Page 62 of At First Dance
I sink beside the tree, knees digging into the dirt. I let my head fall back against the bark and close my eyes. Her face flashes behind my eyelids. Ivy in the bath. Voice trembling. Eyes wide.
When I least expect it, flashes of my past with Marissa meld themselves with the photos I’ve seen of Ivy and Crew. So much so that I spent the entire night lying on my hard floor, unable to tell the two apart. By the time I wake, I’m in a completely different state of mind than the one I had gone to bed with.
And I fucking hate it.
I press the heel of my hand against my chest. This ache—I thought it was anger. I thought I was trying to protect myself. But it’s grief, and it’s mine.
I’m punishing Ivy for a past she had nothing to do with. And the worst part? I feel more for her than I ever let myself feel for Marissa. More than I want to admit.
Back at the house, I scrub my hands at the kitchen sink. My shirt’s damp, stained from hours of walking and chopping wood to burn off the adrenaline.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I snatch it up without thinking, pulse racing like a fool, hoping—Crew.
I almost don’t answer. But something in my gut twists, so I pick up.
“You alright?” he asks without preamble.
I lean onto the counter, knowing he’s figured I’ve seen the newest set of images. Jealousy flickers—a mean little match—but I kill it with a breath. “Yeah.”
A beat. I can hear film on turf in the background, and somebody laughing too loudly. Then quieter, he asks, “Is she?”
“That’s not my place to answer.”
Crew doesn’t fill the space with noise. He never has. “Okay,” he says. “Then I’ll ask it this way. Do I need to be worried about her?”
I rub the bridge of my nose and look down the hall where the bedroom lamp glows low. “You don’t need to be worried about her safety,” I say, careful. “She’s… wrung out. I’m handling what I can handle.”
He exhales. “Good. The newest photos—” His voice hardens. “They aren’t from the other day. They’re old. From a charity dinner. PR tossed them back in circulation because someone saw her ‘off the grid’ and wanted to control the narrative. I told them to pull it.”
The tight band around my ribs loosens a notch. I let my jaw unclench. “Copy.”
“And before you turn that into me staking a claim—don’t.” He pauses. “I care about her. Not like that. But I do care. You hearing me?”
“I hear you.” The words are gravel and truth. “I didn’t love seeing them.”
“I know,” he says, gentler. “You’re not built for that game. She isn’t either, not really. She plays it because people like me told her it keeps the wheels on.”
I steady my voice. “You calling to clear your name or check on her?”
“Both,” he says, honest as a whistle. “And to say—if you’re in this, be in it for real. She doesn’t need more half-truths. She needs steady.”
My throat works. I stare at the condensation ring my jar left on the counter, at my own hand braced in the circle like I’m swearing to something. “I’m trying.”
“Trying is good,” he says, “but you’ve got that Wright talent for holding the door open and standing in the doorway so no one can tell whether they’re welcome or not.”
That lands.
He goes quiet, then adds, “I can tell you one more thing without crossing a line. She’s been fighting to breathe for a long time. If she’s breathing easier there, don’t make her feel dumb for it.”
I look at the hallway again, at the curl of lamplight on the floorboards, at the edge of a blanket I carried from the dryer to the bed. “I won’t.”
“Good.” He clears his throat. “And, Ro?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not your competition. If it ever looked like that, I’m sorry. I won’t let my name be used to mess with her head. Or yours.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been rationing. “Appreciate it.”
