He studies me a long second. “Since when?”
Since Arkansas. Since her. Since I figured out I don’t want to be the man who runs from something real.
“Just good,” I repeat.
He shakes his head like I’m speaking another language. “Suit yourself.”
The door slams behind him.
The room goes still.
Danae doesn’t say anything at first.
“You still there?” I ask.
“I am.”
I lean back on the thin motel pillow and close my eyes.
“He okay?” she asks carefully.
“He’s Smoke.” That answers enough.
“You used to go with him,” she states. It’s not an accusation. Just an observation.
“Yeah.”
“And now?”
I stare at the ceiling again. “Now I’d rather hear your voice.” Silence.
Then a soft exhale that sounds almost like relief. We talk a little longer. About nothing. About everything. About how distance feels different when you know where you’re headed.
When we hang up, the room feels smaller but steadier.
I set the phone on my chest and listen to the hum of the AC. Outside, a motorcycle engine revs somewhere in the parking lot.
Not mine.
I don’t need to chase noise tonight.
I close my eyes and picture Arkansas highways instead. Long stretches of road leading somewhere that feels less like escape and more like arrival.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m running. I feel like I’m choosing.
And that might be the biggest change of all.
Morning comes too damn quiet. I wake up staring at a ceiling stained the color of old nicotine and regret. For a second, I don’t remember where I am. Then the hum of the motel AC and the empty bed across from me snap it back into place.
Tennessee.
Transport.
Smoke.
Danae.
I roll onto my side and grab my phone off the nightstand. 6:12 a.m. Too early for her to be off work. She’s up, though. Coffee in hand, getting patients situated, charts updated, and shift change approaching. Checking on her grandpa as she can. Moving through her morning like she always does—steady, responsible, selfless to a fault.
