Page 26 of At First Dance
I wrap my fingers tighter around the strap of my tote. “No… thank you.”
“You sure?”
No. Not even a little. “Yeah,” I lie, and manage a smile that doesn’t make it to my eyes.
He tips the brim of his cap, which reminds me to tug my own on. “Safe travels.”
I hand him cash, more than the meter asks for, because leaving always costs more than you think it will. Then I step out into the thin morning and the automatic doors sigh open like they’ve been expecting me.
Inside, the air is cold enough to make my teeth click. I stand just past the threshold, heartbeat loud, and tell myself to move. One foot, then the other. Ticket counter. Security. Gate.All the ordinary steps people take every day when they’re not running from a sentence said by a man who made them believe in quiet.
Rowan’s name lands in my chest again, heavy as a dropped stone, and the ripples push me forward. I keep walking until I can’t see the parking lot anymore.
I don’t cry. Not yet.
I just sit there, trying to breathe through the knot in my chest. The one that’s taken up permanent residence ever since the cameras stopped flashing and the silence got too loud.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I don’t bother looking. I already know who it is.
Instead, I do something worse. I open Instagram.
The first thing that pops up—of course—is a photo of me leaving Nashville. Sunglasses, hoodie, and an overnight bag slung over my shoulder. My face tilted toward the ground.
@starwatchdaily
Spotted: Ivy Quinn Leaves Nashville in a Rush—What’s Going On?
After a string of postponed interviews and whispers of label drama, sources say the pop princess may be making an unannounced exit from her label’s summer tour schedule. Quinn, 27, was photographed boarding a regional flight out of Nashville with no entourage in sight. We don’t know where she’s going—but we’ll be watching.??????
I lock the screen. Hard.
A surge of nausea hits me, sharp and fast. They don’t know. Not really. But that doesn’t matter. They’ll make a story out of anything—out of a glance, a rumor, a single misplaced breath.
And there I am, playing right into it. Running. Again.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until a tear hits the fabric of my jeans.
It’s all too much. The lies. The pressure. The never-ending game of perception. Pretending I’m fine when everything inside me is screaming that I’m not.
So I do the most ordinary thing I can think of. I make myself small. I skip the lounge, ignore the priority line with my name on it, buy the kind of ticket that doesn’t come with a free drink or a curtain to hide behind. I keep my cap low, answer to “ma’am,” and let anonymity press over me like a cool cloth. If I can’t quiet the noise, I can at least choose where to sit inside it.
Row 17 doesn’t make sense for a person whose picture lives in airport kiosks. Which is exactly why I choose it.
Middle seat, wedged between a man who eats almonds one at a time like he’s negotiating peace and a woman with a knitting project that could shroud a cathedral. I tuck my knees in, pull my windbreaker tighter, and breathe in the smell of salt and sea that has no business making me feel steady at thirty-two thousand feet.
Celeste would hate this. She prefers first class and visibility, a double-breasted privacy that still exudes opulence. She likes the way people look when they think they might see a star up close. I don’t like being looked at, which is a problem when people pay me to be the center of attention.
We skim a foamy seam of cloud. The pilot crackles something about light chop, which translates to hold the armrest and pretend you’ve got your life in order.
My phone buzzes.
Bailey:
How’s the sky?
Thank goodness I splurged a bit for Wi-Fi during the flight. I snap a picture of whiteness that could be anything from my neighbor’s open window, and reply.
Me:
