Chapter 1 #2
The massage studio is ten minutes away—close enough to make sense, far enough that I don’t feel like I’m living entirely inside Alaska’s schedule.
I pull into traffic, letting the familiar route calm me.
Stoplight, turn lane, a bakery I keep meaning to try, and a mural that changes every few months.
The studio smells like eucalyptus and clean linen. I flip the sign to open since I’m the only one in this early today, set my bag down, and roll my shoulders out slowly. My reflection in the hallway mirror looks… tired.
My first client is already walking in as I turn the music for the studio on.
Mr. Adler has been coming to me for almost six months with a bad lower back, worse posture, and a personality that oscillates between gruff and oddly tender. He grunts a greeting as I lead him to the room.
“How’s the kid?” he asks while settling onto the table.
“Good,” I say automatically, the word rolling out on instinct. “Preschool’s going fine.”
It’s a lie by omission, and I have to swallow past how easy it is.
The session goes smoothly. Muscle memory takes over—palms warm, pressure steady, attention anchored in bodies instead of thoughts. This is the one place my brain shuts up. Where my hands know exactly what to do even when the rest of me feels like I’m guessing every step.
When Mr. Adler leaves, relaxed and quieter than when he arrived, I feel a flicker of something like pride.
Then my phone buzzes.
Mary: I need to cancel. Can we reschedule?
I stare at the message longer than I need to. An unexpected hour is now wide open in front of me, and instead of relief, anxiety floods in.
Me: No problem. The deposit is nonrefundable, but you can reschedule through the website whenever you’re ready.
I hit send and don’t wait for the dots to appear, make another coffee that I don’t really need and sit at my small desk. My computer hums to life, and before I can talk myself out of it, my fingers are already moving.
Chicago preschool alternatives.
Kindergarten readiness, trauma silence.
Best preschools north side Chicago.
Tab after tab opens. Montessori. Play-based. Language immersion. Smaller classrooms. Specialized programs. Waiting lists.
Did I screw this up?
I picture the town we left—quiet streets, familiar faces, Lance everywhere. His name on plaques, his picture on the station wall. Every well-meaning person telling Alaska how proud her daddy would be.
She deserved a fresh start, and I needed one too.
Chicago was supposed to be that. A place big enough to disappear inside. A place where Alaska could grow without constantly being reminded of what she lost.
But what if big is too big?
I click another tab, then another—housing prices this time. Condos with two bedrooms and balconies. Somewhere I could own instead of rent. Somewhere that feels permanent.
Next year. If this works….If.
A knock sounds on the desk right in front of me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Jesus—” I laugh breathlessly, spinning around.
Brielle— who was my first client and friend when I moved here, grins at me from the doorway with a ginger ale in one hand and a saltine sleeve in the other. Three months pregnant and somehow still radiating a calm I envy the hell out of.
“Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I lie. “Just… spaced out.”
She raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t believe me but lets it go. “Same room?”
I help her onto the table, adjust the pillows the way she likes, and make sure she’s comfortable before leaving to wash my hands. When I come back the room is dim, quiet, and safe.
“How’s Alaska?” she asks gently once I start, my hands moving in slow, grounding strokes along her shoulders.
The question hits differently coming from her.
I exhale. “Preschool called me into the office today with concerns.”
“Ah,” she murmurs. “That the tone they used too?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s… her.” I work tension out of her muscles, focusing on the way my thumbs sink in, release. “She’s still not talking, which you know she hasn’t since the fire. They’re worried about kindergarten next year.”
Brielle hums softly. “And you?”
I swallow. “I’m Googling schools and tutors.”
She laughs quietly. “Sounds about right.”
There’s a pause, then, “You really think she needs a tutor? You’ve always said how smart she is.”
I freeze for half a second. “Yeah…Maybe. I don’t know. She’s smart as hell, but maybe someone to just help her start letter sounds that can coax her to say a few things. I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
She laughs. “Do any of us?” Then her tone changes. “But I might know someone.”
My hands still.
“Yeah?”
“He’s tutoring while he recovers from a work injury. Not full wages right now, so it’s extra income. He’s good. Patient.”
My heart kicks harder than it should. “Do you trust him?”
“With my life,” she says simply.
That matters.
“What’s his name?”
