Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
JACK
Searching: speech exercises against stutter.
I press enter, and within seconds, hundreds of videos flood the screen, thumbnail after thumbnail expanding before me.
It’s late. The sun vanished hours ago, and the only sound breaking the silence in my home is the rhythmic churn of the dishwasher.
Sitting on my couch, I close my eyes briefly, reminding myself of the scent of cinnamon and baked apple pie from Alaska’s hair.
The melody of her voice still chanting in my ear.
Of her touch lingering on my skin like a memory I don’t want to let go of.
Parting from her earlier was difficult. The thread between us unyielding and mocking us for even trying to break it.
I stared at her driving away until I couldn't see her car anymore.
In an attempt to think about anything else but my girl, I opened my laptop in search of the quick miracle that could fix me.
I huff, knowing all too well that it doesn't exist.
In a perfect world, I would find a speech therapist, schedule sessions, and sit in sterile, hospital-white waiting rooms surrounded by children and teenagers, each carrying their own version of what I carry.
Eventually, I’d be ushered in to sit across from someone with a heavy clipboard and thin patience.
Following a set of mechanical exercises with whatever scraps of dignity I could cling to.
I would then go home, exhausted, only to face the same relentless struggle.
Nah, it doesn’t sit right with me.
I never tried an alternative way, so internet, here I come.
There have to be others. I refuse to believe I’m the only adult who still lives with this.
Scrolling for a few minutes, I land on a video from a man around my age, whose delivery is calm and eloquent.
He says he used to stutter, too, and found a way to live with it.
I lean in. Looks like his techniques differ from the ones I was taught as a kid.
Sentences after the other, I listen and repeat after him, in the privacy of my home, away from judgment and laughter.
“S-s-sometimes I s-s-see the s-sky,” I try, stopping myself and letting out a curse word at my attempt.
The second time, I inhale deeply and speak on the exhale, just as he instructs.
“Sometimes I see the s-sky.” Better. He emphasizes not resisting the stutter, that the real damage is done when we try to block it.
At first, I’m skeptical. It feels backward, counterintuitive.
But I keep going. I roll my shoulders back.
Loosen my jaw. Let go of the tension I didn’t realize I was gripping.
I repeat sentence after sentence, slower now, more relaxed.
The stutter is still there, but it rolls over me.
My spasms are less intense now that I’m not trying to contain them.
It often shocks strangers, the spasms. I can see their faces tightening, mistaking it for pain, noting my visible agony. Only they’re mistaken.
It isn’t where the pain lives.
The real ache hides in the moments I choose silence over connection. When I stay home instead of showing up. When I bite my tongue instead of risking embarrassment. It’s in every missed word, every repressed opinion, every chance at being bold that I trade for the false comfort of invisibility.
After a few more videos and a new stock of hope packed away, I turn off the lights and get in bed, wishing I could have Alaska by my side, curled up in my arms. I fall asleep until the sound of my ringtone wakes me, her name appearing on my screen.
I jolt upright and take the call. Her little voice is shaking on the other side of the line.
At that instant, reality hits me, leaving Lakeside is turning into an impossible task.
And I hope, I really hope, no one will ever ask that of me.
Alaska
Thick arms, blond stubble, ashy short hair, massive muscles, a voice rougher than gravel.
I get closer, so close I can almost touch him.
“Jump,” he says. “I’ll catch you.” A cloud of mist is expanding around us, but he’s out of reach, disappearing behind a fog of darkness each time I raise my arm.
My hands touch my face and a familiar itch returns, only this time, when I look at my fingers, the stitches have been torn apart, blood dripping from the freshly opened wounds as if I had crushed ice a few minutes ago.
Jack? Are you still here? Please, find me.
Please, don’t leave me all alone. I cry for help, but no one comes.
It’s just me, kneeling in this strange, dark place with no walls to end my vision, hugging myself as my back rocks back and forth.
I jolt awake, a gasp caught in my throat. My hands clutch the strawberry pink sheets, my chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven breaths as I touch my pink PJs, soaked in sweat.
A nightmare.
It was just a nightmare.
My fingers twitch as I lift them, expecting to see red smeared across my skin.
