“One year,” I repeat.
“It gives everyone flexibility,” he says. “We think it’s the smart move.”
We talk logistics. Dates. Next steps.
When the call ends, I stand there for a long moment, phone heavy in my hand.
Gina waits a few steps away, pretending not to watch me.
“Well?” she asks when I return.
“They renewed my contract.”
Her smile is immediate and genuine. “Dane—that’s incredible.”
“It is,” I say. And it should feel like a victory.
She hugs me without hesitation. Warm. Proud. Supportive in a way that catches me off guard.
“I’m really happy for you,” she says.
I hold her a second longer than necessary.
Because now I have everything I thought I wanted.
And I don’t know yet how to tell her that leaving might be harder than staying.
EIGHT
GINA
I tell myself I’m happy for him.
And I am. I really am.
But happiness and fear are not mutually exclusive, and by the time I get back to the lodge that afternoon, my chest feels tight enough that I have to pause in the parking lot and breathe before going inside.
Summer has arrived in full force. The lodge is loud with life—kids running down the hall, someone arguing cheerfully over a reservation mix-up, the low hum of expectation that comes with the season finally turning in our favor.
This is what I wanted.
What I worked for.
What I came back here to save.
So why does it suddenly feel like I’m standing on unstable ground?
I spend the afternoon doing what I always do when my thoughts start getting dangerous. I stay busy. I check bookings.I talk to guests. I rearrange storage shelves that don’t need rearranging.
I do not think about Dane’s face when he told me about his contract.
I do not think about the way relief and pride lit him up before something more complicated settled in behind his eyes.
I especially do not think about what one more year actually means.
Because one more year is not nothing.
One more year is flights and schedules and distance.
