Page 41 of At First Dance
The applause is soft. Reverent.
I step down slowly, pulse still racing, but something inside me settles. Like maybe I’ve stitched a part of myself back together with every note.
Rowan stands as I approach, something unreadable in his eyes.
“Why’d you sing that one?” he asks quietly.
“Because it’s the first one I wrote just for me.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just nods.
“Line dancing starts in ten! Hydrate!” a far-off voice shouts into the crowd.
The band shifts from background to invitation. A fiddle saws out the first bars of a boot-stomper, and a half cheer rises. June reappears and points at the chalkboard: LINE DANCE LESSONS — NO SHAME, JUST FUN.
Rowan looks like a man considering flight. I lace my fingers through his and tug. “Come on, cowboy.”
He lets me pull him to the trampled square. Rows form, loose and laughing. I squint at the feet around me like they’re going to reveal state secrets.
“Left, right, kick,” I murmur, immediately late.
“Weight on your left,” Rowan says, stepping in front of me, palms hovering. “Now step. Toe, heel, shuffle—yeah. Like that.”
I try and fail spectacularly. I tip my head back and laugh, bright and uncurated, and feel his gaze like heat on my skin. The line surges forward, I tangle my own ankles, and he’s there without thinking, his hand finding my waist, steady and sure.Everything in me leans into that touch like a plant toward the sun.
“Don’t let go,” I tease.
He doesn’t. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Two songs in, I almost have it. Three songs in, he starts sandbagging—adding a little heel-click flourish just when I’ve found a rhythm—smug in a way that makes me elbow him and makes him laugh, startled and boyish. It’s ridiculous and perfect, and I can feel parts of me unclench I didn’t know were tight.
The fiddle softens, and the rhythm melts. Couples turn toward each other as if the air itself gave the command. Someone kills the floodlights near the grills, and the world narrows to fairy lights, the thrum of summer, and a steel guitar that turns the night to velvet.
Rowan shifts, uncertainty flickering across a face I’m starting to memorize. Then he offers his hand, bashful in a way that kneecaps me.
“Dance with me?” he asks.
I put my palm in his. “Yeah.”
He draws me in. One hand finds the small of my back, warm and protective; the other cradles my fingers like they’re important. We sway. The generator hum becomes a heartbeat, and the chatter around us goes soft. I rest my cheek against his chest. He breathes in like he’s making room for me, and the world tilts into place.
“You’re good at this,” I say, voice low.
“Lots of weddings,” he murmurs. “Lots of waiting.”
“For what?”
He considers. “For the right song.”
I tip back enough to see his eyes. Lantern light threads gold through green. My thumbs press into the fabric at his shoulders and the small sounds he makes—barely there inhales—go straight to my pulse.
“Your laugh,” he adds, almost like he didn’t mean to speak. “Sounds like home.”
“You don’t even know my home,” I whisper.
His gaze dips to my mouth and returns, a tide pulling and retreating. “Maybe I don’t need to.”
The last chord lingers. We don’t move. Somewhere behind us, June whoops, a sparkler cracks, and the lights flicker with the generator’s hiccup. The spell should break, but it doesn’t. It condenses, like rain deciding to fall.
