Page 24 of Smoke Signals

The drive to the studio is muscle memory. I make the turns without thinking, stop where I’m supposed to stop, merge when I’m supposed to merge. My body knows this route even if my head is somewhere else.

Work is supposed to be where I’m steady.

Work is bodies and breath and muscle, not feelings. It’s warm towels, clean sheets, and quiet rooms. It’s knowing exactly how much pressure to apply and when to ease off. It’s fixing something with my hands and walking away knowing I made it better.

By the time I park, I’m clinging to that idea like it’s a life raft.

Inside the studio the lights are softer, the noise muted. I hang my jacket, wash my hands, and take a breath that’s meant to ground me.

It doesn’t.

My first client is already waiting. Debbie’s a regular. We exchange pleasantries. I lead her to the room, and talk her through the session like I always do. I place my hands where I’ve placed them a dozen times before.

My focus slips.

My hands hesitate, just a fraction. My pressure isn’t wrong, but it isn’t right either. My thoughts drift when they shouldn’t, snagging on the memory of another shoulder under my palms, the warmth of skin, the way my body reacted.

“You okay?” she asks, face pressed into the cradle.

“Yeah,” I say too fast. I adjust, recalibrate, and force myself back into the work. “Just tired.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe me. “You’re thinking too hard. Your hands are tense.”

It should irritate me. Instead, it lands like truth. My hands are tense because everything in me is tense. My fingers slide over her shoulder blade, and I flinch internally when I remember Stellan’s shoulder under my palms, the warmth of him, the way my body reacted like it was starving.

I push the thought away so hard I almost lose my rhythm.

By the time she leaves, I feel wrung out.

The next appointment cancels, and I stare at the empty hour on my schedule like it’s a dare. Normally I’d clean, maybe catch up on laundry, maybe take a breath for the first time all week.

Instead, I scroll.

I look at kindergarten readiness checklists. I look at speech therapy resources and AAC devices, even though Alaska can hear and speak just fine and she’s choosing silence the way some people choose armor. I look at housing listings like buying a place will solve the feeling that nothing is permanent.

Then I end up on my messages, thumb hovering over Stellan’s name.

I don’t text him.

I tell myself it’s because I’m being responsible, that he doesn’t need my mess, more importantly Alaska comes first.

The truth is uglier.

I’m scared.

It’s not even just scared of him. I’m scared of myself. I’m scared of how quickly my body decided he mattered, how easily my mind started making space for him in our lives, how my niece’s world quietly began to include him like he belonged there.

That kind of belonging is dangerous.

At lunch I eat half a sandwich without tasting it. Bread, mayo, and some sort of lunch meat. The studio’s break room smells like microwaved leftovers and peppermint hand lotion. I stare out the small window and people watch.

My last client of the day is a teenager with a sports injury, his mother hovering, anxious and impatient. I talk them through it, explain what I’m doing, keep my voice even. I give him stretches, tell him to ice and hydrate. I nod at his mother’s questions like I’m present.

Inside, I’m counting the minutes until I pick up Alaska.

When I get to preschool, Alaska is sitting off to the side during pickup, not playing with the other kids. She’s got her backpack on already, and her gaze jumps to the door every time it opens.

When she sees me, she stands fast. Then she runs to me, and slams into my legs.