Page 106 of At First Dance
She slides down from the beam and steps beside me, nudging my arm. “You’re doing okay, Ro. You’re not perfect, and you’ve been an idiot—but you’re trying. And for what it’s worth? I think she sees that. Even if she’s not answering your… flex pics.”
I roll my eyes. “They weren’t—never mind.”
She grins. “Just… keep going, okay? Whether she comes back tomorrow or next month, let her find you standing in something you built. Something that matters.”
I nod, throat tight.
Hadley turns to leave, then glances back over her shoulder.
“Oh, and if you do send another shirtless picture? Maybe don’t do it while holding a hammer. You looked like a horny handyman.”
“Go away.”
She laughs all the way to her car. And me? I stare down at the stage frame and think about Ivy’s notebook, still tucked between the cushions of my couch.
I haven’t read past that song. I don’t need to. Because the words she already wrote? They said enough. Now it’s my turn to do the same—with action. With something she’ll see. Even if she never knows why.
The days pass in slow, uneven pieces. Mornings bleed into afternoons marked by sweat, sunburn, and the sharp smell of sawdust. My hands are blistered. My back aches. And still, I work.
Because every bolt I tighten, every board I sand, it’s like laying bricks over the gnawing ache in my chest.
Ivy’s absence is a hollow thing, though she calls when she can. It’s less and less with each passing day. It lingers in places I didn’t expect—in the second coffee mug I don’t use, in the ghost of her laugh echoing through the barn, in the blanket she folded and left on the porch swing before she left. It's not evenherblanket, it’s mine, but now it smells like her, and I can’t bring myself to move it.
By Thursday morning, the stage has started to resemble something more than scrap. The platform is mostly complete, elevated just enough to be visible from the hill. The back beams are upright, and with a little more work, I’ll have enough structure for lights or a canvas banner if I get ambitious.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who I’m building it for, though, but the reason may be elusive. My dadambles down from the back porch with two waters and a raised brow.
“You finally giving in to your theater kid era?” Dad asks as he drops onto a hay bale beside me.
I grunt, wiping my neck. “Funny. I’m just fixing it up. Figured we could use it for the summer camp.”
It’s half a lie.
Wecoulduse it for the camp. I’d thought about that. But it’s not the real reason I’ve been throwing myself into the project like a man possessed.
My dad watches me for a moment, face lined with the sun and the weight of years lived hard and honest. Then he takes a long swig of water and says, “You know… when your mama was pregnant with Hadley, I built her a porch swing.”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“Didn’t know a damn thing about woodworking. That swing creaked like hell and leaned to the left, but she sat in it every night for eight months. Because I made it for her.”
I nod slowly.
“You never told Ivy how you felt, did you?” he asks quietly.
I stare at the grain of the wood. “No.”
“Then maybe it’s time to stop waiting for the right moment and justmakeone.”
I breathe deep. “I worry she might not come back.”
“She might not,” he agrees. “But if she does, don’t let her walk into a quiet house. Let her walk into something that says, ‘You were missed. You mattered. You still do.’”
I don’t answer, but I don’t need to.
The next day, I’m back at it with fresh screws and a new plan.
It’s nearly dusk when Crew finds me crouched behind the stage frame, sketching ideas in the dust with a stick like some desperate caveman architect.
