Page 37 of At First Dance
And that only seems to stoke the fire.
The screen dims, then lights again as the call comes in a second time.
I sigh, thumb hovering. I already know what she’ll say. Know the polished cadence of her voice, the veiled threats under every soft word. But letting it go to voicemail again won’t help.
I pick up.
“Hi.”
A sharp inhale cuts through the line, followed by a clipped, “Evangeline. Finally.”
“I’ve been busy,” I say carefully.
“In a town with no name? What are you even doing out there?”
I bite my tongue. “Taking a break.”
“You don’t get breaks, sweetheart. Not when your fans are still asking questions.”
Her voice is too loud, too precise, as if she’s already walking through a list of damage-control items in her head.
“The label is panicking. Do you know how many PR people have reached out in the past forty-eight hours since pictures of you and Crew popped up? Spectacular performance, by the way. They want a new single by the end of the month, and your last appearance—whatever that was—has already sparked rumors.”
“I need space.”
“You don’t get to disappear.” Her tone dips, almost pitying. “You know that.”
“I’m not disappearing,” I say quietly. “I’m resting.”
“And I need you here,” she says sharply. “Which is why I need you to stop playing small-town dress-up and come home. We’ve worked too hard for this.”
I stare out at the field stretching beyond the barn, the hills rolling gently beneath a morning sun that doesn’t ask anything of me.
“I’m not coming back again. Not yet.”
“Evangeline—”
“I have to go.” My voice cracks, but I stand firm. “I’ll call you later.”
Before she can respond, I end the call. Then I drop the phone into my back pocket and bury my face in my hands.
The ache behind my eyes isn’t just a headache. It’s years of pushing and pleasing and pretending. Of being Ivy, her perfect little product. For the first time in a decade, I don’t want to be her at all.
I was nine when I realized the difference between quiet and alone. Quiet is warm. Peaceful. The stillness right before a song begins. Alone is what I felt most nights—sitting on the back steps of a weather-worn house that barely passes code, listening to the whine of cicadas and the low grumble of the neighbor’s truck engine two trailers down.
We didn’t have a porch swing or a lawn or even working plumbing some days. What we had was a broken screen door, a collection of empty soda bottles, and my mother’s makeup bag permanently open on the kitchen counter, just in case opportunity knocked.
It rarely did.
Mama was beautiful—she still is. Sharp-cheeked and sharp-tongued. She calls herself a dreamer, but mostly she waited tables at The Puddle Duck Diner and left me notes scribbled in eyeliner on fast food napkins.
TV dinner in the freezer. Don’t forget to feed Rags.
Rags was the stray cat who refused to leave. I liked him more than most people.
I don’t remember when exactly I learned to sing. Maybe I always had the talent. But I do remember the first time someone noticed. It was the elementary school talent show, a dusty stage in a gym that smelled like chalk and stale orange slices.
I wore a dress too small and a smile too big. My stomach flipped like a butterfly caught in a glass jar.
