Page 49 of Falling For Alaska

Alaska stirs next to me, gripping my jacket with her little fist. Why do those scars bring me physical pain when I see them? As if her pain was mine too. Each time she looks at them, I want it to go away. To make it all better for her. She whimpers my name softly, and I tuck her even closer, caressing her hair with my free hand.

“Wake up, sl-sleepyhead. It’s time t-to go,” I tell her, ’cause we’ve still got a few hours to walk back to the car and I don’t want her getting home too late. A soft grumble makes me chuckle. She’s adorable, pouting, probably wishing she could sleep even longer if I hadn’t disturbed her. I wait a bit for her to sit next to me, then I hear the sweetest yawn drift from her lips.

“Thanks,” she says, taking the sweater off her body. “I was all warm and toasty. It’s gonna be hard to go back.” She chuckles, her voice hoarse.

“We’ll take our ti-time, no worries,” I assure her, and our eyes meet, the sudden urge to kiss her overwhelming me. Her gaze drops to my lips, then falters, a shadow passing across her face.

“So?” she asks between trembling lips, her chin motioning at the book.

“Good. Really good. I like that it’s pretty much straight to the point,” I say flatly, still watching her. Whatever’s hiding in the shadows of her mind is always close, stealing her ability to fully enjoy life. That’s no way to live. But what do I know? I do the same thing. One step forward, two steps back. We both stand and pack up our stuff, and I keep noticing how she keeps glancing at the view with wide eyes.

“It’s so pretty from up here. I can’t believe I lived here for years without knowing about it. Matt would love this, the colors, the trees, it’s…” she smiles, “stunning. Just stunning.” I grin from watching her enjoy the date I planned so carefully. The view is beautiful, I agree. But she’s the one who made it worth the climb. Words I’ve never said to anyone linger on the tip of my tongue. No, it’s too soon. And I’m leaving. I can’t do this to her. So I settle behind her, her back resting against my chest, her hair just below my chin like a perfect puzzle piece born to fit with me.

“Thank you,” she says, turning to face me, her eyes glassy and wet. My palm finds her face, and I stroke her temple, my rough skin brushing her delicate one. Her eyes dropping to my lips, and a silent word glows in my mind. A word made of four letters, carrying promises and consequences. And it keeps expanding the more time I spend with her. Like black ink spreading in my heart, staining every organ in an irreversible way. Not everything needs to be said out loud. I pull her closer, my hands caressing her lower back. I didn’t plan to like this town. Nor did I plan to stay. And I sure as hell didn’t expect to fall for Alaska. A woman with more secrets and charm than I could ever unravel. She exhales a soft, shaky breath, and rises on her toes to kiss me. And because I don’t know anything better than giving this woman everything I can, I kiss her back. Hard. Like a diver who lost his oxygen. I kiss her until we’re both breathless, up there, on the mountain. When I pull back, her small frame is trembling in my hands. I start to lean away, searching her face, but something shifts, a wall rising between us. Dark and impenetrable. She gives me that practiced look, the kind you wear for a camera when you don’t want to be in the picture.

“Come on,” she murmurs, fingers lacing through mine. “We should head back.” I follow, although something’s off. A piece of the puzzle is missing. Taking the lead, I make sure the trail’s safe for her. Branches crack beneath our shoes, the wind brushing our skin. I step forward, yet for the first time in my life I have no idea what to do next.

Chapter Seventeen

JACK

Searching: speech exercises against stutter.

I press enter, and within seconds, hundreds of videos flood the screen, thumbnail after thumbnail expanding before me. It’s late. The sun vanished hours ago, and the only sound breaking the silence in my home is the rhythmic churn of the dishwasher. Sitting on my couch, I close my eyes briefly, reminding myself of the scent of cinnamon and baked apple pie from Alaska’s hair. The melody of her voice still chanting in my ear. Of her touch lingering on my skin like a memory I don’t want to let go of.

Parting from her earlier was difficult. The thread between us unyielding and mocking us for even trying to break it. I stared at her driving away until I couldn't see her car anymore. In an attempt to think about anything else but my girl, I opened my laptop in search of the quick miracle that could fix me. I huff, knowing all too well that it doesn't exist.

