Page 39 of At First Dance
We move as one, hole by hole. He shifts with me, a living bracket—never crowding, never rushing—just there. When it’stime to set the bolts, he keeps one palm firm under the gate’s weight while I slide the hardware through and spin the nuts on by hand.
“Snug them down,” he says, passing me the socket. “Quarter turn past tight.”
I work the ratchet while his fingers brush the back of my wrist, steadying, and every nerve I own sits up and pays attention. The final bolt seats with a small, satisfying bite.
“Moment of truth.” He eases back, testing the swing. The gate glides clean, no drag, no scrape—just a smooth arc and a clean click when the latch finds home.
A smile breaks over my face before I can stop it. “We’re geniuses.”
“Hardly.” His mouth tilts, eyes on mine. “But you’ve got good hands.”
I pretend that compliment lands anywhere but where it does. “You make a decent teacher.”
He tips his chin, approval like sunlight. “Again?”
“Again,” I echo even though I’m not sure if I mean gates or this slow, careful way he’s touching me without really touching me at all.
He doesn’t move, and neither do I. For one brief, pulsing heartbeat, the only sound between us is the soft rustle of grass and the distant call of a mourning dove.
Rowan straightens abruptly. “Barbecue’s tonight.”
I blink. “What?”
He wipes his hands on a rag, not looking at me. “Town throws one every summer. Burgers, beer, bad dancing.”
“Sounds charming.”
“Mostly, it’s an excuse for people to stare at each other and pretend they don’t gossip year-round.” He pauses. “You should come.”
The words surprise me. I’m not sure if they surprise him too. It doesn’t land like a warm-and-fuzzy invite so much as a practical don’t-sit-home-and-wallow pass—logistics dressed up as kindness. There’s grit in his voice, a careful distance in the way he doesn’t quite meet my eyes, like he’s still chewing on the fact that I left without a real goodbye. It feels less like a date and more like a lifeline tossed from the shore with a note that says: this doesn’t mean anything except you don’t have to drown alone. I tell myself I’ll take it anyway, even if part of me aches that he didn’t ask because he wanted me there, but because it would’ve felt wrong to leave me behind. “I thought you didn’t do town gatherings.”
He shrugs. “I don’t. Not really.”
“So why ask me?”
“Because maybe you need a reminder that not everything out here wants something from you.”
That hits harder than I expected.
I nod slowly. “Okay. I’ll come.”
Rowan meets my gaze then, his eyes dark and unreadable. But something else is there. Something pulling.
He looks away first.
The barbecue hums like summer itself—lanterns bobbing, a jittery generator keeping the string lights alive, and smoke curling up from three mismatched grills. Kids dart between knees with sparklers. Someone’s aunt sets out a pan of cinnamon-dusted funnel cakes like she’s starting a holy war. When Rowan parks, the passenger door complains, and I hop down in jeans and a soft T-shirt, hair in a loose braid that’s already giving up at the edges.
People look. Of course, they do. But they’re not gawking. They’re mapping me into the same picture that already holdstheir kids’ school plays and last winter’s power outage. Neighbor eyes hit differently.
Rowan falls into step at my side, easy and solid, and the space around us shifts. His shoulders square, jaw set, a quiet perimeter I can feel even when he’s not touching me. Two teens lift their phones halfway—he tips his chin, not unkind, and they lower them. An older couple pauses mid-whisper. He greets them by name, and they pinken, then smile at me like we’ve been introduced properly.
At the drink table, a knot of kids rubberneck. Rowan angles his body so I’m tucked between him and the coolers, his hand hovering at my lower back—a promise with no pressure. A woman with a messy braid and a toddler on her hip beelines over.
“Rowan? You brought someone?”
“She’s a guest,” he mutters.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Her grin goes wide. “I’m June. Third plate of cornbread. Zero regrets.”
