Page 20 of At First Dance
“Thank you for today,” she says. “For… all of it.”
“Get some rest,” I answer, because I am not a poet, and if I become one on this step, I’m done for.
She nods, opens the door, and the warm square of light swallows her whole. It takes a long time to go off. Long enough to make a man think about the plans he had for staying unbothered and what it means to abandon them.
I sit on my porch with a warming beer from Crew’s gift and watch the yard breathe. Crickets trade the line to katydids. An owl stakes its claim at the tree line. Somewhere in the grass, the little calf with the ridiculous name sighs in her sleep. The record in the cottage hits the end of its side and spins against silence, soft, steady, like a heart that refuses to skip.
I sleep like I’ve been worked, not like I’ve been worried, which is a trick I learned back when finishing a chore was the only way to tell a day from itself. I’m up before the birds vote on a key. Coffee. Boots. Lists I don’t write down because my hands remember them.
By the time I circle back past the oak, a square of light is on in the cottage. She kept the hoodie. I don’t see her, but the record player hums low under the morning—needle resting where she forgot to lift it. It’s a small, human mess that makes my mouth do something unfamiliar.
“Morning,” I say, tapping the frame.
She answers from the kitchenette, hair braided down her back, sleeves pushed to her elbows. “You own any mugs that aren’t chipped?”
“Wouldn’t trust ’em if they weren’t,” I say, handing over her coffee—I know the way she likes it enough now that I don’t have to guess. She wraps both hands around it like she’s claiming something warm on purpose.
“Busy day?” she asks.
I nod once, my answer simple enough. There isn’t ever a day that isn’t busy on the farm.
She grins, then tips her chin toward the yard. “Put me to work.”
I should send her back to the couch with her book and a command to conserve energy. I don’t. I point her at the hose and make a motion of filling the animal troughs. Despite my use of the English language, Ivy seems to understand.
We meet in the middle over the hose when I turn the nozzle wrong and christen her calves by accident. She gasps, laughs, tries to shield herself with her arm, fails, then flicks water at me with the same stubbornness she used on that fence splice yesterday. The drops land cool on my forearms. A ten-second water fight, and then we remember we’re adults.
The daily chores pass the time as usual, but it’s different with Ivy here. For someone who seems like she lives in such a frazzled state of mind, she brings a calmness over the farm I haven’t seen in a long time.
As we wrap up the last chores, we head for the truck and roll back to the house. I promised fajitas, and the way her eyes lit up like I’d handed her fireworks makes it impossible to back out.
We fall into an easy rhythm in the kitchen. Ivy slices peppers from the garden while I sear steak in the cast-iron. She bumps my hip when we trade places at the stove—light, accidental-on-purpose—and I pretend the sizzle in the pan is the only heat in the room.
“Today was… unexpectedly wet,” she says, lining the peppers into neat color bars and flicking an imaginary droplet off her wrist.
“Chores, a hose fight, and you declaring war on a water trough,” I say. “You’re getting the real tour.”
“I was merely defending myself,” she counters, her smile curving. “You flicked first. For the record, I won,” she says, eyes bright.
“You switched the nozzle to jet. That’s cheating.”
We plate everything and eat at the island like normal people with regular days. She tells me Butterscotch needs her own social media account. I tell her my youngest brother, Holt, swears he can smell rain two hours before it hits, yet he is wrong at least half the time. She laughs and steals the last wedge of lime off my plate without asking.
When the dishes are rinsed and stacked, we take cold tea out to the steps. Dusk folds over the yard, cicadas tuning up. Somewhere down by the creek, a frog starts sounding like a squeaky hinge.
“So Carl should have the part tomorrow or the next day,” she says, thumb tracing condensation on her glass. She tries to make it casual but doesn’t quite stick the landing. “So… soon.”
“Soon,” I echo. The word sits between us like a coin no one wants to pick up.
She tilts her head toward me. “You’ll help me test-drive my spaceship out of the ditch era?”
“I’ll drive behind you with hazards on and a tow strap ready,” I say. “Full-service package.”
Her smile curves, slow and warm. “Chivalry looks good on you.”
“Careful. You’ll start rumors.”
“About the surly cowboy who makes excellent fajitas?” She nudges my knee with her toe. “Let them.”
