Page 5 of Smoke Signals

She laughs. “Do any of us?” Then her tone changes. “But I might know someone.”

My hands still.

“Yeah?”

“He’s tutoring while he recovers from a work injury. Not full wages right now, so it’s extra income. He’s good. Patient.”

My heart kicks harder than it should. “Do you trust him?”

“With my life,” she says simply.

That matters.

“What’s his name?”

She gives it to me, along with a number scribbled on the back of a receipt when we finish. I tuck it into my wallet and schedule her next appointment for two weeks from now.

After work, I pick Alaska up and drive us home through late-afternoon traffic.

When we get home, I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and take off my hoodie. Alaska kicks her shoes off immediately, socks sliding across the floor as she pads toward the kitchen.

She climbs into her booster chair without prompting, and reaches for the box of crayons like it’s muscle memory. I fill a pot with water, set it on the stove, listening to the click of the burner catching.

I break spaghetti in half before dropping it into the pot. Lance used to tease me for that.

Real Italians would kill you, he’d say, dramatic hand to chest.

I shake the memory off.

Sauce bubbles gently in the other pan, red popping against the lid when I don’t stir it fast enough. Alaska colors in silence, occasionally lining her crayons back up before choosing the next one. I slide a napkin toward her. She straightens it so the edge aligns perfectly with the table.

Everything in its place.

Dinner is messy in the way four-year-olds make everything messy. Sauce on her cheek. Noodles dangling dangerously close to her lap. I wipe her face with the corner of my napkin, and she tolerates it with a long-suffering sigh that almost feels like attitude.

Almost.

Bath time is splashing and careful wordless negotiations. I kneel on the tile, scrubs soaking through at the knees while she lines her dinosaurs along the edge of the tub. T-Rex guards the shampoo while Triceratops supervises the soap.

I wash her hair gently, shielding her eyes with my hand. She leans into my touch without thinking, which is the part I never get used to.

Pajamas next—blue birds tonight, the ones with the glow-in-the-dark stars. She insists on checking them before bed, flipping the switch off and on until the stars bloom faintly against the fabric.

Nodding, she climbs into bed.

I tuck the blanket around her, and she rolls onto her side, her stuffed fox tucked under her arm, thumb brushing the worn patch of fur near its ear. I linger in the doorway longer than necessary, listening to her breathing even out, counting it until I’m sure.

Only then do I let myself leave.

The couch creaks when I sit, cushion sagging just enough to remind me it’s old. I flick on the TV more for noise than anything else. Ballard plays—something about a cold case, rain slicking the streets on-screen, dialogue drifting past me without sticking.

My phone sits heavy in my palm.

Brielle’s handwriting flashes in my mind—the number scribbled on the back of a receipt, the way she slid it across the counter. I think about her belly, round and solid under my hands earlier today. The way her shoulders finally dropped halfway through the massage. The strength it took to leave her abusive ex.

If she trusts this tutor guy…

I unlock the screen. The cursor blinks in the empty message field, patient and relentless. I type, delete, then type again.