Page 109 of At First Dance
I turn away from her, breath shaky, and open the top drawer of my desk. Pull out another flyer sketch I drew on a napkin—Rowan’s summer camp, scribbled in green Sharpie between coffee rings and tears. I hear the door snap shut without a single goodbye.
I smooth the wrinkled edges and grab my laptop. If the songs won’t come, I’ll build something else.
Rowan’s camp. The one he dreams about but won’t speak of out loud. I start typing—curriculum, age groups, activities. I create a mock-up. Design a logo. Upload a picture I snapped of the horses when he wasn’t looking.
It’s easier than writing a love song. The truth is, I already wrote the biggest one, and I left it in his living room.
Glancing at the clock, I know Rowan’s out on the field working, but it’s been hours since we messaged. Our third rule has already been broken. Instead, I reply to his missed messages with a picture of my own, my bathrobe displaying an indecent amount of cleavage, with his acorn necklace draped between the valley.
But even in my heart, I know that picture isn’t enough. Not enough to combat the wild tabloids. If I know my mother at all, I’m sure she and the label concocted this wild tabloid about me, Rowan, and Crew. Anything to keep my name in the headlines. To them, all news is good news.
As I glance around the sterile space, I know my time here is over, even with things unfinished. They’ve had enough time to get what they needed. Now it’s time for me.
I walk to the closet, grab the duffel bag that never quite made it to the shelf, and start stuffing it with clothes. My heart beats faster with every folded T-shirt, every rolled pair of jeans.
This isn’t a performance. It’s a return. To the place where I started telling the truth. To the man who might still be holding it for me.
Before long, I’m shoving whatever I can find into the bag until I can barely tug the zipper closed. The frustration eats away at me.
It starts with a shimmer.
Not the kind that belongs to stage lights or sequined dresses. This one crawls behind my eyes—slow and electric, like someone lit a sparkler at the edge of my vision.
I blink hard. Once. Twice. Still there. Then let the tears fall until I have nothing left to give but my soul, except it already belongs to a cowboy who roped it up the day we met.
Trying to calm down, I settle on the worn leather. My laptop rests on my thighs, a half-finished mock-up of Rowan’s summer camp flyer open in a design program I barely know how to use. Anything to settle my mind and my chest. The screen blurs.
I try to swallow, but my throat feels tight. Too tight.
Breathe, Ivy.
I set the laptop aside, palms bracing against the couch. My heart pounds, but it’s not panic. Not yet. It’s recognition. I've felt this before. I know what's coming.
My fingers twitch. The lamp beside me suddenly feels too bright. The sound of the refrigerator hums louder than it should. It’s all too much.
I curl forward, breathing slow and deliberate through my nose. This isn’t a full seizure—not yet. Just an aura. A warning. Like a distant roll of thunder before the storm arrives.
I should call someone. But who?
My mother would panic—or worse, turn it into a PR narrative about the pressures of fame. Celeste once said,“Don’t let them see you broken. There’s no comeback from that.”
I press a trembling hand to my forehead.
I don’t want her voice in my head. I want Rowan’s. Low and steady. I want the quiet rustle of pasture grass and the gentle creak of the swing on his porch. I want the weight of his gaze, grounding me. Seeing me.
The shimmer swells—bright and buzzy behind my right eye—so I ease down, flat on the couch, and breathe like my neurologist taught me. In for four. Out for six. I thumb my phone and start the timer, a little ritual that keeps the panic from galloping.
My fingers prickle, the world edges glassy, but I’m still here—awake and aware. I can name the room, the day, the person I’d call if I needed to. Ninety seconds. A minute forty. The wave peaks and slides back.
I stop the timer at just under two minutes and let my shoulders sink. No blackout. No second wave chasing the first. I take a sip of water and jot a quick note in my seizure log.
No ambulance. Not this time. My doctor’s rule has lived in my bones for years: if it lasts past five minutes or stacks one after another, we go. If it’s brief and I stay conscious, I rest, hydrate, and let the edges smooth themselves out.
This one passes. I stay put and let the room come back into focus.
Hours later, my body still feels like it’s been wrung out. Muscles shaky. Nausea swirling low in my gut.
But I’m still here, and I’m done pretending this place is enough. That this glass tower and fancy address and bottled water with custom labels can fill the ache that’s only ever quieted in Coral Bell Cove.
