Chapter 10
HARTLEY
The worst part about panic is that it doesn’t leave when the moment ends. It's been days and it hasn't let up once.
I’m in my kitchen with its buzzing overhead light and the sink that drains too slow, with the smell of coffee and the soft sound of Alaska’s spoon scraping against her bowl. It sits in my chest like a stone and makes everything feel heavier than it should.
Alaska tries to line up her cereal pieces into neat little rows with her spoon before she eats them. Except she keeps glancing down the hall toward the front door.
I know what she’s looking for, but I pretend I don’t.
“You’ve got school again today,” I say, keeping my voice light on purpose. “Ms. Rodriguez is gonna be happy to see you.”
Alaska doesn’t nod or smile. She taps her spoon twice against the side of the bowl then sets it down, signaling she’s done.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she can sense something is off, that maybe he won’t show up this week.
Stellan always comes on Fridays. Fridays are supposed to be table time, letters, and her little satisfied huff when she gets something right.
Fridays are supposed to be the one day I can breathe for an hour and let someone else hold the weight with me.
Last Friday ended with my fear speaking for me.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check it; even though I already know there’s nothing there. I don’t know what I expect to see—a message from Stellan asking if I’m okay, or maybe one saying he’s done, that he won’t come back, that I made it clear enough.
There’s nothing.
My stomach twists anyway.
“You wanna bring your fox today?” I ask, pointing toward the living room where her stuffed animal sits on the couch.
Alaska shakes her head. Then she signs seven letters.
S-T-E-L-L-A-N
I swallow hard like that’s going to fix it. “Not today,” I tell her softly. “We’ll see him soon.”
The words come out before I’ve decided I mean them.
I pack her bag, check her lunch twice and forget where I put my keys, even though they’re in the bowl by the door like always. I move too fast, then too slow, then stand still in the middle of the apartment with my hands full of nothing, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do next.
Alaska watches me.
“I’m okay,” I tell her, and the lie tastes like burned coffee.
The drive to preschool takes longer because traffic is… Chicago traffic, and nobody here has ever felt patience in their life. Horns blare, a bus lurches into my lane, sirens echo somewhere in the distance and my shoulders lock up before I can stop them.
I glance at Alaska in the rearview mirror. She’s gripping the strap of her backpack, eyes fixed on the window, her body too still.
“I know,” I murmur. “It’s okay.”
I keep saying that, like if I repeat it enough the world will start agreeing.
At drop off, Ms. Rodriguez greets Alaska with her usual warm energy. Alaska hovers by my leg, fingers curled into the fabric of my pants.
“She’s been doing so well,” Ms. Rodriguez says, and her smile is genuine this time. “We’ve seen a lot of progress.”
I nod, because I can’t seem to do anything else lately. “Yeah. We’re still getting extra help. Last week she even said Da.”
Ms. Rodriguez tilts her head as her eyes widen. “The tutor you mentioned?”
I picture Stellan’s expression when Alaska said Da, the way his whole body went still. The way he didn’t rush her, didn’t steal the moment, didn’t try to make it his.
“Yeah,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I meant. “His name’s Stellan.”
“How’s it going?”
I open my mouth to answer, and nothing coherent comes out. How do I explain that the tutoring is going great, that my niece is opening up, that I feel like we’re finally building something safe, and also I am apparently capable of ruining it all with two seconds of panic.
“It’s going,” I manage.
Alaska taps my hand once, quick and firm, then turns and walks into the classroom. She doesn’t look back.
That shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
I sit in my car for a minute after, hands on the steering wheel, my phone sits in the cup holder, and stare at it but don’t pick it up.
Eventually, traffic forces a decision. Someone honks behind me, impatient and loud, and I pull away from the curb like I’ve been shoved back into motion.
The city swallows me up fast. Red lights.
Buses groaning at corners. A pedestrian darting across the street like he’s late for something important.
The drive to the studio is muscle memory. I make the turns without thinking, stop where I’m supposed to stop, merge when I’m supposed to merge. My body knows this route even if my head is somewhere else.
Work is supposed to be where I’m steady.
Work is bodies and breath and muscle, not feelings. It’s warm towels, clean sheets, and quiet rooms. It’s knowing exactly how much pressure to apply and when to ease off. It’s fixing something with my hands and walking away knowing I made it better.
By the time I park, I’m clinging to that idea like it’s a life raft.
Inside the studio the lights are softer, the noise muted. I hang my jacket, wash my hands, and take a breath that’s meant to ground me.
It doesn’t.
My first client is already waiting. Debbie’s a regular. We exchange pleasantries. I lead her to the room, and talk her through the session like I always do. I place my hands where I’ve placed them a dozen times before.
My focus slips.
My hands hesitate, just a fraction. My pressure isn’t wrong, but it isn’t right either. My thoughts drift when they shouldn’t, snagging on the memory of another shoulder under my palms, the warmth of skin, the way my body reacted.
“You okay?” she asks, face pressed into the cradle.
“Yeah,” I say too fast. I adjust, recalibrate, and force myself back into the work. “Just tired.”
She hums like she doesn’t believe me. “You’re thinking too hard. Your hands are tense.”
It should irritate me. Instead, it lands like truth. My hands are tense because everything in me is tense. My fingers slide over her shoulder blade, and I flinch internally when I remember Stellan’s shoulder under my palms, the warmth of him, the way my body reacted like it was starving.
I push the thought away so hard I almost lose my rhythm.
By the time she leaves, I feel wrung out.
The next appointment cancels, and I stare at the empty hour on my schedule like it’s a dare. Normally I’d clean, maybe catch up on laundry, maybe take a breath for the first time all week.
Instead, I scroll.
