Page 21 of At First Dance
The porch light throws a soft halo across her bare legs and the hem of her shorts. I should look away. I don’t. She catches me and doesn’t look away either, and the air gets thick enough to chew for a beat.
She clears her throat first, mercy in the sound. “Thank you. For dinner. For… today.”
“Anytime,” I say, meaning it more than I should.
She stands, gathering her empty glass. “Walk me back to the cottage?”
“Of course.”
We cross the yard shoulder to shoulder, not touching yet close enough to feel it anyway. At her door, she turns, hand on the latch, searching my face like she’s memorizing a map she plans to use again.
“Night, Rowan.”
“Night, Ivy.”
She steps inside, the soft click of the latch louder than it should be, and I’m left on the porch with the taste of lime and the wordsoonhumming in my chest.
I watch the square of light take her, then go dark, then flare again when she remembers to blow out the candle, then go dark for good.
I should go to bed. Instead, I do the porch check I always do—gate latched and feed bowl turned upside down because otherwise the opossums leave me thank-you notes. The yard holds the day’s heat like a story it plans to tell in pieces. I stand in it and try not to replay every moment where my hand could have been a little braver and wasn’t.
Inside, my phone buzzes on the table.Unknown number. I let it go dark.
Across the yard, the cottage curtain flashes pale once, twice—the quick pulse of a phone lighting up and going still. A minute later, it happens again. Not frantic, just insistent. The cadence of people who confuse access with care.
I don’t have to see the name to guess the sender. Crew’s told enough stories about the machine to know how it talks: holds placed, flights booked, “confirm by 9 a.m.” disguised as options. The kind of message that treats a woman like a calendar slot.
I stay put. I don’t tap on her door. I don’t add my worry to her pillow. The frogs take the night back, the creek hums its low note, and the porch boards cool beneath my boots.
I turn my own phone face down and make a promise that sounds a lot like a prayer. I’m going to let her choose. And if choosing needs a picture of what staying looks like, I’ll keep it simple—coffee on the porch, a light left on, and a quiet place where nobody wants a piece of her she’s not willing to give.
Morning settles easy—the kind of blue that means the heat will take its time. I have feed dust on my forearms, and the horses are talking low when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
“Wright,” I answer, shoulder to the stall door.
“It’s Carl,” comes the familiar rasp. “Your pop star’s spaceship took more than a love tap. Front lower control arm’s bent, hub assembly’s chewed. Parts are on order—Thursday if the truck’s kind. I can temp-align her if she’s desperate, but I wouldn’t send my worst enemy past thirty on it.”
“Thursday’s fine,” I say. “Appreciate you.”
I hang up as Ivy steps into the barn aisle, hair in a loose braid, and my spare chore gloves tucked in her back pocket like she’s been doing this her whole life. She strokes Butterscotch’s ridiculous forehead, gets sneezed on for her trouble, and just… laughs.
“News?” she asks, wiping her cheek with the hem of her T-shirt, unbothered.
“Carl says parts by Thursday. He’ll call if it’s sooner.”
“Thursday,” she repeats, like she’s rolling the word around to see if it fits. “Okay.”
Bailey’s text pings a second later—three exclamation points and a “kidnap Ivy for town?” like it’s a federal order. One that means she’s already pulled into my drive. Ivy reads over my shoulder and grins.
“I’ll be back by lunch,” she says, already backing toward the door. “No, by two. Fine, three. Bailey’s persuasive.”
“Be careful of her ‘just one more stop,’” I warn. “That’s how you lose entire afternoons.”
“Noted.” She tips her chin at me. “Try not to miss me.”
I don’t answer that. She goes anyway—bare legs, sun, and the flash of that smile thrown over her shoulder like she trusts I’ll catch it.
The farm goes quiet once the truck carrying them rattles down the lane. Quiet in the way that makes the windmill creak sound like company. I work the way I always do—fence line, mineral blocks, a new section of drip line in the garden—and catch myself looking for her twice. Three times. I tell myself I’m only checking the time by the angle of the sun.
