Chapter Twenty-one – Rowan #2
She’s wearing the denim cutoffs I love so much and boots and that same damn blue tank top that made my brain short-circuit the first time she wore it.
But it’s not the clothes. It’s her. Her being here and looking like she never left.
My feet start moving before I can think. She meets me halfway. Neither of us speaks right away.
Then her voice, soft and uncertain. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here.”
I swallow hard, throat thick. “I’ve been building a stage for when you came back.”
Her breath hitches. Then she blinks, and I see it—the thing that’s been missing since the night she left.
Hope.
She glances past me toward the kids, the animals, the whole damn setup.
“You really did it,” she whispers. “You started the camp.”
“You were right. I just needed a nudge.”
Her lips curve. “Or a shove.”
I chuckle. “Same difference.”
We stand there, suspended in that space where everything could still fall apart.
Then she shifts her bag and looks down. “I wrote something on the plane.”
My heart thuds once. Loud.
“Yeah?”
She nods.
“I don’t know if it’s finished. But... I think I’d like to sing it.”
I don’t speak. I can’t. Her words hit me in my chest, calming the ache that grew two weeks ago when she stepped off my porch.
Suddenly, the lights I strung this morning aren’t just decorations. The stage isn’t just a platform—it’s a beginning.
And Ivy?
She’s home.
The crowd stirs as Ivy walks toward the stage, the kind of ripple you feel more than hear. People start murmuring—recognition mixing with curiosity. A few of the kids call her name. Parents nudge each other. One of the teens pulls out a phone.
Ivy hesitates near the edge of the platform. She looks back at me, her expression soft and uncertain.
My hand finds hers before I can think.
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly. “Not if you’re not ready.”
Her fingers squeeze mine. “I think I am.”
I nod once, then let her go.
She climbs the short set of steps and crosses to the center of the stage.
Her bag slides from her shoulder with a whisper of fabric as she kneels to unzip it.
A notebook—nothing like the beat-up old one I hold in my possession—peeks out, the spine crisp, pages clean and white.
She flips it open, her fingers finding a particular page like muscle memory.
The crowd hushes.
She glances out at them, then down at the page. Her voice is quiet, but it carries.
“I wrote this for someone who makes me feel like I’m not lost anymore.”
That’s all she says.
Then she opens her mouth and sings. No mic. No band. Just her voice and the breeze and the golden light bleeding across the pasture.
Damn, it hits me like a freight train.
The lyrics aren’t subtle. They talk about calloused hands and slow mornings. About a porch swing and a denim shirt. About a man who doesn’t say much but means everything when he does. A man who holds her steady when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.
It’s about me. Every word, a thread she’s tied from her heart to mine.
I watch the crowd shift as the truth dawns on them—this isn’t just a song. It’s a confession. And I don’t care who hears it.
Her voice catches on the last line. Not from nerves but from emotion.
“...he was the place I didn’t know I needed until I finally came home.”
Silence clings to the air for a full heartbeat, then the applause erupts.
People stand. Kids cheer. Someone whistles so loud that a horse spooks in the distance.
But Ivy?
She doesn’t look at them. She looks at me.
Eyes glassy. Lips trembling with a smile that tells me everything I’ve been too damn stubborn to say out loud.
I move without consent, my heart guiding me the entire way.
I don’t wait for the crowd to calm down. I don’t care that half the town is watching. I climb the stage, wrap my hand around her waist, and pull her to me like she’s gravity and I’ve finally stopped resisting.
Her page of lyrics falls at our feet as I press my lips to hers. Soft and certain.
Home.
The applause fades into the background, a dull roar against the sound of her breath and the thump of my heart in my ears.
When I finally pull back, I keep my forehead against hers.
“You wrecked me with that,” I murmur.
She smiles, blinking fast. “Good.”
I laugh against her mouth. “You think you’re clever?”
“I think I’m yours.”
That undoes me. Right there.
On the stage I rebuilt from something half forgotten, with fairy lights above us and hay underfoot, Ivy claims me in front of everyone. And I let her. It’s about damn time I stopped pretending I don’t want to be hers too.
After the song, after the kiss, after the applause dies down and the stage lights flicker to amber with the dipping sun, the world starts moving again.
Ivy and I step off the platform hand in hand.
Crew saunters over, smirking with a red popsicle in his hand as if he’s not the reason half the camp is high on sugar. “So...that was one hell of a debut. You’re gonna start taking requests, or was that a one-time love ballad just for your grumpy cowboy?”
Ivy grins, cheeks flushed. “No encores.”
“Shame,” he teases, before clapping me on the shoulder. “Proud of you, man. The camp, the stage, all of it.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, still overwhelmed.
He leans in and whispers, “You know she’s all in now, right? Don’t screw it up.”
“I don’t plan to.”
He raises both brows. “Then go do something about it. Because she’s got that ‘should I have come back?’ look again.”
He’s not wrong. I glance at Ivy, eyes darting at all the kids as they wave in her direction, and something stirs in my chest—protective, possessive, and grateful as hell.
I want her here. Not just now and not just tonight but every day.
“Hey,” I murmur when she stands, brushing off grass. “You mind helping me put away a few supplies before dinner?”
“Sure,” she says, falling into step beside me, the air between us warm and buzzing with energy we haven’t touched yet.
We cut behind the barn while the others light the firepit, laughter and clinking cups fading. Inside, it smells like hay and cedar, with the low shuffle of horses in their stalls.
I walk us toward the tack room, pretending we have something to organize, but really, I just need a second with her without prying eyes and definitely without my mother wiping away another proud tear.
Just Ivy and me.
The moment the door closes, she turns to me, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “So... that was quite a stage you built.”
I shrug, trying not to give too much away. “Had the pieces lying around.”
“Really?” she asks, stepping closer. “Because it looked a lot like something someone made just for me.”
“Maybe I did.” I glance down. “Maybe I hoped you’d come back.”
Her breath hitches.
I close the distance, my hands settling at her waist, thumbs brushing the hem of her shirt. “Didn’t know how else to say I missed you. Especially as your time away extended.”
I faintly hear her grumble, “Mother.” Then she says clearly, “You built a stage instead.”
“Words have never been my thing,” I murmur, leaning down, brushing my lips along her jaw. “But I’m trying.”
She shivers in my arms, fingers clutching my shirt. “I never wanted to be anywhere else.”
“Then stay forever.”
“That’s the plan.”
I crush my mouth to hers again. This time, the kiss isn’t for show or stage lights. It’s slow. Deep. Familiar in the way only something you’ve been dreaming about for too long can feel.
I walk her backward until her hips hit the counter beside the tack hooks, and she gasps when my hand slips under her shirt, fingers brushing just across her ribs.
But we stop there. The moment isn’t about lust, it’s about grounding.
We rest there for minutes—foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the quiet of the barn.
Outside, the camp excitement continues to flicker, and kids giggle in the distance. But in here, I finally feel whole.