Page 36 of Smoke Signals

I think about Lance. About the way he’d roll his eyes when I overthought things. About the way he loved fiercely and recklessly, and paid for it with everything. I think about the day the fire department chaplain knocked on my door, and how the world tilted sideways and never quite righted itself again.

I don’t want to lose someone like that again, but I also don’t want Alaska growing up thinking love is something you avoid to stay safe.

Fear kept me alive this long. It doesn’t get to run the rest of my life.

I grab my phone before I can change my mind.

My fingers hover over Stellan’s name. My heart is pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. I type, delete, type again.

Me: I’ve been thinking about lunch. And the kiss…A lot.

I stare at it. It feels honest. It also feels terrifying.

Me: I don’t want to keep pretending that it doesn't matter.

I take a breath and add one more line.

Me: Friday can you stay after I put Alaska to bed? Just to talk.

I hit send before my courage can evaporate. The wait is excruciating. I pace again. I check the clock. I stare at the door like it might open on its own.

When my phone buzzes, I nearly drop it.

Stellan: Yeah. I’d like that.

That’s it. No pressure. No expectations. Just yes.

My knees feel weak and I sink onto the couch, phone still clutched in my hand.

15

STELLAN

Friday still means something to me, even now.

It’s muscle memory more than thought, the way my body starts tracking time as the afternoon stretches toward evening. I finish the last set of exercises the physical therapist assigned, loop the band back over the doorknob and stand there for a second with my hands on my hips, breathing through the tight pull in my shoulder. It’s better than it was. Not perfect, but steady. Progress lives in small increments. I’ve learned to respect that.

I shower longer than necessary, letting the water pound warm against my back, steam fogging the mirror. When I step out I pull on a dark purple t-shirt, jeans, and my boots. I check my phone once, then force myself not to check it again.

Hartley’s message sits there anyway. I’ve read it too many times already.

Hartley: Friday can you stay after I put Alaska to bed? Just to talk.

Just to talk can mean a thousand things, or it can also mean nothing at all. I don’t let myself assume. I’ve learned the hard way what happens when you rush ahead of reality.

When I knock on his door it’s softer than usual, knuckles barely brushing the wood. The apartment is dim when he opens it, lamps low, the overhead light mercifully off. He’s in socks and a T-shirt that has a small hole near the collar, hair still damp like he showered not long ago.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply.

The apartment smells like dinner, something tomato-based. I step inside, toeing my boots off by the door out of habit.

His mouth curves slightly. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” I reply.

I head to the table, setting up, not with flash cards tonight but with a small stack of picture pages and a bowl of letter tiles. Hartley clocks the change, his brow lifting slightly.