Page 28 of Smoke Signals

In Alaska’s room, I pause in the doorway. She’s sprawled diagonally across the bed, one leg kicked free of the covers, fox tucked under her chin. Her hair fans out across the pillow, dark against pale cotton. She looks peaceful. I still can't get used to it.

“I’m trying,” I whisper again, even though she can’t hear me.

I go to bed, but sleep doesn’t come easy. My thoughts loop and tangle, replaying the sound of Stellan’s voice, the calm way he said my name, the steadiness of him even when I pulled away. At some point, exhaustion wins out and drags me under.

The next day crawls.

I move through the morning on autopilot. Coffee. Toast. Backpack. Drop off. Alaska gives me a lingering look before she goes into her classroom, fingers tapping once against her thigh in a nervous beat. I sign see you later and she nods, but her shoulders stay tight.

Work goes better than yesterday, but only because I force myself to stay present. I count breaths, I pay attention to muscle response. I focus on the task in front of me instead of the conversation waiting for me later.

By the time I get home, my nerves feel rubbed raw.

I feed Alaska dinner, give her a bath, then read her favorite book even though she doesn’t really listen anymore. When she’s tucked in and asleep, I sit on the couch with my phone in my hand and stare at the clock until it hits the time we agreed on.

I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.

He answers on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says.

Just that. My name isn’t in it, but I hear it anyway.

“Hey,” I reply. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

There’s a brief silence, not awkward, just space being given instead of filled.

“I’m glad you called,” he says.

“I almost didn’t,” I admit.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I figured.”

I smile despite myself, then let it fade. “I don’t really know where to start.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “We can just talk.”

So we do.

We talk about Alaska first, because that’s safe ground. I tell him about her week, about the way she’s been lining up her dinosaurs by size now instead of color, about how she refused spaghetti two nights in a row. He listens like it matters, like every detail is worth holding on to.

Then the conversation shifts, slowly and naturally, the way rivers do when they change direction.

“I panicked,” I say finally, staring at the dark window. “Not because you did anything wrong. Because it started to feel real.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I’m good at managing things,” I continue. “Routines. Expectations. I know how to keep people safe by keeping everything predictable. And then suddenly you were here, and Alaska trusted you, and I didn’t feel like I needed to be on guard all the time.”

I swallow hard. “That scared the hell out of me.”

“I get that,” he says quietly.

“I don’t think you do,” I say, not unkindly. “Loving someone who runs toward danger rewires you. You start believing that closeness is temporary. That letting people in just gives the universe more ways to hurt you.”

He’s silent for a long moment.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower. “I’m not asking you to let me in like that.”