Page 123 of At First Dance
The breeze is lazy, warm, and constant, rustling the tablecloths we’ve anchored with old horseshoes and chipped Mason jars filled with sunflowers. String lights arc overhead, glowing soft and amber from the porch rafters to the fence posts, turning the whole backyard into something out of a dream I didn’t dare let myself have.
Everyone’s here to celebrate the beginning of the pecan harvest and the success of the first camp.
Lila’s at the far end of the table, laughing over the potato salad with Bailey, her hair piled high and catching the glow like a halo. Holt’s working the grill like he owns it. Beer in hand, he has his apron on backward, flipping burgers and giving grief to anyone who walks too close. Dad’s sitting on the porch steps with Hadley, his arm around her shoulders, both talking quietly like they always do when the world around them gets too loud. And Mom, God love her, buzzes between the kitchen and patio with a dish towel over one shoulder and a glass of sweet tea in the other, stealing bites of cobbler when she thinks no one’s watching.
And then there’s Ivy, right next to me.
Her hand rests on my thigh—just enough pressure to ground me. Enough to remind me that she’s real. That this is happening.
She’s wearing a light blue sundress—one that makes my brain short-circuit when she walks. Her hair’s up in a loose bun, wisps framing her face in a way that should be illegal. She’s been smiling all evening, laughing when Bailey says something ridiculous or Hadley gives Holt hell. And every time she leans into me, my chest tightens. Not in a bad way. In the way that says something’s shifted inside me.
Hell, maybe it already did, back on that stage. Perhaps it was the way she looked at me when she sang those lyrics—like I was the song. Like I was the answer.
The table is packed, plates overflowing with hamburgers, grilled corn, and thick slices of bread soaked in butter and love. Glasses clink. Someone breaks into a chorus of “Country Road” for no reason. And for the first time in a long time, I sit back and breathe.
This is what we built.
The camp’s no longer a dream scrawled in Ivy’s notebook. It’s real. It’s backed by the town council, funded by local businesses, and well-loved by every damn kid who comes through our gates. We’ve got dates lined up for the next three months. A rotation of volunteers. Even a local baker who insists on delivering muffins every Tuesday morning.
And Ivy, she’s at the center of it. Not because she asked to be, but because she gave it life.
Mom lifts her glass and taps her spoon against it, drawing the attention of the table with the practiced ease of someone used to corralling a rowdy crew.
“I just want to say how proud I am of this family,” she says, her voice warm and a little thick with emotion. “What started as a backyard idea became something meaningful. Something kids needed.”
Applause echoes down the table. Ivy squeezes my leg, and I glance at her, heart thudding slow and deep in my chest.
Mom’s gaze finds mine. “And Rowan… you didn’t just build a camp. You built a safe place for kids to be seen. To feel valued.”
I swallow hard, nodding once. “Thanks, Mom.”
Then her eyes shift to Ivy. “And Ivy, sweetheart, you brought the fire. The spark. You reminded us that dreaming isn’t just for kids.”
Ivy’s cheeks flush pink, and she ducks her head, but I can see the smile tugging at her lips. It lights something inside me, something wild and good.
The whole damn night feels like magic. Which, of course, means it can’t last.
Because that’s when the sleek black SUV crawls up the gravel drive.
The noise around us quiets as the dust kicks up behind the tires. Holt’s fork freezes mid-bite. Lila leans back in her chair, eyebrows raised. Dad stiffens beside Hadley, who blinks twice like she’s not sure she’s seeing what she’s seeing.
Ivy hardens beside me, and my gut churns.
The passenger door swings open before the engine’s even off, but I know who it is before she even steps free. Celeste.
Hair perfect. Heels high. Suit crisp. Her phone is still clutched like an accessory she doesn’t know how to live without.
The sound of her heels against the gravel makes my shoulders go tight.
“Evangeline,” she calls, too bright. Too rehearsed.
Ivy stands before I do.
She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hesitate. Just rises like she’s been preparing for this moment all her life.
The yard goes still.
My mom sets her sweet tea down harder than necessary. Lila’s mouth drops open. Holt mutters, “You’ve got to be kiddingme,” under his breath. Hadley looks like she wants to melt into her folding chair.
