Page 131 of At First Dance
I smile, but it wobbles. “That’s the part I want to protect. And share. Which makes zero sense.”
Rowan’s thumb strokes over my lower back. “You don’t have to make sense. You just have to sing.”
“Rowan…”
“Ivy.” His gaze is steady, voice soft. “Just be you.”
And somehow, that makes me breathe easier. Being me doesn’t mean being Ivy Quinn tonight. It doesn’t mean the label or the pressure or the never-ending PR cycle. It means the girl who fell for a grumpy cowboy and started dreaming of something softer.
The makeshift stage is set up at the far end of the park, strung with lights that twinkle against the deepening dusk. It’s not massive, but it’s charming—faded wood boards and weathered beams, the kind that feel like home. The town set up benches and chairs, but most people are scattered on picnic blankets or leaning against the fence, waiting.
I spot Rowan’s mom refilling lemonade, Bailey organizing crafts for the younger kids, and Holt working the grill like it’s a high-stakes operation. Lila waves when she catches sight of me, and Hadley gives me a quick thumbs-up from the other side of the field. It’s… overwhelming in the best way.
Even Crew’s here, tossing a football with a group of kids, his baseball cap pulled low and a grin on his face. It’s a bye week for him. When he looks up and sees me watching, he winks, then subtly tilts his head toward Bailey.
I follow the motion just in time to see Bailey practically bolt behind the craft tent.
I snort. “Poor guy.”
Rowan glances at me. “He’s been trying to talk to her all summer. She’s faster than a jackrabbit.”
“Good for her,” I murmur, then glance at him. “Not that I don’t love Crew, but…”
Rowan’s lips twitch. “No need to explain.”
The emcee announces a short break before the final performance, and my stomach flutters like I’m sixteen again.
Rowan leans in close. “You’ve got this.”
“I wrote it for you,” I whisper.
“I know.” He kisses the side of my head. “And I’ve never been prouder.”
I walk toward the stage on legs that feel both too long and too shaky. The crowd quiets as I step into the warm glow of the string lights, and I take a deep breath, letting the guitar strap settle across my shoulder.
This song—this moment—it’s not about perfection. It’s not about impressing anyone. It’s about him.
I scan the crowd until our eyes lock. Rowan stands at the edge of the park with his arms crossed and a steady gaze on me like I’m the only thing in the world worth seeing.
I strum the first chord, part my lips, and sing. The melody floats out of me like it’s been waiting for this night, this moment, this man.
The first verse is soft, just voice and guitar—gentle enough to hush the park. The kids are quiet. Conversations fade. Fireflies blink along the hedges, and the town slips into stillness like it knows something important is happening.
I sing about summer nights and porch swings. About laughter that lingers and hands that feel like home. I sing about building something real—slow, steady, sacred.
And I sing about Rowan. About a man with rough hands and a soft heart. About a place where I learned how to breathe again. Where music returned like a tide I thought I’d lost.
The chorus spills out of me, low and aching:
“I don’t need the city skyline,
Don’t need a stage with blinding lights.
I need the way you say my name,
Like I’m already enough tonight…”
I spot Rowan near the edge of the crowd, his eyes glossy, jaw tight. One of his hands is clenched into a fist against his chest, like he’s holding himself together with nothing butwillpower. His mom slips an arm around his waist without a word. He doesn’t look away from me.
