Page 79 of At First Dance
She’s also wearing a medical bracelet.
My heart stutters.
“Are you Ivy Quinn?” she asks, voice small and breathless.
“I am,” I say softly.
Her mom catches up to her, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. We were walking by and she recognized you from the fireworks video online—”
“You sang on the stage!” the girl chirps, bouncing on her toes. “I have your song on my tablet!”
I blink rapidly. “You do?”
She nods, and for the first time, I notice the tremor in her hands, then I see the bracelet clearly.
Epilepsy.
It’s etched in tiny bold letters beneath her name.
And something clicks in my chest—like a light bulb or maybe a match.
“I have epilepsy too,” I tell her, scooting to the edge of my seat and leaning down to her level. “And I think that makes us pretty incredible.”
Her eyes widen. “You do?”
“Yup. It doesn’t stop me from singing. And it doesn’t stop you from doing anything you want either.”
She beams, and her mom mouths, “Thank you,” behind her. I stand slowly, heart thudding.
As they leave, Rowan stands beside me, steady as a tree.
“You okay?” he asks, his hand brushing my lower back.
I nod. “That…” I swallow. “That meant more than she knows.”
He studies me, then glances down at the napkin I left on the table. “Maybe the camp needs music days.”
“And glitter crafts.”
He groans. “You’re gonna destroy my farm.”
I look up at him, lightness blooming in my chest. “Nope. I’m gonna help you build something better.”
His gaze drops to my lips. And I think maybe the next move is his.
After breakfast, we don't go straight home.
Rowan drives us toward the edge of Otter Creek, past the vast fields and weathered fences, his hand resting on the gearshift like it belongs there. Like it’s sculpted for this life—one of soil and sweat and things that grow slowly but last.
He doesn’t say where we’re going. Doesn’t have to. I let the silence sit between us like an old friend, arms looped around my sketchbook as I watch the trees blur past. The camp flyer napkin is tucked safely between its pages. I don't want it to wrinkle.
We slow at the crest of a hill and turn down a dirt road flanked by tall grass. At the end of it is a massive oak tree, its limbs thick and sprawling like it’s been standing here longer than the town itself.
He parks and gets out. I follow.
The air is warm and still. A late summer kind of stillness.
“This was my thinking spot as a kid,” he says, running a hand along the tree trunk. “Used to come here to figure things out.”
