Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I reply. “Just let me stay.”
She nods, then leans in and kisses me—slow, sure, full of promise. When we finally settle back into the bed, tangled together, the room is quiet again. Safe.
Her breathing evens out against my chest, her fingers curled into my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to something solid.
I stare at the ceiling, heart full and steady in a way I’ve never known.
For the first time in my life, the open road isn’t calling me away.
It’s leading me home.
Twenty
Danae
Danae –
The next morning feels like it shouldn’t exist.
Like the sun should’ve hesitated before rising over this house after what happened yesterday.
But it does anyway.
Light filters in through the kitchen window in soft gold bands, dust floating lazily in it like the world doesn’t know it almost broke. Papa is upright in the bed, the same blue blanket across his lap. The television hums low, muted. Josie stands at the stove making eggs like this is any other Saturday.
And Miles—Miles is in my shower. The steady rush of water through the bathroom wall is the strangest comfort I’ve ever known. It means he’s here. It means he didn’t disappear overnight like some fever dream.
I’m standing at the sink rinsing out coffee cups when Grandpa clears his throat.
“Danae.”
I turn immediately. “Yes, sir?”
He pats the bed. “Come sit with me.”
My stomach tightens.
His tone isn’t weak. It isn’t confused. It’s the tone he used when I was little and he needed to tell me something that mattered.
I dry my hands and walk over, sitting on the ottoman in front of him the way I always have.
Josie glances over her shoulder at us. Something in her eyes says she knows what’s coming.
The shower turns off down the hall. Grandpa studies me for a long moment. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been in weeks. Focused.
“You look tired,” he says.
I let out a small laugh. “I am.”
“You look scared too.”
The word lands heavy. “I was,” I admit quietly.
He nods slowly. “When that deputy knocked on the door yesterday morning, and I realized you weren’t in your bed,” His voice wavers, and he clears it. “I’ve known fear before. But that was a different kind.”
My throat tightens.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t ever want you to worry.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
The bathroom door opens softly. I hear Miles’ boots in the hallway, slower now, probably pulling on his shirt. He doesn’t come out yet.
Grandpa leans back slightly.
“You know,” he begins, gaze drifting toward the window, “I was eighteen when I went to Vietnam.”
I blink.
He doesn’t talk about Vietnam much. He told stories when I was younger—careful, filtered ones. But not like this.
“I was scared outta my mind,” he explains. “Didn’t know those boys from anywhere. Different states. Different backgrounds. Different colors. Some of ‘em talked funny. Some of ‘em thought I talked funny.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth.
“But you know what I learned over there?”
I shake my head.
“Family ain’t always blood,” he continues. “Family is the man who takes your back when bullets start flying. Family is the one who drags you outta the mud when you’re too tired to stand. Don’t matter where he comes from. Don’t matter what patch he wears or what church he goes to.”
My chest tightens. He looks at me directly now.
“That man over there, behind you,” he says gently, “he rode across states for you.”
I swallow. “Yes, sir.”
“He didn’t hesitate.”
“No.”
He nods once. “That’s real family.”
I hear Miles’ footsteps slow, then stop. He must be listening. I can feel it.
Grandpa sighs. “I know why you stay,” he starts. “I know you won’t ever be the one to say it.”
My heart skips. “I stay because I love you,” I reply automatically.
He raises a brow. “That ain’t what I said.”
I blink. “You stay,” he continues, “because you don’t want to change my life.”
My mouth opens, then closes. He isn’t wrong.
“You’ve built everything around taking care of me,” he shares softly. “You work yourself to the bone. You don’t date unless it fits around my medication schedule. You don’t travel unless somebody can sit with me. You think I don’t see it, but I do.”
Tears prick at my eyes.
“I want to be here,” I reaffirm. “I want to take care of you.”
“I know you do,” he replies quickly. “That’s what makes it worse.”
The words land like a stone in my chest.
“I’m an old man,” he states plainly. “I got so much time left in me and that’s about it. I don’t want you shaping your whole life around my comfort.”
I shake my head. “It’s not about comfort.”
“It is,” he insists gently. “You think if you leave, I’ll suffer. You think if you move, I’ll fall apart.”
I stare at him, tears sliding down before I can stop them. “You got used to force me to do my job,” I whisper.