Chapter 7
HARTLEY
I don’t sleep well the rest of the weekend after the Lance conversation.
I keep replaying the look on Stellan’s face when I told him Alaska’s dad had been a firefighter, the way his expression shifted just enough for me to see it.
Monday morning comes whether I’m ready or not. Alaska pads into the kitchen in socked feet and climbs into her chair. She lines up her spoon and bowl, checks the clock, then looks at me expectantly.
“Yeah,” I say, shaking myself loose. “I’m with you.”
Preschool drop-off is quieter than usual. She holds my hand all the way to the door, her grip firmer than it’s been in weeks. Ms. Rodriguez greets us with her usual gentle smile and Alaska waves before heading inside without looking back.
That should feel like progress. Instead, it feels like I left something unfinished.
Work helps a little. My first client complains about her lower back, I nod and listen. Focusing on pressure, breath, and anatomy. My hands know what to do even when my brain doesn’t.
Between sessions, I catch myself staring at my phone more than once.
Nothing from Stellan.
Good, I tell myself. That’s good.
By the time we get home that evening, I’ve talked myself into a very reasonable position that definitely won’t collapse under scrutiny. We keep things professional. We don’t blur lines. We focus on Alaska. That’s it.
Easy.
The week crawls by anyway.
The next tutoring session arrives.
Stellan shows up on time, like always. He’s polite, calm, exactly the same as before. Which somehow makes this harder.
I don’t sit at the table. I stay in the living room, flip on the TV, and pretend I’m invested in whatever’s on even though I’m really listening to the cadence of his voice.
She’s engaged, smiling more, and signs ‘finished’ with a flourish then hands him a crayon.
He takes it from her.
I feel a sharp, unexpected tug of jealousy that has no business existing.
After he leaves, Alaska signs teacher come again while I’m brushing her hair.
“Soon,” I tell her. “He’ll be back soon.”
I text Stellan when she’s asleep and I’m sitting in bed watching The Rip.
Me: She did really well today. Thanks again.
He replies a few minutes later.
Stellan: She’s putting in the work. You are too
The week stretches. Another workday. Another preschool drop-off. Another session where I keep my distance and tell myself I’m being responsible. Stellan doesn’t push. He doesn’t comment. He just keeps showing up and doing exactly what he said he would.
That consistency starts to feel dangerous.
On Friday, Alaska has a rough morning. Nothing dramatic, just tears over the wrong socks and a refusal to eat cereal she’s eaten a hundred times before.
I kneel in front of her, talk her through it, and she leans into me.
She needs to know I'm not going anywhere.
She wipes her nose on my shoulder and reaches past me for the socks she wanted in the first place.
When we get to the preschool, Ms. Rodriguez pulls me aside again.
“She’s doing well,” she says quickly, like she knows my pulse spikes every time she approaches me. “Really well. She’s more regulated. More confident.”
I nod, throat tight. “We have help now.”
“It shows,” she says warmly.
That evening when Stellan arrives, I ask him to sit for a minute before we start. Alaska barely looks up from her coloring book.
“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page,” I say, rubbing my palms together once before clasping my hands so they don’t fidget. “She does really well with routine, with knowing what to expect.”
He nods, attentive.
“She gets attached,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “Not quickly, but deeply. And when something becomes part of her week, part of her world, it matters to her.”
“I understand,” he says.
“So I need to know that if you’re here,” I say, meeting his eyes now, “you’re actually here. That when you go back to the station, you can still be here for her one night a week. I don’t want her thinking something is stable if it isn’t.”
There’s no defensiveness in his expression.
“I wouldn’t do that to her,” he says. “Or to you. If I’m in this, it’s because I can be consistent. I’ll make sure that I still come over to tutor her one night a week after I’m released back to duty. If it has to change nights, I’ll make sure I explain that to her myself thoroughly.”
“Okay,” I say quietly. “That’s all I needed.”
We start the session like normal after that. Everything looks fine from the outside.
After Stellan leaves, I sit on the couch and rub my hands over my face, trying to understand why that conversation feels heavier than it should. Alaska climbs into my lap without asking and presses her forehead against my chest.
“You’re okay,” I murmur, more for myself than her. “We’re okay.”