Chapter Twenty-three – Rowan
The night smells like grilled meat, honeysuckle, and summer sweat.
It’s the kind of scent that settles into your skin and stays like a memory.
The sun’s dipped low behind the pasture, the last of its light glinting off the rusted fence posts and catching the gold threads in Ivy’s hair as she laughs beside me.
The breeze is lazy, warm, and constant, rustling the tablecloths we’ve anchored with old horseshoes and chipped Mason jars filled with sunflowers.
String lights arc overhead, glowing soft and amber from the porch rafters to the fence posts, turning the whole backyard into something out of a dream I didn’t dare let myself have.
Everyone’s here to celebrate the beginning of the pecan harvest and the success of the first camp.
Lila’s at the far end of the table, laughing over the potato salad with Bailey, her hair piled high and catching the glow like a halo.
Holt’s working the grill like he owns it.
Beer in hand, he has his apron on backward, flipping burgers and giving grief to anyone who walks too close.
Dad’s sitting on the porch steps with Hadley, his arm around her shoulders, both talking quietly like they always do when the world around them gets too loud.
And Mom, God love her, buzzes between the kitchen and patio with a dish towel over one shoulder and a glass of sweet tea in the other, stealing bites of cobbler when she thinks no one’s watching.
And then there’s Ivy, right next to me.
Her hand rests on my thigh—just enough pressure to ground me. Enough to remind me that she’s real. That this is happening.
She’s wearing a light blue sundress—one that makes my brain short-circuit when she walks.
Her hair’s up in a loose bun, wisps framing her face in a way that should be illegal.
She’s been smiling all evening, laughing when Bailey says something ridiculous or Hadley gives Holt hell.
And every time she leans into me, my chest tightens.
Not in a bad way. In the way that says something’s shifted inside me.
Hell, maybe it already did, back on that stage. Perhaps it was the way she looked at me when she sang those lyrics—like I was the song. Like I was the answer.
The table is packed, plates overflowing with hamburgers, grilled corn, and thick slices of bread soaked in butter and love. Glasses clink. Someone breaks into a chorus of “Country Road” for no reason. And for the first time in a long time, I sit back and breathe.
This is what we built.
The camp’s no longer a dream scrawled in Ivy’s notebook.
It’s real. It’s backed by the town council, funded by local businesses, and well-loved by every damn kid who comes through our gates.
We’ve got dates lined up for the next three months.
A rotation of volunteers. Even a local baker who insists on delivering muffins every Tuesday morning.
And Ivy, she’s at the center of it. Not because she asked to be, but because she gave it life.
Mom lifts her glass and taps her spoon against it, drawing the attention of the table with the practiced ease of someone used to corralling a rowdy crew.
“I just want to say how proud I am of this family,” she says, her voice warm and a little thick with emotion. “What started as a backyard idea became something meaningful. Something kids needed.”
Applause echoes down the table. Ivy squeezes my leg, and I glance at her, heart thudding slow and deep in my chest.
Mom’s gaze finds mine. “And Rowan… you didn’t just build a camp. You built a safe place for kids to be seen. To feel valued.”
I swallow hard, nodding once. “Thanks, Mom.”
Then her eyes shift to Ivy. “And Ivy, sweetheart, you brought the fire. The spark. You reminded us that dreaming isn’t just for kids.”
Ivy’s cheeks flush pink, and she ducks her head, but I can see the smile tugging at her lips. It lights something inside me, something wild and good.
The whole damn night feels like magic. Which, of course, means it can’t last.
Because that’s when the sleek black SUV crawls up the gravel drive.
The noise around us quiets as the dust kicks up behind the tires. Holt’s fork freezes mid-bite. Lila leans back in her chair, eyebrows raised. Dad stiffens beside Hadley, who blinks twice like she’s not sure she’s seeing what she’s seeing.
Ivy hardens beside me, and my gut churns.
The passenger door swings open before the engine’s even off, but I know who it is before she even steps free. Celeste.
Hair perfect. Heels high. Suit crisp. Her phone is still clutched like an accessory she doesn’t know how to live without.
The sound of her heels against the gravel makes my shoulders go tight.
“Evangeline,” she calls, too bright. Too rehearsed.
Ivy stands before I do.
She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hesitate. Just rises like she’s been preparing for this moment all her life.
The yard goes still.
My mom sets her sweet tea down harder than necessary. Lila’s mouth drops open. Holt mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” under his breath. Hadley looks like she wants to melt into her folding chair.
