Page 26 of Smoke Signals

She watches me for a moment then pats her pillow, the way she does when she wants me to sit.

I sit on the edge of her bed and smooth the blanket. The room is dim, her nightlight casting soft shapes on the wall.

“I’m trying,” I whisper, and I don’t know if I’m talking to her, to Lance, or to myself. “I’m trying so hard.”

Alaska reaches out and touches my hand, warm and steady. She doesn’t need words to comfort me; she never has.

That’s when it hits me so clearly it steals my breath.

I keep telling myself I’m protecting her, that I’m keeping her safe, that I’m making sure she doesn’t lose anyone else. But I’m also protecting myself.

Because if Stellan becomes something real, something more than a tutor, something I notice the absence of when he leaves. I have to admit I’m capable of getting attached too.

And if I want him, then I have to face the possibility of losing him.

I’ve been letting fear drive the car while pretending I’m still in control of the wheel.

Fear doesn’t get to decide everything anymore.

Not for her. Not for me.

I stay in Alaska’s room until her breathing deepens, until her hand pulls away from my hand and her thumb finds the worn patch on her fox. Then I leave quietly and close her door, standing in the hall for a second like I’m bracing myself.

The living room is dim except for the light from the streetlamp outside, and the couch cushions are slightly crooked from where Alaska climbed on them earlier. The kitchen still smells like burned garlic bread and dish soap.

My phone is on the coffee table where I left it, screen dark.

I pick it up.

My thumb hovers over Stellan’s name, and I feel the old instinct rise, the one that says wait, the one that says you’ll ruin it again, the one that says you’re safer alone.

I exhale slowly.

Then I type before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: Hey. I’m sorry about Friday. I got scared and I handled it badly. Alaska’s been asking for you, and I hate that I did that to her and to you. Can we talk?

I stare at the message for a second, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

Then I hit send.

The phone stays warm in my hand long after the screen goes dark.

11

HARTLEY

I texted Stellan and I haven’t heard anything back. I want to throw my phone across the room.

Not because I regret what I said, but because now it exists outside of me. Now it’s something Stellan can read and react to, and maybe decide things about. The living room feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in on your ears until you start noticing every sound. The refrigerator hums, and pipes click somewhere in the walls.

I’m halfway zoned out, staring at nothing when the vibration of my phone startles me so badly my thumb jerks and almost sends it sliding off the couch. I catch it at the last second and just stare at the notification instead of opening it. My heart is beating hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, in my teeth, in the space behind my eyes.

I don’t deserve an immediate response. I know that. I blew things up and if he needs space, that’s fair.

I unlock the screen anyway.

Stellan: Thanks for saying that. I was worried about you.