Page 15 of At First Dance
I set two mugs on her stoop—hers with cream and sugar, mine black—and knock with my knuckles because it’s early and because you don’t kick a quiet door when the person behind it is trying to remember how to be a person.
“Morning,” she says, voice sleep-rough through the wood. Then the door opens, and I forget about coffee for a second.
Bare legs, damp hair braided over one shoulder, my hoodie hanging off her like a promise I shouldn’t make. She’s barefoot, toes pink. Her face is clean, no war paint, and there’s a softness at her mouth I’ve only seen when a woman forgets to guard it.
“You brought the good stuff,” she says, reaching for the marked cup.
“Bribery works.” I hand it over. “Storm treat you okay?”
“Like a lullaby with a bass drop.” She tips her chin toward the yard, but I can tell with the way she avoids eye contact that she’s holding something back. “Everything still standing?”
“Mostly.” I point toward the south pasture. “Corner slipped. I’ll fix it after breakfast.” I don’t addafter I walk you through your morning, so you don’t convince yourself you dreamed yesterday,but it’s there, hanging.
She takes a careful sip and makes a sound that registers in places I work hard not to notice. “I have a Zoom at ten,” she says, wincing like she hates saying it out loud.
“You need the house Wi-Fi?”
She shakes her head. “I trust your cottage to power my very important call about lipstick and deliverables.”
“Bold of you,” I say. “Carl texted. He’s got your car up on the rack. Says we can swing by after lunch if you want to hear the bad news from a man with hands like motor oil.”
Her mouth quirks. “I’ll bring him a muffin. Soften the blow.”
“Loretta’s bakery’s got a dozen every morning. She weaponizes carbs,” I explain.
“I like her already.” She tugs the sleeves over her knuckles and glances toward the north field. “Can I—” She stops, then starts again. “Can I walk with you while you fix the fence? I promise not to touch tools unless supervised.”
A laugh sneaks out before I can stop it. “You were a menace with the pliers yesterday.”
“I was an apprentice,” she counters, chin up.
“Fine.” I tip my head toward the barn. “Boots first.”
Ten minutes later, she clomps across the yard in a pair of mudroom castoffs two sizes too big and grinning like the sound they make is part of the fun. The sun’s up proper now, dripping honey off the grass blades. Everything’s brighter than it has any right to be after a night that loud.
We walk the edge of the south pasture in companionable quiet. She keeps pace, eyes everywhere—fence, trees, the way dew beads on spider silk like jewelry. When the bad corner shows itself—stringer warped, staple pulled, my own note in Sharpie on the post from last storm that says FIX ME, IDIOT—she aims an I-told-you-so smile at me without the words.
“I believemoderationandcontrolwere your talking points,” she says, parroting me, and I pretend not to like hearing my lecture in her voice.
“Guess I should take my own advice.”
I set the bucket down and pass her the pliers like we rehearsed. We fall into the same shape as yesterday without trying—her on the wire, me a breath behind, heat and cedar and the quiet tick of two people deciding not to say the loud thing.
“Here,” I murmur, guiding her grip. “Let the tool do the work.”
“Control,” she echoes, barely audible.
The staple sets clean. The wire hums. So do I.
We’re packing the bucket when Butterscotch toddles up and sneezes on Ivy’s shin again like it’s a sacrament.
“Ma’am,” Ivy says, affront softened by delight. “We just did laundry.”
“You named her. That’s on you.” I snag a towel off the fence and pass it over.
“She chose me with bodily fluids. That’s basically marriage.”
“Depends who you ask,” I say, earning a laugh that lands low and warm.