I move to Ivy’s side, close enough for our arms to touch. Celeste barely glances at me.
“I didn’t come to make a scene,” she says smoothly. “I just want a moment. To talk. Please.”
Ivy crosses her arms. “Why now?”
Celeste sighs, like we’re inconveniencing her. “Because you stopped answering my calls. Because you’re ignoring your team. Because you’re throwing away everything we’ve built—”
“I built,” Ivy says, calm and sharp. “You monetized it.”
A few murmurs ripple through the family. Mom’s expression is stone. Lila stands slowly, moving to Ivy’s other side.
Celeste blinks. “I got you record deals. Tours. A platform—”
“A leash,” Ivy cuts in. “You gave me a leash.”
I see it—the flicker in Celeste’s eyes. The crack in the porcelain.
“I’m still your mother,” she says.
Ivy’s voice drops. “No. You’re the manager who used to forge contracts.”
A hush falls over the yard. Even the wind stills.
My mom steps forward, slipping beside Lila. She places a gentle hand on Ivy’s back, offering support without words. Her gaze, however, is steel when it lands on Celeste.
“You think this town is better than the world I built for you?” Celeste says, her voice rising now, losing its polish. “You think barns and broken fences are enough?”
“I think love is enough,” Ivy says.
Celeste blinks like she’s been slapped. And what do I do? I move. Not much. Just enough to step in front of Ivy.
“She’s not going anywhere she doesn’t want to,” I say, meeting Celeste’s gaze without flinching.
There’s silence.
Then Celeste lifts her chin. “I hope you realize how much you’re throwing away.”
“I do,” Ivy says softly. “And I’ve never felt more free.”
Celeste’s lips press into a line. She turns without another word, storms to the SUV, and slams the door. Dust kicks up behind her as she drives off.
And just like that, she’s gone. I glance at Ivy. She’s breathing, shoulders trembling but steady.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Let’s go home.”
We leave the celebration without fanfare. No one stops us. No one needs to. The family lets us slip away like they know the moment’s ours now.
The drive home is quiet, but not empty. It’s the kind of quiet that hums beneath your skin. Charged. Waiting.
I keep one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the console until Ivy reaches out and links her fingers with mine. Her palm is warm. Steady. Her thumb brushes the side of my hand like she’s grounding herself in the feel of me.
The porch light is already on when we pull up to the house. A soft amber glow spilling across the steps and the overgrown flower beds. I park the truck, but neither of us moves for a minute.
Then Ivy shifts, her voice breaking the silence.
“She showed up looking like she was about to walk onto a press junket.”
“She always like that?” I ask, glancing at her.
She shrugs. “Always. Even when I was fifteen and begging to go to a school dance, she showed up to pick me up in a Chanel suit. Said reputation started young.”
“Christ,” I mutter.
Ivy huffs a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. “It’s always been about the image. Always about the story she could tell other people. Not the one I was actually living.”
I squeeze her hand. “You don’t have to explain, Ivy.”
“I know,” she says softly. “But I want to. To you.”
That knocks something loose in my chest.
I nod toward the porch. “Come sit with me a while?”
She nods.
We climb the steps together, her bare feet padding against the boards, the hem of her sundress catching the breeze. She settles on the porch swing like she was made for it—knees tucked up, arms around her legs. I drop beside her, the swing groaning softly beneath our combined weight.
We sit like that for a long minute. The stars are just starting to bloom across the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a bullfrog croaks and cicadas buzz in lazy rhythm.
I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I never thought she’d actually come here to confront me,” Ivy says, her voice quiet.
“Me neither.”
“But I’m glad she did.”
That surprises me. “Yeah?”
“Because it gave me the chance to say it. Out loud. To her face.” She leans her head on my shoulder. “I’ve spent so long trying not to make waves. Trying to be the version of me she could sell.”
“Not anymore.”
“No,” she says, lifting her head to look at me. “Not anymore.”
She’s watching me like she sees everything, and I feel the shift. I’ve seen it building for weeks, since that night on the porch when she climbed into my lap and made me forget how to breathe. Since she sang those lyrics about home and belonging like she meant every damn word.
Now it feels settled. Like we’re no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop, and we’ve both finally chosen the same thing.
She moves then—slow and deliberate—swinging one leg over my lap until she’s straddling me again.
“Ivy…” I breathe.
Her fingers thread through my hair. “Shh. Let me say thank you.”