Page 8 of At First Dance
I shake my head like I’m not going to repeat myself, then do it anyway. “They lift like someone pulled a sheet.”
She closes her eyes for half a second, like the picture lands exactly where she needed it. “Okay,” she whispers. “Yeah.”
The silence that follows is easy. Birds tune up in the oak. A bee bangs itself stupid against the window screen and remembers the door five seconds later. I take a pull off my cup and try not to watch the way her mouth finds the lip and lingers there like coffee is mercy.
“I’m heading over to help with some chores,” I say finally. “You’re welcome to come by the farm if you don’t want to be alone. There is a walking path, but it’s quite a trek. Or sleep. Or whatever.”
Her nod is grateful and proud all at once. “I might… I’ll figure out a plan.”
“You’ve got time.” I look at her, really look, in that quiet minutes-before-the-day way that tells the truth better than night does. This is who she is when nobody’s taking: curious and tired, yes, but also something steadier I haven’t named yet.
“Okay,” she says, like we negotiated a treaty. “Thank you.”
“Lock clicks clean,” I remind, tapping the knob. “Windows take a tug.”
A ghost of a grin creeps across her face. “You said that last night.”
“I’m consistent.”
She lets me go with a little wave. “See you later, Rowan.”
It shouldn’t land like it does—my name in her mouth, soft around the edges. I back off the porch and force my feet to find their own rhythm instead of hers.
Halfway up the path, I look back. She’s still in the doorway with one hand braced on the frame, coffee lifted, hair bright as old straw where the sun catches it. For a second, I picture that same shape in October, sweater sleeves swallowing her hands, breath ghosting out in pale threads. The oak gone bronze, the pasture cut low, the creek a ribbon.
I turn before I do something I’ll regret—like go back and say more—and let the morning take me. There’s a fence line to walk, a tractor complaining about a chain I should’ve replaced last month, and a sister who will absolutely stage a coup if I don’t bring her the leftover tartlets she asked for. Routine is mercy if you use it right.
At the house, I set my empty cup in the sink and catch sight of a hoodie slung over the back of a chair—a soft navy with a decade of wash. On reflex, I pluck it up and carry it out. The day will burn hot by noon, but the first hours sit cool and creek-damp. City bones shiver in country mornings. I hang the hoodie on the cottage’s porch hook and don’t knock or leave a note. She’ll find it if she needs it. She’ll ignore it if she doesn’t.
By the time I hit the barn, the sun has made up its mind. Light comes in at an angle that makes dust look holy. I shoulder into work, gratefully. The rhythm eats thought: measure, cut, mend; lead rope, halter, tie; grease, tighten, test. I’m three bolts into a hinge repair when my phone buzzes again.
Crew:
Jacket?
I stare at the screen until the letters blur, then respond.
Me:
Ask Ivy yourself.
It’s petty and efficient. He’ll survive both.
I pocket the phone and step out of the shade. Out across the back field, the line of trees looks like a held breath. Something in my chest mirrors it—and then lets go.
Because here’s the inconvenient truth I don’t feel like analyzing while holding a power drill: a woman I had no business bringing to my sister’s wedding is in my guest cottage sipping coffee, bare feet on my wood floor, and the sky didn’t fall. The farm didn’t wither. The world didn’t tilt except for inside me, and even there, it’s not a slide so much as a shift. A click of alignment I didn’t ask for and don’t quite trust.
I wipe my hands on a rag and get back to work.
I can do this. Be decent without being stupid. Be neighborly without being Crew. Be helpful without making a habit of it. Keep the lines where they need to live.
And if, when the wind changes, a note floats down the lane that smells like citrus and warm sugar, I can pretend I didn’t notice.
For now, the list is simple: finish the gate, show up where I’m needed, and—before the sun gets mean—drop off a paper sack on a cottage porch with two breakfast burritos and a Post-it that saysEat.
Chapter Two- Ivy
The porch smells like last night—honeysuckle and wood smoke—and something warmer I can’t name until I spot it: a navy hoodie hanging from the hook by the door, shoulders broad, cuffs soft from a hundred wash cycles. My fingers move before my brain does. The fabric is cool in the morning, a little heavy, and when I pull it over my head, it swallows me whole. The hem slides past my hips, sleeves to my knuckles, and neckline brushing my collarbones with the faintest scrape of old cotton.
