Page 22 of Smoke Signals

“She chose it,” I say.

He nods, swallowing hard, scrubs a hand over his face, then drops it to his lap. His fingers curl and uncurl like they don’t know what to do with themselves.

“She used to talk nonstop,” he says. “Full sentences before she was two. She wouldn’t shut up, honestly.” A breathy laugh escapes him and dies just as fast. “After the fire, it was like she packed it all away and locked it up.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s gone,” I say.

“I know.” He nods again, slower this time. “Intellectually, I know. But some days it feels like I’m waiting for something I don’t get to ask for.”

“Lance used to fill the whole house,” Hartley says quietly. “If he was awake, you knew it. Music, talking, pacing, laughing at his own jokes.”

“He sounds like he was a lot, but in the best way,” I say.

“He was,” Hartley says, a smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. “Too loud. Too tall. Took up every room like he paid rent there.” He glances at the picture on the wall. “Always smelled like smoke. Even after showers. Drove me insane.”

“Did it scare you?” I ask gently.

He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens. “Every day. I’d check my phone whenever sirens went by, and pretend I wasn’t doing it.” He exhales through his nose. “I still didn’t think it would happen. Not to him.”

I nod, because I know that feeling. Because everyone does, until they don’t.

“I never wanted Alaska to grow up with that fear,” he says. “The waiting. The not knowing. And now it’s all I do.”

Silence stretches. Not awkward. Just full.

Hartley leans forward, forearms braced on the table where Alaska’s papers still sit. I mirror him without realizing it, the distance shrinking until we’re close enough to feel each other’s breath. His shoulders stiffen, then relax, like he’s bracing for something and deciding not to stop it.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says quietly. “For her.”

“You’re not,” I say. “You’re doing everything right.”

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” I say. “I see it.”

Our eyes meet and don’t break right away. Something shifts, subtle but unmistakable. I lean in without deciding to. He does too. It’s slow, unplanned, like gravity finally winning an argument.

“I can’t do this,” he says suddenly, breaking whatever almost formed between us. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

I hold still, and force myself not to reach for him. “Okay,” I say. “I get it.”

He nods, breathing hard, and I take that as my cue to go. Packing up, I grab my jacket and move toward the door. He doesn’t stop me. I don’t ask him to.

10

HARTLEY

The worst part about panic is that it doesn’t leave when the moment ends. It's been days and it hasn't let up once.

I’m in my kitchen with its buzzing overhead light and the sink that drains too slow, with the smell of coffee and the soft sound of Alaska’s spoon scraping against her bowl. It sits in my chest like a stone and makes everything feel heavier than it should.

Alaska tries to line up her cereal pieces into neat little rows with her spoon before she eats them. Except she keeps glancing down the hall toward the front door.

I know what she’s looking for, but I pretend I don’t.

“You’ve got school again today,” I say, keeping my voice light on purpose. “Ms. Rodriguez is gonna be happy to see you.”

Alaska doesn’t nod or smile. She taps her spoon twice against the side of the bowl then sets it down, signaling she’s done.