Chapter 11
HARTLEY
I texted Stellan and I haven’t heard anything back. I want to throw my phone across the room.
Not because I regret what I said, but because now it exists outside of me.
Now it’s something Stellan can read and react to, and maybe decide things about.
The living room feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in on your ears until you start noticing every sound.
The refrigerator hums, and pipes click somewhere in the walls.
I’m halfway zoned out, staring at nothing when the vibration of my phone startles me so badly my thumb jerks and almost sends it sliding off the couch.
I catch it at the last second and just stare at the notification instead of opening it.
My heart is beating hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, in my teeth, in the space behind my eyes.
I don’t deserve an immediate response. I know that. I blew things up and if he needs space, that’s fair.
I unlock the screen anyway.
Stellan: Thanks for saying that. I was worried about you.
That’s it. No accusation or guilt tucked between the lines. Just concern, steady and uncomplicated.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, my shoulders slumping forward. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it shifts.
I type back and delete it twice before settling on something that doesn’t sound like I’m apologizing myself into the ground.
Me: I didn’t handle it well. I should’ve said something instead of freezing.
The dots appear almost immediately, then disappear, then appear again. I picture him wherever he is, maybe sitting on his couch, maybe standing in his kitchen with his phone in his hand, thinking about his words the way I’m thinking about mine.
Stellan: You don’t have to explain anything you’re not ready to. I just want you to know I’m not upset.
That hits harder than anger would have.
I shift on the couch, my back pressing into the cushions, my toes curling against the rug. My apartment smells like home, like responsibility, like a life I’ve built carefully and intentionally. Letting someone else touch that still feels risky.
Me: Alaska’s been signing your name nonstop. She misses you.
I don’t add anything else. I don’t say that she signs his name with the same seriousness she uses when she signs mine, I don’t say that she watched the door all week. I don’t say that I see how much steadier she feels when he’s here, how his presence gives her something solid to lean against.
Stellan: I miss her too.
The word ‘miss’ lands softly, but it lands.
I rub my hand over my face, dragging my palm down slowly, grounding myself in the sensation. I can hear Alaska’s breathing through the baby monitor, slow and even. She’s out cold, her body finally at rest after a day of holding things together the way only kids do.
Me: I don’t want to mess this up for her.
There it is. The thing I’ve been circling all week without naming.
Stellan: I know.
Stellan: And I won’t do anything that puts her in the middle.
I stare at that for a long time. The city noise filters in through the windows, distant and constant, a reminder that the world keeps moving whether I’m ready or not.
Me: Can we talk more? Maybe on a call or in person? Not tonight, but soon. It doesn’t feel right to do it all over text.
There’s a pause this time. Long enough that I set the phone down on my thigh and stare at the blank TV screen across the room. I can see my reflection faintly in the dark glass, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, eyes a little too sharp.
When the phone buzzes again, I flinch.
Stellan: Yeah. Whenever you want.
I swallow. My mouth feels dry.
Me: Maybe tomorrow around 9pm? Just on the phone.
Stellan: Tomorrow works.
That’s it. No push for more, no suggestion of coming over, and no reading between lines.
It's the least demanding message anyone's sent me in a year.
I set the phone on the coffee table and lean back, closing my eyes.
My body feels heavy in that specific way that comes after adrenaline drains out of your system, leaving everything sluggish and sore.
I can still feel the echo of his shoulder under my hands from last week, the warmth, the way my fingers knew exactly where to press without thinking.
I shouldn’t still be thinking about that.
I stand up and move through the apartment, tidying without really needing to. I rinse the last mug in the sink, dry it, and set it in the cabinet. I straighten the throw blanket on the couch, then stop halfway through and leave it crooked. I’m done pretending everything needs to be perfect.
In Alaska’s room, I pause in the doorway. She’s sprawled diagonally across the bed, one leg kicked free of the covers, fox tucked under her chin. Her hair fans out across the pillow, dark against pale cotton. She looks peaceful. I still can't get used to it.
“I’m trying,” I whisper again, even though she can’t hear me.
I go to bed, but sleep doesn’t come easy. My thoughts loop and tangle, replaying the sound of Stellan’s voice, the calm way he said my name, the steadiness of him even when I pulled away. At some point, exhaustion wins out and drags me under.
The next day crawls.
I move through the morning on autopilot. Coffee. Toast. Backpack. Drop off. Alaska gives me a lingering look before she goes into her classroom, fingers tapping once against her thigh in a nervous beat. I sign see you later and she nods, but her shoulders stay tight.
Work goes better than yesterday, but only because I force myself to stay present. I count breaths, I pay attention to muscle response. I focus on the task in front of me instead of the conversation waiting for me later.
By the time I get home, my nerves feel rubbed raw.
I feed Alaska dinner, give her a bath, then read her favorite book even though she doesn’t really listen anymore. When she’s tucked in and asleep, I sit on the couch with my phone in my hand and stare at the clock until it hits the time we agreed on.
I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” he says.
Just that. My name isn’t in it, but I hear it anyway.
“Hey,” I reply. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
There’s a brief silence, not awkward, just space being given instead of filled.
“I’m glad you called,” he says.
“I almost didn’t,” I admit.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I figured.”
I smile despite myself, then let it fade. “I don’t really know where to start.”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “We can just talk.”
So we do.
We talk about Alaska first, because that’s safe ground. I tell him about her week, about the way she’s been lining up her dinosaurs by size now instead of color, about how she refused spaghetti two nights in a row. He listens like it matters, like every detail is worth holding on to.
Then the conversation shifts, slowly and naturally, the way rivers do when they change direction.
“I panicked,” I say finally, staring at the dark window. “Not because you did anything wrong. Because it started to feel real.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I’m good at managing things,” I continue. “Routines. Expectations. I know how to keep people safe by keeping everything predictable. And then suddenly you were here, and Alaska trusted you, and I didn’t feel like I needed to be on guard all the time.”
I swallow hard. “That scared the hell out of me.”
“I get that,” he says quietly.
“I don’t think you do,” I say, not unkindly. “Loving someone who runs toward danger rewires you. You start believing that closeness is temporary. That letting people in just gives the universe more ways to hurt you.”
He’s silent for a long moment.
When he speaks again, his voice is lower. “I’m not asking you to let me in like that.”
His words catch me off guard.
“I just want to be honest,” he continues. “About being here, caring, and about going slow.”
My eyes sting unexpectedly.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.
“Then we’ll learn,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.