Chapter 10 Danae
Ten
Danae
The morning I leave Salemburg, my heart feels heavy.
Not empty, no, I have family that keeps my life full of love.
But all good things always come to an end right?
And this is the end of my trip. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get back here, but I know I need to make these time outs a priority.
Three weeks came and went before I could even wrap my head around it all.
And this isn’t just about seeing Miles. I enjoyed the break.
Being a full-time nurse and full-time caregiver at home, there is no time for me to simply breathe.
My time here in Salemburg has allowed me to release the pressure and stress for these few weeks and reset.
I feel energized and ready to get back to my life in Arkansas even if it is taxing emotionally and physically at times.
Journey is asleep against my chest as I sit on the couch, her tiny fist curled into the fabric of my shirt.
She’s heavier now than she was a week ago, and gained steadily since her birth.
Or maybe I just notice it more, aware that soon I won’t feel this weight every night.
It’s been a special time for me to have with her and give Josie time to sleep and heal.
Post partum is hard on a body and the hormone changes make emotions high before adding in sleep deprivation from feeding a newborn.
Josie watches us from the doorway, coffee mug cradled in both hands. “You’re really leaving,” she says, like she might still talk me out of it.
“I have to,” I reply softly. “Work. Papa.”
“I know.” She sighs. “I just wish you didn’t. I want to keep you with me and I know Papa needs you more and moving him wouldn’t be fair.”
I press a kiss to Journey’s perfectly round baby head and carefully transfer her back into Josie’s arms. The moment stretches longer than it needs to, my hands lingering like I’m imprinting the feel of her.
“I’ll be back,” I state more as a promise to myself. “Soon.”
Josie smiles, eyes shiny. “You better be.”
Raff loads my bag into my rental while Justice bounces around the driveway, already launching into stories about school and his sister like nothing could ever be wrong again.
“You’re gonna visit?” he asks, eyes wide and hopeful.
“Absolutely,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t miss watching you teach her how to be trouble for anything.”
He grins. “I’m really good at that.”
Miles doesn’t say much. He stands a few steps back, hands in his pockets, watching like he’s trying to memorize the moment. When our eyes meet, something quiet and steady passes between us—no panic, no promises we can’t keep.
Just knowing.
When it’s time, he pulls me into a hug that lingers a second longer than it should, his mouth brushing my temple.
“Call me when you land,” he murmurs.
“I will.”
“And Danae?”
“Yeah?”
“This isn’t a goodbye.”
I swallow. “I know.”
The drive to the airport feels longer than it did on the way in. My chest aches with a strange mix of fullness and loss, like I’ve borrowed a life that fit too well and now I have to put it back.
On the plane, I watch North Carolina disappear beneath the clouds and wonder how a place I never meant to love managed to claim such a deep piece of me.
Home doesn’t feel the same when I get back.
It’s familiar—too familiar. The same creak in the hallway, the same faint medicinal smell clinging to the air.
Papa is waiting in his bed when I walk in, eyes lighting up with recognition that feels like a gift and a curse.
I love him. I love caring for him. But the weight of it is heavy.
“You’re back,” he says.
“I am,” I reply, kneeling in front of him. “Did you miss me?”
He smiles. “I knew you’d come back.” That night, after I help him settle and tuck myself into my own bed, my phone buzzes.
Miles: You home?
Me: Just got in.
Miles: Good. I’ve been waiting to hear that.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary, warmth spreading through me.
I should have text him more when I landed but the need to get home consumed me as the worries creeped in.
I sent a one word text that I landed and immediately went into focus-mode on getting back to life.
On a whim I let my fingers type without second guessing what to say.
Me: I miss you already.
There’s a pause, just long enough to make my breath hitch, then his reply comes through.
Miles: Yeah. Me too.
***
Less than a week later, life is back in full swing like I never left.
Work comes back at me hard and fast. Emails.
Meetings. Patients. The relentless rhythm of responsibility snapping back into place like I never left.
I move through it all on autopilot for the first few days, half of my brain still somewhere else.
Dr. Reeves doesn’t miss a beat. “So,” he says one afternoon, leaning against the doorway of my office, smirk firmly in place. “Enjoy your little vacation?”
