Page 13 of Smoke Signals

I sink onto the couch and rub my hands over my face.

This isn't about attraction. It can't be. Alaska needs a tutor, a bedtime, and a guy who doesn't blow up her life again. I don't get to be reckless anymore. I don't get to follow something just because it feels good. The little girl down the hall needs me boring.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I flinch, then laugh quietly at myself.

Stellan: Thanks again for letting me stop by tonight. Alaska’s great. No rush on anything, just wanted to say I appreciate it.

That’s it.

No pressure or expectation.

I read it once. Then again. Then a third time, like the words might rearrange themselves into something different if I stare long enough.

They don’t.

I type a response, delete it. Type another.

Me: Thanks for coming by. She seemed comfortable.

Too stiff. Delete.

Me: Appreciate you stopping over. She doesn’t warm up that fast usually. She likes you.

Better. It’s safe and controlled.

I send it before I can second guess myself into silence.

The phone goes dark in my hand.

I pick it back up and read his message one more time.

5

HARTLEY

Stellan knocks right on time. Not early, not late, just exactly when he said he would. Like he understands schedules matter when you’re raising a four year old who runs on feral energy and vibes. I open the door with Alaska half-hidden behind my leg, her fingers hooked into my back pocket.

“Hey,” he says. “Good to see you.” She peeks around me, which already feels like a win. She gives him a small wave without looking at me to give her the go ahead. That’s new.

“Hi,” I say, and I sound normal, which feels like an accomplishment. “We’re ready whenever.”

He steps inside and automatically kicks off his shoes. He pauses, just a second, eyes flicking to Alaska.

She turns and walks toward the kitchen, and he follows her. He sets his bag on the table and pulls out some stuff he brought with him; cards, foam letters, things that look used. I stay by the counter, wiping down a surface that’s already clean because my hands need something to do.

“Is it okay if we start with a game?” he asks. Alaska nods. “Cool,” he says. “You’re in charge.” Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile.

They sit together at the table. He talks while he works, not at her, just enough so she knows what’s happening. He spreads the cards out slowly, like there’s no rush to get anywhere.

“Let’s listen for the AH sound,” he says. “Not the letter, just the sound.”

She leans closer, eyes moving from card to card. Her fingers hover, uncertain. Then she taps the table twice, her signal for wait, and he actually waits.

When she grabs the wrong one, he doesn’t correct her. He just sets it aside like it belongs there anyway.

I keep watching even after I should look away. I notice how he keeps his voice low, how he lets silence fill the gaps, how he doesn’t look at me every two seconds for approval. He knows what he’s doing.

That’s comforting, but also inconvenient.