In a perfect world, I would find a speech therapist, schedule sessions, and sit in sterile, hospital-white waiting rooms surrounded by children and teenagers, each carrying their own version of what I carry. Eventually, I’d be ushered in to sit across from someone with a heavy clipboard and thin patience. Following a set of mechanical exercises with whatever scraps of dignity I could cling to. I would then go home, exhausted, only to face the same relentless struggle.

Nah, it doesn’t sit right with me.

I never tried an alternative way, so internet, here I come.

There have to be others. I refuse to believe I’m the only adult who still lives with this. Scrolling for a few minutes, I land on a video from a man around my age, whose delivery is calm and eloquent. He says he used to stutter, too, and found a way to live with it. I lean in. Looks like his techniques differ from the ones I was taught as a kid. Sentences after the other, I listen and repeat after him, in the privacy of my home, away from judgment and laughter.

“S-s-sometimes I s-s-see the s-sky,” I try, stopping myself and letting out a curse word at my attempt. The second time, I inhale deeply and speak on the exhale, just as he instructs. “Sometimes I see the s-sky.” Better. He emphasizes not resisting the stutter, that the real damage is done when we try to block it. At first, I’m skeptical. It feels backward, counterintuitive. But I keep going. I roll my shoulders back. Loosen my jaw. Let go of the tension I didn’t realize I was gripping. I repeat sentence after sentence, slower now, more relaxed. The stutter is still there, but it rolls over me. My spasms are less intense now that I’m not trying to contain them. It often shocks strangers, the spasms. I can see their faces tightening, mistaking it for pain, noting my visible agony. Only they’re mistaken.

It isn’t where the pain lives.

The real ache hides in the moments I choose silence over connection. When I stay home instead of showing up. When I bite my tongue instead of risking embarrassment. It’s in every missed word, every repressed opinion, every chance at being bold that I trade for the false comfort of invisibility.

After a few more videos and a new stock of hope packed away, I turn off the lights and get in bed, wishing I could have Alaska by my side, curled up in my arms. I fall asleep until the sound of my ringtone wakes me, her name appearing on my screen. I jolt upright and take the call. Her little voice is shaking on the other side of the line. At that instant, reality hits me, leaving Lakeside is turning into an impossible task.

And I hope, I really hope, no one will ever ask that of me.

Alaska

Thick arms, blond stubble, ashy short hair, massive muscles, a voice rougher than gravel. I get closer, so close I can almost touch him. “Jump,” he says. “I’ll catch you.” A cloud of mist is expanding around us, but he’s out of reach, disappearing behind a fog of darkness each time I raise my arm. My hands touch my face and a familiar itch returns, only this time, when I look at my fingers, the stitches have been torn apart, blood dripping from the freshly opened wounds as if I had crushed ice a few minutes ago. Jack? Are you still here? Please, find me. Please, don’t leave me all alone. I cry for help, but no one comes. It’s just me, kneeling in this strange, dark place with no walls to end my vision, hugging myself as my back rocks back and forth.

I jolt awake, a gasp caught in my throat. My hands clutch the strawberry pink sheets, my chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven breaths as I touch my pink PJs, soaked in sweat.

A nightmare.

It was just a nightmare.

My fingers twitch as I lift them, expecting to see red smeared across my skin. But there’s nothing. Just the dull throb of old scars and painful memories. I notice a large form, almost human-like, in the corner of my room, but after blinking twice, it’s not there anymore. Breathe. You’re okay. Pushing the covers off, I sit up, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. I take a deep breath and inhale the navy sweater Jack gave to me when he noticed how reluctant I was to give it back. It’s too large, but I don’t care. It smells like him. Like what I wish my home would smell like.

I turn on the peach-colored lamp on my nightstand and look around. There’s nothing. I’m safe in my home. There’s nothing to be afraid of. My heart returns to a normal pace as I snuggle into Jack’s sweater like a second skin beneath the covers. What I’d give right now to hear his voice and cuddle in his arms. I sigh and lift my head from the pillow, zeroing in on my cellphone next to me.