I look at kindergarten readiness checklists.
I look at speech therapy resources and AAC devices, even though Alaska can hear and speak just fine and she’s choosing silence the way some people choose armor.
I look at housing listings like buying a place will solve the feeling that nothing is permanent.
Then I end up on my messages, thumb hovering over Stellan’s name.
I don’t text him.
I tell myself it’s because I’m being responsible, that he doesn’t need my mess, more importantly Alaska comes first.
The truth is uglier.
I’m scared.
It’s not even just scared of him. I’m scared of myself. I’m scared of how quickly my body decided he mattered, how easily my mind started making space for him in our lives, how my niece’s world quietly began to include him like he belonged there.
That kind of belonging is dangerous.
At lunch I eat half a sandwich without tasting it. Bread, mayo, and some sort of lunch meat. The studio’s break room smells like microwaved leftovers and peppermint hand lotion. I stare out the small window and people watch.
My last client of the day is a teenager with a sports injury, his mother hovering, anxious and impatient. I talk them through it, explain what I’m doing, keep my voice even. I give him stretches, tell him to ice and hydrate. I nod at his mother’s questions like I’m present.
Inside, I’m counting the minutes until I pick up Alaska.
When I get to preschool, Alaska is sitting off to the side during pickup, not playing with the other kids. She’s got her backpack on already, and her gaze jumps to the door every time it opens.
When she sees me, she stands fast. Then she runs to me, and slams into my legs.
I crouch and wrap my arms around her, breathing in the smell of crayons, baby shampoo, and the faint sweetness of her snack on her breath.
“You okay?” I ask, voice soft.
She doesn’t nod. She presses her forehead against my shoulder and clings.
Ms. Rodriguez steps closer, hands clasped. “She had a harder day.”
My stomach drops.
“What happened?” I ask, and my voice comes out too sharp.
Ms. Rodriguez doesn’t flinch, just keeps her tone calm. “Nothing major. She participated, she followed directions. She just seemed more withdrawn. She signed for something a few times, but we couldn’t quite understand it.”
Alaska pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes serious.
Her hands move.
S-T-E-L-L-A-N
Again.
Then she points vaguely, not at the classroom, not at the hall, but toward the car. I’m sure she’s anxious for Friday and the idea of a man who sits at our table and doesn’t rush her.
“You miss him?” I whisper.
Alaska nods once.
I close my eyes for a second because I can’t afford to fall apart in a preschool hallway, but the ache is sharp.
I did this. My fear did this. I took something steady, something good, and I put my hands on it and squeezed until it cracked.
She didn’t even witness our moment, but somehow she can feel it, sense it. Fuck.
On the drive home Alaska is quiet, watching the city blur past.
“Hey,” I say softly. “I love you.”
She signs back without looking at me.
Love you.
At home, dinner is a mess because I burn the garlic bread and Alaska refuses spaghetti, and then I get irritated about the spaghetti even though it’s not about spaghetti at all. I raise my voice too quickly. Not yelling, but sharp enough that Alaska freezes and her eyes get wide.
My heart drops through my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, crouching beside her chair. “I’m sorry, baby. That wasn’t about you.”
Alaska doesn’t move. She keeps her hands in her lap, fingers clenched tight.
I reach out slowly, and give her time to pull away if she wants. When she doesn’t, I rest my hand over her small fist and wait.
My voice comes out quiet. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She stares at me for awhile then she relaxes a fraction, her fingers loosening under mine.
We eat something else; peanut butter toast and banana slices, because it’s safe and familiar and doesn’t require any effort or thought.
Bath time goes smoother. Alaska lines her dinosaurs on the edge of the tub, then taps each one with her finger. I wash her hair gently, careful with the water, careful with everything.
When she’s in pajamas and tucked into bed, she signs love you before she turns onto her side, facing me full on.
I swallow hard. “I love you too,” I promise her. “Goodnight.”
She watches me for a moment then pats her pillow, the way she does when she wants me to sit.
I sit on the edge of her bed and smooth the blanket. The room is dim, her nightlight casting soft shapes on the wall.
“I’m trying,” I whisper, and I don’t know if I’m talking to her, to Lance, or to myself. “I’m trying so hard.”
Alaska reaches out and touches my hand, warm and steady. She doesn’t need words to comfort me; she never has.
That’s when it hits me so clearly it steals my breath.
I keep telling myself I’m protecting her, that I’m keeping her safe, that I’m making sure she doesn’t lose anyone else. But I’m also protecting myself.
Because if Stellan becomes something real, something more than a tutor, something I notice the absence of when he leaves. I have to admit I’m capable of getting attached too.
And if I want him, then I have to face the possibility of losing him.
I’ve been letting fear drive the car while pretending I’m still in control of the wheel.
Fear doesn’t get to decide everything anymore.
Not for her. Not for me.
I stay in Alaska’s room until her breathing deepens, until her hand pulls away from my hand and her thumb finds the worn patch on her fox. Then I leave quietly and close her door, standing in the hall for a second like I’m bracing myself.
The living room is dim except for the light from the streetlamp outside, and the couch cushions are slightly crooked from where Alaska climbed on them earlier. The kitchen still smells like burned garlic bread and dish soap.
My phone is on the coffee table where I left it, screen dark.
I pick it up.
My thumb hovers over Stellan’s name, and I feel the old instinct rise, the one that says wait, the one that says you’ll ruin it again, the one that says you’re safer alone.
I exhale slowly.
Then I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Hey. I’m sorry about Friday. I got scared and I handled it badly. Alaska’s been asking for you, and I hate that I did that to her and to you. Can we talk?
I stare at the message for a second, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Then I hit send.
The phone stays warm in my hand long after the screen goes dark.