Page 113 of At First Dance
“I, uh… wasn’t sure what this was gonna be when we started. Just an idea. Something that felt too big for a guy like me to pull off.”
More claps. My mom dabs at her eyes. Dammit.
“But people showed up. They helped. And now here we are. Kids learning where food comes from. Laughing. Getting muddy. Chasing goats.”
That gets a louder laugh, and I take a steadying breath.
“And I guess what I’m trying to say is… sometimes the things that scare you the most? The ones you think you’re not built for? They turn out to be the things that make you feel the most... alive.”
The applause catches me off guard. I step back, giving a small nod, then hop down from the stage.
Crew catches my eye as I walk past. “Nice job, cowboy.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. I move toward the water station to grab a drink when I hear it.
A car door, then another, and a hush rolls across the field like a summer breeze. I turn, slowly. There, standing just past the gravel loop, hoodie slung over one shoulder, her hair caught up in a loose braid, is Ivy.
She’s wearing the denim cutoffs I love so much and boots and that same damn blue tank top that made my brain short-circuit the first time she wore it.
But it’s not the clothes. It’s her. Her being here and looking like she never left.
My feet start moving before I can think. She meets me halfway. Neither of us speaks right away.
Then her voice, soft and uncertain. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here.”
I swallow hard, throat thick. “I’ve been building a stage for when you came back.”
Her breath hitches. Then she blinks, and I see it—the thing that’s been missing since the night she left.
Hope.
She glances past me toward the kids, the animals, the whole damn setup.
“You really did it,” she whispers. “You started the camp.”
“You were right. I just needed a nudge.”
Her lips curve. “Or a shove.”
I chuckle. “Same difference.”
We stand there, suspended in that space where everything could still fall apart.
Then she shifts her bag and looks down. “I wrote something on the plane.”
My heart thuds once. Loud.
“Yeah?”
She nods.
“I don’t know if it’s finished. But... I think I’d like to sing it.”
I don’t speak. I can’t. Her words hit me in my chest, calming the ache that grew two weeks ago when she stepped off my porch.
Suddenly, the lights I strung this morning aren’t just decorations. The stage isn’t just a platform—it’s a beginning.
And Ivy?
