Page 61 of Smoke Signals

He nods, thinking about that.

We sit there a while, talking easily. Favorite colors come first somehow. Mine’s blue. His is green, though he admits he never thought about it until now. We argue lightly about books, he likes quiet character stories, I admit I mostly read thrillers on shift because they’re easy to pick up and drop. We talk about vacations we never took, places we’d go if time and money lined up.

“What about your family?” he asks eventually.

“They’re in Rockford,” I say. “About an hour and a half out. Still in the same house I grew up in.”

“You see them a lot?”

“Not enough,” I admit. “I’m supposed to go next weekend actually.”

He nods, watching Alaska stack oversized foam blocks taller than she is.

The idea forms before I think it through.

“You should come,” I say.

He looks at me, surprised.

“With Alaska,” I add quickly. “My mom will lose her mind over her. My dad will pretend he isn’t emotional, and then immediately teach her something dangerous.”

Hartley laughs, but uncertainty flickers across his face. “I don’t know. That feels… fast.”

I turn toward him, reaching for his hand. “Please,” I say quietly. “They’ll love you. They’ll love her even more.”

He hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he’s thinking too hard. I lean in and kiss him, soft and quick, right there on the bench while kids run past and no one pays us any attention.

“It’s just a visit,” I say. “Nothing scary.”

He exhales slowly, then nods. “Okay. Yeah…okay.”

Relief floods my entire body.

We watch Alaska a little longer before gathering her up, promising we’ll come back soon. She takes both our hands again once we’re outside, swinging between us while we walk back toward the apartment. Her hands squeeze ours tight, and without thinking Hartley and I fall into step together.

I text my mom before we hit the corner.

Me: Three of us. Saturday.

24

HARTLEY

Clothes are folded into neat stacks, Alaska’s small sneakers lined beside the door, her fox tucked carefully into the top of her backpack like it needs fresh air for the trip. I move through the rooms slower than usual, checking things twice even though I know I haven’t forgotten anything. It’s not exactly nerves. It’s more like that weird moment right before something changes, and you know you can’t plan your way through it.

Alaska sits on the floor beside my duffel bag, placing random treasures inside when she thinks I’m not looking. A plastic bracelet, two crayons, and a Barbie shoe without its partner. I catch her halfway through adding a wooden block and she freezes, watching my face carefully.

“That doesn’t need to come,” I tell her gently, pulling it back out.

She presses her lips together and nods, then immediately swaps them out for a tiny stuffed dinosaur.

I sigh. “Okay, maybe one friend can come.”

She smiles, satisfied with the compromise, and zips the bag herself with intense focus.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

Stellan: Here.