Page 3 of Smoke Signals

I smile because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Inside, panic curls tight and hot in my chest.

Because I don’t know how to be a parent.

I don’t know how to replace a father.

Because loving her feels like standing in front of a fire without gear, hoping willpower will keep us both safe.

Back in the hall, I crouch to Alaska’s level and tug her scarf off, smoothing her hair back into place.

“It’s okay,” I say again. “We’re okay.”

She looks at my face, her expression serious in that way kids get when they know something important is happening even if they don’t have words for it. Then she reaches up and presses her palm to my cheek.

“I love you,” I tell her, and she smiles before heading into her classroom.

I thank Ms. Rodriguez and head outside.

One thought loops louder than anything else.

I have to get this right.

No matter what it takes.

The walk to my car feels longer than usual. Wind slices straight through my hoodie as I cut across the lot behind the preschool, boots crunching over dirty snow that refuses to melt even though the calendar insists it’s spring.

Knock it off.

I chose this city. It’s big enough that Lance doesn’t exist on every corner, in every story someone tells me without realizing they’re reopening a wound. I chose somewhere I could breathe without tripping over ghosts.

My car waits where I left it, a black sedan. I unlock it, open the door, and slide behind the wheel.

The massage studio is ten minutes away—close enough to make sense, far enough that I don’t feel like I’m living entirely inside Alaska’s schedule. I pull into traffic, letting the familiar route calm me. Stoplight, turn lane, a bakery I keep meaning to try, and a mural that changes every few months.

The studio smells like eucalyptus and clean linen. I flip the sign to open since I’m the only one in this early today, set my bag down, and roll my shoulders out slowly. My reflection in the hallway mirror looks… tired.

My first client is already walking in as I turn the music for the studio on.

Mr. Adler has been coming to me for almost six months with a bad lower back, worse posture, and a personality that oscillates between gruff and oddly tender. He grunts a greeting as I lead him to the room.

“How’s the kid?” he asks while settling onto the table.

“Good,” I say automatically, the word rolling out on instinct. “Preschool’s going fine.”

It’s a lie by omission, and I have to swallow past how easy it is.

The session goes smoothly. Muscle memory takes over—palms warm, pressure steady, attention anchored in bodies instead of thoughts. This is the one place my brain shuts up. Where my hands know exactly what to do even when the rest of me feels like I’m guessing every step.

When Mr. Adler leaves, relaxed and quieter than when he arrived, I feel a flicker of something like pride.

Then my phone buzzes.

Mary: I need to cancel. Can we reschedule?

I stare at the message longer than I need to. An unexpected hour is now wide open in front of me, and instead of relief, anxiety floods in.

Me: No problem. The deposit is nonrefundable, but you can reschedule through the website whenever you’re ready.

I hit send and don’t wait for the dots to appear, make another coffee that I don’t really need and sit at my small desk. My computer hums to life, and before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers are already moving.