Page 29 of At First Dance
Back at the hotel, I lock the door and slide the chain like a ritual. I sit on the edge of the bed and open my notebook. The first line finds me before the pen knows it’s writing.
If you knew the weight of quiet, you’d stop calling it empty.
The second line is a fence post. The third is a porch light. By the time I finish the page, sweat lines my upper lip and theweird lightness that comes when a thought finds the sentence it’s been chasing. I take a picture of the page and text it to myself because I trust my phone less than paper and more than memory.
Celeste texts at nine.
Celeste:
Tomorrow 10A radio hit. Zoom link. Please use a neutral background. No barns.
I type and delete a dozen responses. I finally land on one.
Me:
Send link.
Me:
I’m flying back after.
Three dots. Then nothing.
Celeste:
We’ll talk next week.
I shower. I braid my hair. I lie in the bed and watch the shadow of the curtain move with the AC, the carpet a bland testament to what people do when they don’t know where else to go.
At some point, sleep takes me by the ankle and drags me under.
Morning is coffee that tastes like it had to pass through six negotiations to get to my mouth, and a ring light I refuse to use and still turn on. I prop the laptop on a stack of books that the hotel knows they bought for this purpose. The host of the morning radio show has a face for podcasting and a heart like a golden retriever. He asks about the single, about my skincare routine, about my “friend” Crew, because they always ask about my men like they’re accessories I borrowed and forgot to return.
“I’m writing,” I say. “I’m resting. I’m excited for the tour.” All of which are true in the ways they can be.
“You sound… good,” he says, which might be the most honest thing anyone’s put in a question mark at me in months.
“I think I am,” I say, and I mean it enough that it scares me.
I log off. I shut the laptop like it could bite. I throw the ring light a look that could cauterize.
By noon, I’m in a car back to the airport, my cap low, my mouth a straight line I don’t let cameras find. The flight is short enough to be a held breath. I keep it that way.
When the pines appear under the wing, something in my chest sits up and looks out the window like a kid. We land, and I walk as fast as I can without looking like a person in a rush. Outside, the humid air wraps me like a body I recognize. Bailey leans against her truck at the pickup curb, arms crossed, sunglasses on, the corner of her mouth etched into a smile.
Bailey pushes off the fender and loops an arm around my shoulders. “Home first to see your cowboy, or swing by Colson’s and grab the spaceship?” she asks, like either answer is fine by her.
My heart does a weird, traitorous skip at home. I clear my throat. “Let’s get the car. Then I won’t have an excuse to avoid the driveway.”
“Colson’s it is.” She squeezes once. “I’ll caravan behind you.”
Carl’s waiting like he never leaves—rag over one shoulder, grin easy. “All set, Miss Quinn. New control arm, alignment, she’s truer than a choir solo.” He hands me the keys and a paper with numbers I don’t bother pretending to understand. I thank him, promise pastries later, and slide into the driver’s seat. The cabin pings awake, and the dash glows a soft, familiar blue. Bailey tucks in behind me, her truck a steady square in the mirror.
Thunderheads stack over the tree line like a crowd gathering. The first fat drops hit the windshield just past the turnoff for the south beach, and by the time I’m on Rowan’s road, the sky is a bruise. I keep the speed gentle, hands at ten and two, remembering exactly where the ditch curves mean. The wipers thrum. The air smells like wet hay and electricity. Bailey’s headlights sit patiently in my rearview, a lighthouse that moves when I do.
When I turn onto the lane, gravel pops under the tires, and the oaks bow in the wind like they’re whispering secrets. Lightning webs the far field. The porch light is on at the main house—gold and steady—and something in my chest loosens like a knot, finally giving way. I park beside the oak, kill the engine, and sit for one breath, palms flat on the wheel, the storm walking in on its own two feet.
Chapter Five – Ivy
