practice to the frogs and the dark. And: I’ll be here.
The night takes both and keeps them safe for later.
Chapter Nineteen – Rowan
The house is too damn quiet.
Not just empty, not just still—but bone-deep quiet. The kind that crawls inside your chest and settles between ribs. The kind that echoes when you walk down the hall and realize no one’s humming in the next room. No one’s stealing your flannel shirts or leaving coffee mugs in odd corners of the house.
Just me and the silence. And that wouldn’t have been so bad… before her. Ivy’s been gone a couple of days, and it already feels like the walls are closing in.
I shovel feed into the troughs out back, the chickens kicking dust up around my boots like they haven’t missed a beat. The horses nicker in their stalls. The calves stretch and grunt under the morning sun. Life on the farm keeps moving, but I don’t. Not really.
Crew’s somewhere around here, training in the south pasture. I saw him stretching before sunrise, earbuds in, and that determined look on his face like he’s got something to prove. He hasn’t said much since she left either, but I’ve caught him watching me. Waiting. Like he knows something I haven’t said out loud yet.
I toss the last bucket of feed into the trough and head back toward my house to rinse off. The kitchen still smells faintly like coffee and citrus, as if the memory of her is clinging to everything. I don’t touch her mug. I just stand there, staring at it like it might explain why the hell I feel like I’m missing a limb.
I don’t even realize I’m gripping the back of the couch until my fingers brush something soft.
A notebook.
It’s small, bound in cracked leather, the edges worn like it’s been in and out of too many bags. I lift it slowly, careful like it might break, and flip it open.
Her handwriting is neat, loops and slants that still feel chaotic in a way that’s... Ivy.
Some pages are lyrics I remember—songs I’ve heard her hum under her breath or strum on the porch steps. But one page is different.
New.
I scan the lines, and my throat closes.
I keep chasing ghosts with dirt under my nails
Searching for truth behind calloused veils
He doesn’t see it yet—
The way he’s already mine
But I’d wait in silence
If it meant one more time.
My hand tightens around the paper.
It’s about me. It’s always been about me.
She came back, again and again. She chose this place. Chose me, even when I pushed her away, even when I gave her every reason not to. And now she’s gone again—because I couldn’t say what I wanted out loud.
I snap the notebook shut and head for the door, heart pounding like I’m about to break into a sprint. Because I remember something. Something old and half-forgotten.
