Page 30 of Smoke Signals
I pull out the sheets I brought, pictures and letters paired together, laminated and worn from use. Alaska lights up immediately, sorting them into piles with careful concentration, tongue peeking out between her teeth as she works.
“Okay,” I say, crouching to her level. “Let’s match the sounds.”
She taps the picture of a dog, then the letter D, eyes flicking to mine.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “That’s it.”
Hartley watches from the edge of the kitchen, broom still in hand. I can feel his attention like a steady heat, not uncomfortable, just there.
We work like that for a while. Alaska focused, hands busy, confidence building with every small win. She hums under her breath, not quite a tune, just sound and I go still, remembering the last time she said a word. I want to hear her sweet, tiny voice again.
“You’re doing really well,” I tell her.
She beams and signs thank you, then goes back to her cards.
I glance up and catch Hartley smiling at her, his whole face soft and not for me to see. When he sees me looking, he clears his throat and looks away, ears pinking just slightly.
Eventually Alaska wanders off to her room, letters and sounds forgotten, drawn by whatever world lives inside her head tonight. The apartment settles into a quieter hum.
Hartley doesn’t immediately fill the silence.
Neither do I.
He pours water into two glasses and hands one to me, fingers brushing mine briefly. The contact is nothing and everything. He doesn’t flinch though, and that feels like progress.
“Thanks for coming back,” he says.
“I said I would,” I reply.
He nods. “I know. I just… still.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I get it.”
We stand there, close enough to feel each other’s presence, far enough to respect the space we’re rebuilding.
“I didn’t mean to make things complicated,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I tell him. “You didn’t.”
His shoulders drop a fraction, relief cutting through tension. He leans back against the counter, arms braced behind him.
“I’m bad at this part,” he admits. “The not running part.”
I smile a little. “Most people are.”
His eyes bounce back and forth between mine. “You could’ve walked away, told me to find a new tutor.”
“I could’ve,” I agree. “I didn’t want to.”
The words hang between us, honest and unadorned.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says.
“Neither do I.”
He laughs softly, more breath than sound. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“Yeah,” I respond. “I know.”
