Page 104 of At First Dance
Just the same old wallpaper—an aerial shot of the ranch fields—and the last text to Ivy, still unopened.
That little gray bubble mocks me.
I don’t know what I expect. She said she’d be busy. Said she’d come back. But the longer the silence stretches, the more my chest hollows out.
I tap open the camera and snap a quick shot—nothing posed, just my chest dusted in sawdust, arms crossed, the line of the stage's skeletal frame blurred behind me.
Me:
Hard work looks good on me, huh?
I stare at it for too long before I hit send.
Then I type another.
Me:
Was thinking about your camp idea today. That napkin sketch keeps rattling around in my head.
Still no response.
I let the phone fall beside me on the truck bed, the metal cold under my thighs. The wind shifts, and I catch the scent of lilac and old wood—faint, but unmistakable. It smells like the cottage. Like her skin when she stood close enough for me to breathe her in.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, fingers laced together. My head hangs heavy between my shoulders.
I miss her.
Not just the way she filled a room or lit up when she talked about music. Not just the way she curled into my side like she’d always belonged there. I miss her smart-ass remarks. Her stupid socks. The way she looked at my horses like they were mythical creatures.
I miss not being alone in this place.
Eventually, I pick up the phone again and open our thread.
One last message.
Me:
I miss you, Ivy. More than I know how to handle.
I hit send.
Then I toss the phone into the truck cab and slam the door shut before I can regret it.
The moon is rising over the pasture when I finally drive away, gravel crunching under the tires. The unfinished stage fades in the rearview, but the ache in my chest doesn’t go anywhere.
She hasn’t replied, and I don’t know if or when she will. But I do know one thing. If she does come back… that stage will be ready.
The night passes with no sleep, but with determination, I drive the nail deeper, the rough plank shifting slightly beneath my palm. It's coming together now—a little slower than I planned, but the bones are there. The frame of the old stage creaks, stubborn and sun-bleached, but it still holds the promise of something more.
Of her.
I don't look at my phone. Not anymore. It's in the toolbox, screen face down, silent since the last message I sent last night. Just a simple one.
Me:
Miss making your coffee.
And before that? An image of my chest after a long ride, sweat gleaming, saddle strap still hanging low. I don’t know what I was hoping for—maybe a little reaction, a smart comment, a “Nice try, cowboy.” But there’s been nothing.
