Page 6 of At First Dance
At the truck, I open her door and step back—out of habit, promise—and she climbs in, tucking her feet like she’s learned how to take up as little space as possible. I hate that, but I don’t say it. I start the engine instead and let the low rumble do what my mouth can’t.
The road home is the same one we came in on, but it feels different now that the heat’s bled out of it. We pass stretches of ditch that catch star puddles. We pass the bend where the creek throws back moonlight and makes a silver seam.
“You always this… nice?” she asks into the dark, which is funny because the town would describe me two clicks left of nice and four clicks south of social.
“No,” I say. “But I’m not stupid.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you get.”
She huffs, but it’s affectionate around the edges. “Fair.”
At my drive, I flick the headlights to low and turn under the limbs. The main house sleeps with the porch light on because my mother trained our switches and none of us ever unlearned it. The guest cottage sits under the big oak, butter-yellow paint, new roof, lantern on the stoop already glowing. I turned that light on before I left for the wedding without thinking about why.
I park beside the steps and kill the engine. For a second, we listen to the engine tick as it cools.
I point. “There.”
She looks, takes in the square of the soft window, the little railing I sanded myself, the planter box that insists on living no matter how badly I ignore it. “It’s sweet,” she says, like she didn’t expect that word to fit in her mouth.
“It’s functional,” I counter, because I don’t know what to do with sweet.
“Functional works, too.”
I hop out, come around, and offer a palm down—not a demand, not a requirement, just a place to put her hand if she needs it. She hesitates one heartbeat, then sets her fingers against mine and hops down onto the crushed shell like she trusts I won’t let her ankle roll. I don’t.
Inside the cottage, I flick the small lamp by the couch and stand in the doorway to make myself smaller. “Kitchenette’s empty. Sorry. Coffee’s at the main house. But the shower’s hot. Towels are in the basket by the bed. Lock clicks clean; windows take a little tug.”
She turns slowly in a circle. The place is simple—white shiplap and old wood and a quilt my mother swore she’d never let leave her house. The salvaged record player in the corner only plays when the moon is in the right mood. It smells like cedar and something lemony. I use it once a week to feel like I’m domesticated.
“It’s perfect,” she says, and the word lands somewhere behind my ribs and sits there.
I set a key on the counter. “I start chores early. If you want coffee, the main house is unlocked. Or text and I’ll bring it by. I’ll write my number on the pad by the door. You don’t have to see anyone if you don’t want to.”
Her throat moves. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make it a habit.” I aim for light because anything heavier will crack.
It gets me a ghost of a smirk. She sets her bag by the couch like she’s testing the weight of being allowed to put something down.
“Get some sleep,” I say. “We’ll deal with the car in the morning.”
“Okay.”
I back toward the door. She doesn’t follow. She watches me go with those impossible eyes, and for one wrong second, I want to step back in and find out what vanilla and citrus smell like when the world isn’t watching.
I pull the door quietly and let the latch catch. On the stoop, the night hits cooler. I stand there a beat longer than necessary, listening to the cottage settle—floorboards sigh, lamp hums, and the small sounds of a place welcoming a person.
The walk back to the main house feels shorter. The porch bulb throws a circle on the steps, and a moth ping-pongs against the warm glass. Somewhere out in the back field, a horse stamps, and the sound carries.
I tell myself it’s just logistics—a roof, four walls, a lock. The simple math of decency. I let that be the truth I carry into the dark kitchen, where I leave the light above the sink on because that’s what you do when somebody new is finding their way by feel.
I shower quickly—cold enough to keep my head straight—then pull on sweats and a T-shirt that still smells faintly like cedar and summer soap. The house is quiet in that old-bones way, boards settling like deep breaths. I check the back lock, flip the porch light off and on out of habit, then stop with my hand on the switch and leave it burning. If she wanders up for coffee or can’t sleep, I want the glow to be a promise and not a question.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Lila:
