Page 31 of At First Dance
The answer sits heavy in my chest. Yes. For food. For shelter. For kindness.
But more than anything, for someone who won’t walk away when the sky turns against me.
The silence inside the house feels different this time. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… watchful. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
Rowan doesn’t say anything as I toe off my shoes, my fingers rubbing over my arms like I can smooth away the goose bumps beneath the windbreaker. The air is thick with rain that hasn’t fallen yet—and tension that hasn’t broken either.
He moves toward the kitchen, his movements efficient and steady. “Sit down,” he says without looking back. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
I don’t argue. I perch on the edge of the worn couch like I’m a guest in someone else’s dream.
He pulls a plate from a cabinet and ladles something from a pot on the stove. Cilantro and tomatoes hit me in the chest like a memory. Warm. Familiar. Alive. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until now. I haven’t eaten since that granola bar I bought at the airport this afternoon.
Rowan sets the plate in front of me on the coffee table, along with a glass of water. “Chicken and salsa. Nothing fancy.”
“It smells amazing,” I say, voice softer than I intended . I mean it.
He doesn’t respond. Just sits in the chair opposite the couch.
We eat in silence… well, I do. Rowan just stares. The kind that hums with meaning, but doesn’t demand it.
Outside, thunder rolls again—closer this time. The silver edges of the storm are pressing in.
When I finally look up from my plate, Rowan is still watching me. Not glaring. Just… observing. Measuring. Like I’m weather and he’s trying to decide whether to brace for impact or let it pass through.
“What?” I ask, trying for a smile I don’t quite feel.
He reaches for the dimmer to bump the kitchen light a notch—storm static makes the bulb buzz—and the brief flicker skitters across the ceiling. It’s nothing, but my whole body goes tight anyway.
“I have epilepsy.” I blurt the words out before I can tidy them. “Since I was a kid.”
He freezes with his fingers on the switch, then lowers his hand, palms open, like he’s showing me he heard me. He doesn’t fill the silence or look away.
I swallow. “Last year, I had a seizure on stage. First time it ever happened in public.” The memory scrapes. “The strobes, the travel, no sleep—it was a perfect storm. The paps and tabloids ran wild. ‘Drugs.’ ‘Alcohol.’ ‘Party girl meltdown.’” I huff a humorless laugh. “We even released a statement with my doctor—medical records redacted and everything—to shut it down. It didn’t matter. They wrote their own story and stapled it to my face.”
His jaw ticks, slow. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“And then came the… cage,” I add, softer. “No flying alone. No hotels alone. No stepping outside without someone ‘managing’ me. My mom—Celeste—she didn’t come to the hospital. She sent an assistant because leaving a label party would cause panic.’” The glass sweats under my fingertips. “So if I get jumpy around flickers or crowds, that’s why.”
“Are flashing lights a trigger for you?” he asks, voice low, careful.
“Sometimes, but not usually. My big ones are sleep deprivation, stress, and dehydration.” I force my shoulders down. “I manage it. I’m good at managing it.”
He nods once. “What do you want me to do if it happens?”
Practical. Steady. It unclenches something deep inside me. “Lay me on my side. Don’t put anything in my mouth. Time it. If it goes past five minutes, call 911. When I come around, I’m groggy, not broken.” I search his face. “You okay knowing that?”
“I’d rather know,” he says simply. “And I can kill the overheads—lamps are fine.”
I nod, a breath catching on the way out. “And before you ask—yes, I can drive. Laws vary, but it’s six months seizure-freehere. I’m well past that, cleared by my neurologist.” I try a wry smile. “The spaceship is legally back in business.”
He huffs, the closest thing he does to a laugh. “Good. Still going to pretend it’s a UFO until Carl says otherwise.”
Some of the tension slips from my neck. I trace a drop of condensation across the table. “I just… needed you to know it’s not what they said. And that if I seem a little off, it’s not you.”
“It’s not you either,” he says, meeting my eyes. “It’s noise. We don’t listen to noise out here.”
The storm grumbles somewhere over the fields. He switches the overhead off and leaves the soft heron lamp on, the kitchen sliding into a warmer kind of light. For the first time in months, the truth feels like something I can sit with and eat beside—and not a weapon pointed at me.