But there’s nothing. Just the dull throb of old scars and painful memories.
I notice a large form, almost human-like, in the corner of my room, but after blinking twice, it’s not there anymore.
Breathe. You’re okay. Pushing the covers off, I sit up, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.
I take a deep breath and inhale the navy sweater Jack gave to me when he noticed how reluctant I was to give it back.
It’s too large, but I don’t care. It smells like him.
Like what I wish my home would smell like.
I turn on the peach-colored lamp on my nightstand and look around.
There’s nothing. I’m safe in my home. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
My heart returns to a normal pace as I snuggle into Jack’s sweater like a second skin beneath the covers.
What I’d give right now to hear his voice and cuddle in his arms. I sigh and lift my head from the pillow, zeroing in on my cellphone next to me.
Could I…?
I follow my instinct, calling his number even though it’s three in the morning. Let’s not overthink this. I press the call button, and Jack answers on the first ring, my heart tumbling in my chest in response.
“Alaska, everything’s o-okay?” he asks, his voice rough and strained.
“Sorry, I…I had a nightmare. I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“That’s okay,” he says. The sound of sheets moving echoes in the background.
“I’m a light sleeper anyway, glad you c-called.
” He clears his throat. “Wanna talk about it?” I hum in response, and he pauses before saying, “Or…um, I c-could be there in ten minutes if you want?” The world stops spinning as I stare at the empty side of the bed next to me.
Besides Bella, no one has ever slept beside me, not even the nice boyfriends who were truly eager to.
The idea of his arms wrapped around me in my bed is the closest I could ever get to heaven.
“I don’t want to bother you…” I trail off, unconvincing. Sheets move again, and I hear his footsteps in his home. What does it look like there? Water drips from a faucet. Fabric rustles. At last, I hear keys rattling together.
“I’ll b-be there in ten. D-d-do you want to stay on the line?”
“I’ll be okay. I’ll wait for you,” I whisper, beyond grateful for this man.
“Good,” he murmurs. “See you soon.” The line goes dead, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear for a moment longer, as if holding onto his voice might keep the shadows away.
I exhale, my breath shaky, then push myself out of bed.
The floor is cold beneath my bare feet. Did I spill water on it?
I take a few more steps, and the sensation disappears.
The rumble of the kettle fills my kitchen as I select my favorite herbal tea.
I can’t believe he’s going to be here, all tall and kind and handsome in my small house.
Why am I pursuing this if he’s going to leave soon?
Why am I being reckless with my heart? I don’t have time to fall deeper into the rabbit hole of my thoughts when I hear the roar of a car pulling into my driveway.
Don’t fall in love, a little voice in my head begs me. But I’ve stopped listening. Because it’s too late.
I already fell.
Jack
Her door is already open, a dim light behind her, as I park my black SUV in front of her English cottage-like house.
That thing is so small and still, I can’t see anything that would suit her more.
She called me, and when I saw her name on my screen, I answered it as fast as humanly possible.
There was no hesitation when I took the call; whatever she would have asked, I would have given.
Besides, as a cop, I always sleep with one eye open, so getting there in the middle of the night isn’t an issue.
It’s raining a bit tonight, but nothing like the storm we had a few days ago. I gotta admit, even during a tornado, I would have found my way to her. Being present for Alaska is a need so strong I don’t care that I had to wake up in the middle of the night ’cause she had a nightmare.
“Hey,” I say, as she steps aside to let me enter. Her two-piece pink PJs remind me of the time I came here during the storm. This thing may cover most of her body, but the fabric’s so thin it drapes on her shape like water.
“You came,” she breathes out, all shy all of a sudden, closing the door behind me.
“You said you had-had a nightm-m-mare,” I explain, putting my jacket on a hook in the entryway and my trainers on her shoe rack like I’ve done this a thousand times.
“I know, but—”
“One thing you gotta know, Alaska, is that I’m always g-gonna make sure you’re okay.
D-day or night, I’ll always find a way to come to you,” I tell her with so much certainty, something tightens under my ribs.
What would I do if this was the last time I saw her?
What if I have to go back to Minneapolis sooner?