She gives it to me, along with a number scribbled on the back of a receipt when we finish. I tuck it into my wallet and schedule her next appointment for two weeks from now.
After work, I pick Alaska up and drive us home through late-afternoon traffic.
When we get home, I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and take off my hoodie. Alaska kicks her shoes off immediately, socks sliding across the floor as she pads toward the kitchen.
She climbs into her booster chair without prompting, and reaches for the box of crayons like it’s muscle memory. I fill a pot with water, set it on the stove, listening to the click of the burner catching.
I break spaghetti in half before dropping it into the pot. Lance used to tease me for that.
Real Italians would kill you, he’d say, dramatic hand to chest.
I shake the memory off.
Sauce bubbles gently in the other pan, red popping against the lid when I don’t stir it fast enough. Alaska colors in silence, occasionally lining her crayons back up before choosing the next one. I slide a napkin toward her. She straightens it so the edge aligns perfectly with the table.
Everything in its place.
Dinner is messy in the way four-year-olds make everything messy. Sauce on her cheek. Noodles dangling dangerously close to her lap. I wipe her face with the corner of my napkin, and she tolerates it with a long-suffering sigh that almost feels like attitude.
Almost.
Bath time is splashing and careful wordless negotiations. I kneel on the tile, scrubs soaking through at the knees while she lines her dinosaurs along the edge of the tub. T-Rex guards the shampoo while Triceratops supervises the soap.
I wash her hair gently, shielding her eyes with my hand. She leans into my touch without thinking, which is the part I never get used to.
Pajamas next—blue birds tonight, the ones with the glow-in-the-dark stars. She insists on checking them before bed, flipping the switch off and on until the stars bloom faintly against the fabric.
Nodding, she climbs into bed.
I tuck the blanket around her, and she rolls onto her side, her stuffed fox tucked under her arm, thumb brushing the worn patch of fur near its ear. I linger in the doorway longer than necessary, listening to her breathing even out, counting it until I’m sure.
Only then do I let myself leave.
The couch creaks when I sit, cushion sagging just enough to remind me it’s old. I flick on the TV more for noise than anything else. Ballard plays—something about a cold case, rain slicking the streets on-screen, dialogue drifting past me without sticking.
My phone sits heavy in my palm.
Brielle’s handwriting flashes in my mind—the number scribbled on the back of a receipt, the way she slid it across the counter.
I think about her belly, round and solid under my hands earlier today.
The way her shoulders finally dropped halfway through the massage.
The strength it took to leave her abusive ex.
If she trusts this tutor guy…
I unlock the screen. The cursor blinks in the empty message field, patient and relentless. I type, delete, then type again.
Me: Hi, my name is Hartley. Brielle gave me your number.
Too stiff, so I erase it.
Me: Hey—my name is Hartley Quinn. I got your info from a mutual friend…Brielle. She said you might be tutoring right now?
I stare at it, thumb hovering, but I send it before I can overthink it.
The reply comes faster than I expect.
Unknown: Hey, Hartley. Yeah she texted earlier and mentioned she gave you my info. I’m Stellan. I’m helping a few families while I’m on medical leave. Want to tell me a little about what you’re looking for?
Medical leave. My jaw tightens automatically. I force it to unclench.
I type back slowly, carefully.
Me: It’d be for my niece. She’s four. Nonverbal right now. I want to make sure she’s ready for kindergarten next year—but more than that, I want her to feel safe.
There’s a pause this time. Long enough that I consider every way this could go wrong.
Stellan: That makes sense. I usually start by meeting the kid first. No pressure. If she’s not comfortable, we don’t push it. I used to tutor in high school and college. Teaching was my second choice for a career.
My shoulders drop an inch.
Stellan: Would you want to meet Friday evening? I can stop by, introduce myself, see how she feels.
I picture Alaska’s serious eyes. The way she presses her palm to my cheek when she’s checking on me. The way she knows when something isn’t right.
Me: Friday at 5pm works. But if she’s not okay with it, you leave. No hard feelings.
Stellan: Absolutely. She sets the pace.
I send my address, then lock the phone and set it face-down on the coffee table. I glance down the hallway toward Alaska’s room, the faint glow of her nightlight seeping under her door.
“Okay,” I whisper to the empty apartment.