Page 46 of Smoke Signals

My mind drifts where it’s been drifting all day. Hartley standing in his kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. The way he watches Alaska before he speaks, like her reaction matters more than his own. The way his voice went rough when he said he was scared.

I pick up the phone, thumb hovering over his name. I don’t need a reason. Still, I keep it simple.

Me: How’s she doing today?

The message sends before I can overthink it.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Hartley: She asked about you.

18

HARTLEY

The studio is already warm when I unlock the door, that dry forced heat humming through the vents. The air smells faintly like something floral and fruity; I must have left the diffuser running overnight again, so the herbal scent hangs thick and heavy instead of subtle. It’s meant to calm people down. Right now it just makes everything feel denser and harder to breathe through.

I step inside, flip the light switch with my elbow, and the fluorescents flicker awake with a low buzz that feels louder than it should this early. Outside the front windows Chicago is still stretching into morning; traffic crawling, engines grumbling, pedestrians hunched into coats.

I set my bag behind the desk and let myself stand there for a second longer than necessary, then I start to move through my morning routine with muscle memory. Fresh sheets folded tight, tables wiped down in slow circles, and music turned low.

Last night keeps replaying whether I invite it or not.

I press my palms flat against the counter and draw in a slow breath. My pulse hasn’t quite settled since I woke up, like my body hasn’t decided whether it’s relieved or terrified. Probably both.

The bell over the door jingles before I’m ready for it.

Brielle walks in like she owns the place, one hand braced at the small of her back, the other clutching an iced coffee.

“Tell me again why I agreed to a nine a.m. appointment,” she mutters.

“Because you said, and I quote, ‘If I don’t come early, I’ll cancel and then I’ll complain my hips hurt,’” I say, grabbing a fresh sheet and snapping it over the table.

She huffs, but there’s no heat in it. “Pregnancy brain is real, and I hate it.”

“You love it,” I shoot back.

“I love the baby,” she corrects, lowering herself carefully into a chair. “Everything else can go straight to Hell.”

I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my mouth. Brielle has always been like this: loud and blunt and somehow still kind under all the bite.

I wash my hands, the warm water grounding, soap sharp with lemon and lavender. My shoulders feel tight, and it isn't the muscle.

She watches me in the mirror.

“You look weird,” she says.

“That’s not helpful.”

“No,” she says, tilting her head. “I mean different weird. Not sleep-deprived or stressed weird. Like… you have a secret.”

“I don’t have a secret,” I mutter, reaching for the lotion bottle.

“Mhm.”

I finish setting the table and gesture toward it. “Go on.”

She removes her shirt and settles onto her side with a theatrical groan while I stack pillows behind her back and slide a bolster between her knees. The sound melts into something more genuine once she’s comfortable.