Page 64 of At First Dance
Her laughter. Her bite. Her impossible softness. The way she looked at this broken-down life I built and made it feel like something worth keeping.
She never asked me to change, but God, she made me want to.
And I'm afraid I’m subconsciously punishing her for it.
I swing back and forth once, twice, the old wood moaning beneath the weight of everything I haven’t said.
I should have told her she mattered. That she’s more than a headline or a PR stunt or whatever the hell Celeste trained her to be.
I should’ve told her she made me feel again.
Instead, I’m afraid I’ll back her into the category I understand: temporary. Because permanent terrifies me. Because building something real takes guts I’m not sure I have.
Because if I build it, and it crumbles? That’s on me.
But maybe I’ve been looking at it wrong. Maybe the real mistake isn’t trusting people. Perhaps the mistake is refusing to try.
I push up from the swing, restless energy crawling under my skin. My boots hit the steps hard. I need to move. To do something. To stop sitting in this damn silence that only reminds me of what I lost.
I head toward the barn, my phone’s flashlight beam catching on the edges of fence posts and feed buckets, the horses tossing their heads restlessly in the dark. They sense it too. The shift. The unsettled air.
I lean against the stall door, brushing my palm down Maple’s nose.
“She’s good for us, isn’t she, girl?”
The mare huffs softly, nudging my shoulder.
“Yeah. I think so, too.”
It’s stupid, talking to a horse like this. But it feels safer than admitting it out loud to anyone else. Holt would listen. So would Lila. Hell, even Dad might surprise me.
But Ivy—she deserves to hear it from me. Before she decides I’m not enough.
I leave the barn, the wind sharper now, pulling at the edges of my shirt as I head back toward the main house.
Inside, I dive straight for the living room, dropping onto the couch and yanking the throw blanket over my lap even though I’m not cold.
The lamp near the window glows a soft yellow. I stare at the guesthouse through the glass, my reflection ghosting back at me.
It’s too quiet. Too still.
I think about the camp again.
I’ve been letting the idea die slowly, one unspoken fear at a time. What if it fails? What if I can’t give those kids what they need? What if I let them down?
What if I let Ivy down?
Is that it? Maybe I don’t want to build it without her. She saw something in me before I saw it in myself. And perhaps that’s what real love is—someone who believes in your best parts even when you’re terrified they don’t exist.
I lean back, one arm flung over my eyes. Marissa wrecked me. Now I’m just a man in the aftermath, trying to find his way back. Because I’m done letting the past decide who I get to love. And I think I’ve already made my choice.
Chapter Twelve – Ivy
The minute I close the cottage door, I tape a hand-lettered note dead center where anyone with eyes can’t miss it.
PLEASE DON’T KNOCK. I’M RESTING / WRITING / TRYING NOT TO FALL APART. TEXT ME IF IT’S IMPORTANT.
Bailey helped me pick the wording over text—kind, clear, a little funny,she said. I added the last line because honesty has to count for something. The paper looks ridiculous under the sweet brass heron lamp and the whitewashed planks Rowan sanded smooth himself, but I need the boundary more than I need aesthetic harmony.
