Page 112 of At First Dance
Me:
Stage is up. You’d hate the font on the banner, but the kids love it.
I stare at the screen for a beat. No response.
Just like all the ones I previously sent.
Two hours ago, it was:
Me:
Thought you’d like this.
(Image attached: Me, dust-covered, on top of the horse paddock fence. Shirtless. Sweaty. Looking like hell but smiling for the first time in a while.)
Four hours ago, it was:
Me:
Hope you’re drinking real coffee and not that PR-approved caffeine-free crap.
Still nothing.
I lock the screen and shove it back in my pocket, swallowing the ache that keeps rising like bile.
“Maybe she’s still working,” Crew says gently.
“Maybe I gave her too many reasons to stay gone,” I reply.
But even as I say it, I glance out toward the tree line and hope. Hope hard.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve lost count of the juice boxes, bandaged knees, and goat droppings we’ve encountered.
The kids are everywhere—climbing hay bales, brushing the horses, and pointing at the cows like they’re mythical creatures. I half expect a few of them to start naming the chickens like they’re at a Disney petting zoo. And honestly? That’s fine by me.
It’s chaos. The best kind. The kind that looks like movement. Like growth. The kind that reminds me why I started this thing in the first place.
The small crowd of parents and volunteers who have come to watch sit on hay bales facing the old platform stage we repurposed from the shed. I strung lights across the top this morning. They’re not on yet, but they’ll glow soft and warm once the sun drops.
It’s not perfect, but it’s real. It’s ours.
Crew walks up behind me and claps a hand on my shoulder. “You should say something.”
I shake my head. “Not really my thing.”
“Doesn’t have to be a speech. Just... a few words. You built this. They should hear from you.”
I glance over at the crowd again. A few familiar faces. My parents, of course. Hadley is corralling toddlers with a juice-stained apron. Holt’s leaning against the fence with his arms crossed, looking proud and quietly smug. Bailey’s sitting next to one of the librarians, jotting things down in a notebook—probably prepping a post about this for the town newsletter while ignoring Crew every time he tries to speak to her.
And me? I’m standing here with my hands too empty and my heart too full.
I walk up to the makeshift stage, brushing my palm over the corner like I’m not sure it’s real. The lights are still off, but the midday sun does the job.
The crowd settles when they see me.
I clear my throat. “Uh... thanks for coming out.”
A few chuckles. Someone claps. One of the kids yells something about chickens, and I can hold back my grin.
