Page 54 of At First Dance
Bailey tilts her head. “Are you, though? Because I saw you nearly rip your truck door off earlier.”
That needle jabs harder than it should.
I look between the two of them—Hadley’s knowing grin, Bailey’s calm amusement—and something in me snaps, splitting right down the middle.
“You know what?” I say, louder than I mean to. “Maybe I don’t want people traipsing through the damn orchard every time they feel like it. Perhaps I’d like to have one day where nobody’s up in my business.”
The silence that follows is instant. Cold. Echoing.
Bailey blinks once. Hadley steps back like I just shoved her. And there it is. The guilt. Immediate. Sharp.
Bailey’s voice stays even, but I hear the shift, the careful don’t-spook-the-horse cadence she uses when something’s already gone sideways. “I’ll pack up the kids, and we’ll head out.”
The words land like a shovel to the ribs. I see the whole scene from outside myself: two little girls no heavier than a feed sack wandering three steps past the rope line, palms itching to touch the first bud on a pecan, and me snapping like a spring-loaded trap. Not at them—at everything else—but they don’t know the difference.
How in the hell can I take on a camp full of kids if this is how I fucking react?
Heat climbs my neck, ugly and immediate. The orchard is quiet in that listening way—leaves holding their breath, a wasp ticking against a crate, dust hanging in the sun like evidence. I’m mad at the wrong things: at a photo I didn’t want to see, at a brother I didn’t want to envy, at wanting a woman I shouldn’t be planning a life around. So I barked. And now Bailey’s gathering them up like I’m a storm to move around.
“Bailey—” I start, too fast, too late. “That’s not what I—”
But she’s already moving, steady as a metronome. “Okay, team,” she calls gently to the kids, “let’s grab our water bottles and head to the truck.” Her smile is warm; her eyes—when they flick to me—are not. The boys pretend not to look at me. One of the girls keeps her hand cupped around her paper baggie of treats.
Self-loathing sits heavy in my gut. I scrub a hand over my jaw and force my voice down where it should’ve been to start.
“My bad,” I say, easing in softer. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice—that’s on me, not you.” I crouch to the littlest. “Wanna know a pecan trick? The best ones are heavy in your hand, and the shuck’s split wide open. Next time, I’ll show you how to roll ’em out with the side of your boot and use the picker to scoop ’em—no climbing, no tugging on branches.” She nods, unsure, eyes flicking to Bailey for confirmation like I’m a dog that sometimes bites. Bailey gives her a small, encouraging nod and keeps ushering them along.
I straighten, shame burning a clean line down my spine. This—this right here—is why the camp feels like a fantasy I don’t deserve. It’s one thing to build a stage or string lights. It’s another to be the kind of man who doesn’t let his temper bleed all over a kid’s afternoon.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Bailey, quieter now. “I’m… not myself today.”
“Find him,” she says, not unkind, but firm. “He’s who they came to see.” Then she turns back to the kids, calm wrapped around them like shade.
I stand in the row after they go, hands open, letting the air move through the leaves and over my skin until the worst of the heat drains off. If I’m going to do this—camp, kids, any of it—my bad moods don’t get to steer. Not here. Not around them. Not ever.
Hadley waits until Bailey’s out of earshot before she spins on me.
“What the hell was that?”
“I said it’s fine,” I mutter, jaw tight.
“No. You snapped at her like she drove her minivan through your grove.”
I lift my palms. “You’re right.”
I step back and let them have the row. The urge to fix—the scene, myself—buzzes under my skin, equal parts pride and shame. If a handful of kids in my sister’s care can knock me off center, how the hell do I run a camp? I feel that truth settle: something I want doesn’t excuse the way I handled five minutes of chaos.
Without a backward glance, I head to my truck, kicking up dust with how fast I leave the farm and dodge across the dirt path that leads to the backside of my property.
I cut across the fence line to my side, oak shade giving way to the open yard. My barn—my mess, my order—waits like an old friend that doesn’t ask questions. Inside, the light slants through the boards in dust-thick bands.
A soft head bumps my thigh. Butterscotch. She blinks up at me, lashes full of hay, and huffs like I’m late. “Yeah, I know,” I murmur, scratching the warm spot behind her ear. She leans all thirty ungainly pounds into my leg and sneezes for good measure. Ivy’s laughter lives in that sound—her grin the day this calf christened her, the way she wiped her hands on my shirt and named the little menace like she had the right.
Guilt loosens a notch. I set a tool in my hands, something I can actually make better—oil the sticky hinge on the south stall, sharpen the loppers, and reset the twine on the baler hook I’ve been meaning to fix. My brain finds the rhythm of work, and the knot in my chest eases.
Out the wide door, I can see the guest cottage through the trees. Curtains move with the fan. No sign of her, which means she’s doing exactly what I told myself I’d let her do: breathe without me hovering. Nashville still hangs like distant thunder, but she’s leaning away from it. I can feel that, too. But it’s her call to make, not mine.
I pour a Mason jar of sweet tea, walk it up to her porch, and leave it on the rail. No knock. No note. Just proof that I’m here.