I keep my eyes on my chart. “It was family-related.”
“Uh-huh.” His gaze slides over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “You look relaxed. Must’ve been nice getting away.”
I finally look up. “Is there something you need, Dr. Reeves?”
He chuckles, unfazed. “Just checking in.” Without another word, he walks off and I am left uneasy.
After he leaves, my hands shake with a familiar mix of anger and helplessness.
I breathe through it, grounding myself the way I always do, naming objects, sounds, sensations until the edge dulls.
I can’t explain why the man makes my skin crawl, but he does.
My gut is always screaming get away when he comes around.
That night, I text Miles about it. I gave him a brief rundown about things previously, but my frustration with Dr. Reeves is at an all-time high and I need to get this off my chest to someone.
Me: Work reminder, some men are still exhausting.
Miles: You want me to have a chat with him?
I laugh quietly thinking about when I lied about Miles and he still fell in line with the play like it was real. My mind wonders, what are we doing? But I don’t ask because defining this feels like it might curse it.
Me: Tempting. But no.
Miles: Good. Orange isn’t my color. And to have the good visits we gotta get married. Might be a bit too soon for you on that one.
I laugh. This is us, casual. We talk every day. We text throughout the days and nights as time allows. Sometimes it’s short—check-ins between meetings, work, or errands. Sometimes it stretches late into the night, voices low, sharing pieces of ourselves that don’t fit neatly into texts.
I learn his laugh better. The quiet pauses he leaves when he’s thinking. The way he says my name like it means something specific.
Distance is strange like that. It forces honesty. There’s no room for half-attention when all you have is words.
Still, doubt creeps in during the quiet moments. What are we building? How does this work when our lives are rooted in different places?
Some nights, after Papa falls asleep and the house settles, I lay in bed wondering if we’re chasing something impossible—or if this is just what something real feels like before it’s had time to solidify. I don’t ask and Miles doesn’t push. There isn’t a demand for answers I don’t have.
That might be what scares me most. Because for the first time, I’m not running ahead to manage the outcome. I’m letting it unfold. Things are working out however they are meant to and I’m not going to push it.
Taking care of Papa holds me steady again.
The routines return, familiar and heavy.
Some days are better than others. Some days he remembers my name all day long.
Other days, he asks for my Nanny like she might walk in any minute.
They had over fifty years of marriage together, good times and bad, she was his person and he was hers.
I can only hope to find a love and loyalty like theirs.
I hold his hand through it all. At night, when I’m bone-tired and emotionally wrung out, my phone lights up with Miles’s name, and the weight eases just enough to let me breathe.
I don’t know what this is yet. But I know this, I didn’t leave Salemburg behind. I carried it with me. And somehow, across all this distance, something is still growing.
Three weeks later, my world tilts sideways.
It happens on a Tuesday morning, the kind that’s supposed to be boring. Coffee half-finished and a full day of tasks ahead of me. Grandpa sitting up in his bed, having just finished breakfast. He didn’t eat much compared to usual.
He coughs.
At first, I don’t panic. He coughs a lot sometimes it’s to help him spit up mucus or saliva.
Other times, it’s from swallowing wrong, forgetting to chew, getting impatient with food the way he gets impatient with everything now.
I move automatically, hand on his back, murmuring his name.
Normal, casual reassurance that he is not alone and to get up whatever is choking him up. Then he coughs again.
Wet this time not in the usual way. Deep. Wrong.
His face goes pale, then gray, and something cold and sharp cuts straight through my chest.
“Grandpa,” I say, louder now. “Hey. Look at me.”
He tries. He really does. But his breathing turns ragged, eyes glassy with fear he doesn’t have words for anymore.
I call 911 with shaking hands as I continue to provide care, focusing on his airway.
The ambulance ride is a blur of sirens and clipped voices and oxygen masks. I hold his hand the entire time, pressing my thumb into the thin skin of his knuckles like I can anchor him to me through sheer will.
At the hospital, they move fast. X-rays. Bloodwork. Doctors speaking in calm, measured tones that don’t fool me for a second.
Aspiration pneumonia.