Page 55 of At First Dance
Back in the barn, I try to lose myself in work, but my head won’t quiet. I over-file a blade edge until it winks thin and useless. Miss a tooth on the chain and nick my knuckle on the next pass. Drop the same bolt twice because my grip’s all memory and no attention. The pictures won’t quit—old headlines, staged smiles, the way the world thinks it knows her—and every time they flare, my hand slips. One more mistake and I’ll be down a finger.
I set the file down, hard. Enough.
I cut across the yard to the house, rinse the grit and blood from my hands at the kitchen sink, and brace my palms on the counter until the sting ebbs. The phone on the table lights up with another alert I don’t need. I flip it face down and shove it into the drawer with the takeout menus, like that’ll muffle the noise in my head.
The place is too quiet without her humming off-key. I open the fridge, pretend I’m hungry, then close it again. Pacing feels foolish, but I do it anyway—window to door, door to window—until I force myself into a chair and breathe. I think about the way she looked over her shoulder this morning, already deciding to stay and still afraid to say it out loud. I think about those damn photos the world keeps of her—proof to everyone but me that a smile can mean anything you want it to.
I stand, wash my hands again just to do something, and grab a clean Mason jar. Two lemons, a handful of mint, sugar from the blue tin. If my head won’t quiet, my hands can at least make something I won’t screw up.
When the kettle clicks off, I glance through the window toward the cottage. Curtains still shift in the fan’s breeze. I don’t text. I don’t knock. I let her choose, and I get the house ready in case she decides the choosing is easier with company.
Chapter Ten – Ivy
The text from Celeste sits unread at the top of my phone like a bruise I keep poking.
Tomorrow. Noon. Nashville.
No heart. No question mark. Just inevitability.
I flip the phone face down and press my forehead to the heron lamp’s cool metal shade. The cottage smells like lemon cleaner and the faint, smoky hint of Rowan’s laundry soap on the blanket he insisted I keep on the back of the couch. Outside, late summer hums—the whirr of cicadas, a tractor way off beyond the creek, the staccato cluck of indignant hens who have opinions about everything.
“I don’t want to go,” I tell the empty room.
For the past hour, I’ve been doing the thing I do when I’m cornered: cleaning what isn’t dirty and making lists I’ll throw away. My “pros” column has one item:Rip off the bandage.The “cons” column takes up half the page and spirals into small, tight handwriting:spin,misquotes,being handled,feeling twelve,the way my chest caves when Mom says brand like it’s my middle name.
Another vibration. I don’t check it.
My head’s thick in that way that feels like the air is heavier than usual, like I’m breathing through a straw. That happens when I’m stressed—I sleep light, wake heavy, and grow clumsy with my own body. I rub the heel of my hand between my eyes and go for water, telling myself the chalky taste in my mouth is just from not drinking enough and not because anxiety has set up camp in my throat. If I let it get too bad, then the real fear of my epilepsy making an appearance becomes an issue.
Half a glass later, the floor tilts a hair to the left. I brace a palm on the counter until it steadies.
“Okay.” I try for light. “That’s new.”
I pull on shorts and the softest T-shirt in my bag and take the footpath to the main house. The air is warm already, the kind that sticks to the back of your neck. At the top of the path, I pause. Staple sounds: the thunk of a stall door, a low horse snort, Rowan’s voice—quiet, steady, a word I can’t make out. Something in me unclenches at the sound.
I don’t go inside. I turn toward the oak, settle on the cottage steps, and text Bailey.
Me:
Real question: are summer colds a thing here, or is my body staging a coup?
Bailey:
Oh no. Tellme everything.
Me:
Head feels stuffed with wet cotton. sore throat. kind of floaty?
Bailey:
??could be a cold. also could be your nervous system yelling “hey girl take a nap.” fever?
Me:
idk. I feel hot then cold.
Bailey:
