Page 125 of At First Dance
“She always like that?” I ask, glancing at her.
She shrugs. “Always. Even when I was fifteen and begging to go to a school dance, she showed up to pick me up in a Chanel suit. Said reputation started young.”
“Christ,” I mutter.
Ivy huffs a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. “It’s always been about the image. Always about the story she could tell other people. Not the one I was actually living.”
I squeeze her hand. “You don’t have to explain, Ivy.”
“I know,” she says softly. “But I want to. To you.”
That knocks something loose in my chest.
I nod toward the porch. “Come sit with me a while?”
She nods.
We climb the steps together, her bare feet padding against the boards, the hem of her sundress catching the breeze. She settles on the porch swing like she was made for it—knees tucked up, arms around her legs. I drop beside her, the swing groaning softly beneath our combined weight.
We sit like that for a long minute. The stars are just starting to bloom across the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a bullfrog croaks and cicadas buzz in lazy rhythm.
I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I never thought she’d actually come here to confront me,” Ivy says, her voice quiet.
“Me neither.”
“But I’m glad she did.”
That surprises me. “Yeah?”
“Because it gave me the chance to say it. Out loud. To her face.” She leans her head on my shoulder. “I’ve spent so long trying not to make waves. Trying to be the version of me she could sell.”
“Not anymore.”
“No,” she says, lifting her head to look at me. “Not anymore.”
She’s watching me like she sees everything, and I feel the shift. I’ve seen it building for weeks, since that night on the porch when she climbed into my lap and made me forget how tobreathe. Since she sang those lyrics about home and belonging like she meant every damn word.
Now it feels settled. Like we’re no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop, and we’ve both finally chosen the same thing.
She moves then—slow and deliberate—swinging one leg over my lap until she’s straddling me again.
“Ivy…” I breathe.
Her fingers thread through my hair. “Shh. Let me say thank you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do. I owe you everything.”
And then she kisses me.
It’s soft at first—like a promise. The kind of thing you say without words. Her lips part, and I taste the sweetness of wine and cobbler, the ache of everything we’ve held back spilling between us.
My hands slide up her back, under her dress, finding bare skin that’s soft and warm and real.
She rocks against me—slow, rhythmic—and I groan into her mouth, gripping the edge of the swing with one hand just to keep from lifting her off the seat and carrying her straight into the house.
