Then it’s just me.
The way it’s always been, underneath the club and the titles and the obligations.
I ride through morning fog and into open daylight. I stop for gas and coffee that tastes like burnt punishment. I watch the world change from pine to rolling hills to wide stretches of nothing that make you feel small in the best way.
Somewhere around noon, I catch myself thinking about her.
Not in pieces, not in flashes.
In full.
Danae’s tired eyes. Her steady hands. The way she looked at me like she wasn’t afraid—like she was evaluating. The way she fit against me like she belonged there for that one night, like my body recognized hers as something it had been missing.
I tighten my grip on the handlebars until my knuckles whiten.
“Don’t,” I mutter.
But the road doesn’t listen. The road doesn’t care what you want. It just carries you.
By late afternoon, I’m deep into miles that don’t belong to anyone. I pick a cheap motel off an exit and park where I can see my bike from the door. Old habits. Necessary habits.
I shower. I eat something that qualifies as food only because it’s hot. I lie on the bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the AC unit and the distant sound of traffic.
This is what I asked for.
Solitude.
Space.
Air.
And still, my mind drifts back to a small house in Arkansas with a porch light that stayed on like a promise.
A woman who didn’t flinch when men like me put her in a corner. A woman who didn’t back away from blood in pain but instead stepped into healing. A woman who didn’t embrace fear when adrenaline kicked in, but faced what came at her.
A warmth I can’t scrub off my skin no matter how far I ride settles every time I think of her. I turn my face into the pillow and close my eyes, trying to let sleep take me.
It does, eventually.
But even in the quiet, even with nothing but the road ahead, her name sits heavy in my chest like a destination I’m pretending I don’t have.
Six
Danae
Evenings are the hardest if I’m off work.
Mornings are all muscle memory—coffee brewed on autopilot, Papa’s pills counted out beside the sink, the same cereal bowl washed and set upside down to dry. Afternoons are busy catching up from working so many shifts, errands, and making sure things are prepared for the next set of shifts. But evenings slow everything down enough for my thoughts to catch up with me.
That’s when the silence around me gets loud. The loneliness of the life I live catches up to me.
The living room is dim except for the lamp beside the couch. Papa is asleep in his hospital bed still upright like he is waiting to be fed again, the television murmuring to itself. I leave it on for him. Silence makes him anxious when he wakes up confused, and I’ve learned it’s easier to prevent the fear than talk him down from it later.
I curl my legs beneath me on the couch and stare at my phone. Josie’s name glows on the screen, and I smile before I even hit answer.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“Hey yourself,” she replies, already a little breathless. Everything takes more effort for her now. The baby will be here soon and the extra weight towards the end is more taxing for every woman. Even the most fit women still get a little breathless during those last few weeks. “You busy?”
