Chapter 25
HARTLEY
For a second, none of us move. Alaska presses both hands against the window, staring at Stellan’s parents like she’s studying a new animal at the zoo. Stellan shifts beside me, reaching for the door handle.
“Well,” he says softly, “this is it.”
I blow out a slow breath and push my door open. Cold air hits my face immediately, sharp enough to wake every nerve in my body. The house looks even bigger from the driveway; a wide porch stretches across the front, windows glowing warm from inside.
Stellan circles the front of the vehicle and opens the back door before I can even think about it. Alaska is already unbuckling herself. He waits patiently until she finishes, then scoops her up when she raises her arms.
“There’s my copilot,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against her hair.
She giggles quietly and presses her forehead against his cheek, then signs something quick that I miss because my brain is still stuck on the fact that we’re standing in front of his childhood home.
“Hi!” his mom calls, already coming down the steps before we’ve made it halfway up.
Alaska stiffens slightly in Stellan’s arms, not scared, just cautious in that way she is with new people. Stellan adjusts his hold on her and laughs under his breath.
“Hi, Mom,” he says.
She wraps him in a quick hug that includes Alaska automatically. “Look at you,” she says, squeezing his arm before stepping back to take us all in. Her eyes land on Alaska first, softening immediately.
“This must be Alaska,” she says gently. “I’m Julia, Stellan’s mom.”
Alaska watches her closely, then lifts one hand in a tiny wave while clutching her fox with the other.
Julia’s smile widens. “Well, hello there, sweetheart.”
His dad steps forward next, offering Stellan a firm clap on the shoulder before turning toward me. "You must be Hartley. Tim."
“Yeah,” I answer, hoping my voice sounds steadier than my stomach feels.
“We’re glad you made the drive,” he says simply.
Something in the way he says it eases a little of the pressure sitting in my chest.
Julia claps her hands lightly. “Come inside before we all freeze. We’ve got milk and cookies waiting if Alaska wants some.”
Alaska’s eyes light up instantly.
“See,” Stellan says quietly to her, “best house ever.”
She nods as if that’s already been confirmed.
We step inside together and the warmth hits first, followed by the smell of something baked earlier in the day. Framed photos line the walls, blankets folded neatly over couch arms, a pair of reading glasses sitting on the end table like someone set them down five minutes ago.
Julia leads Alaska toward the kitchen, already asking if she wants chocolate milk or regular. Alaska signs ‘C’ without hesitation and Julia laughs like she understands perfectly.
Stellan nudges my shoulder gently. “Let’s grab our bags,” he says.
We carry them from the car into the house and down the hallway. The floors creak slightly under our steps, the kind of sound older homes make when they’ve held decades of footsteps.
He opens a door on the left first. “This one’s Alaska’s for the weekend.”
The room is small but cozy, a queen bed made with a bright quilt, a nightlight already plugged into the wall. “She’ll love it. Probably beg me to get her a bigger bed for her room back home.”
Stellan chuckles.
Then he opens the next door.
“My room growing up,” he says.
The space has clearly changed over the years. The bed is a king now, but the bones of a teenage bedroom still live here. A dresser that’s seen better decades, a shelf with old sports trophies, a few faded books. It feels like a snapshot of who he used to be.
“I can see it,” I say.
“See what?”
“You here.”
His mouth curves into a small smile before he leans in and kisses me quickly.
“Good,” he murmurs.
From the kitchen we hear Alaska laugh, a bright sound that makes both of us pause.
“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while.”
Stellan exhales slowly. “That’s a good sign.”
We head back toward the kitchen, where Julia is pouring milk into a small glass while Alaska sits at the table with two cookies on a plate in front of her. Tim stands near the counter with his arms crossed, watching the scene with quiet amusement.
Julia looks up. “Perfect timing. I was just telling Alaska we’ve got dinner reservations tonight.”
“Reservations?” Stellan asks.
She nods proudly. “JNC Nippon.”
Stellan rolls his eyes. “Did you have to go so fancy?”
“What is this place?” I ask.
“It’s a Japanese steakhouse. They cook the food right in front of you at the table. We thought Alaska might like the show,” Julia tells me.
Alaska claps immediately.
Stellan laughs. “Well, I think you guessed right.”
I lean against the doorway and watch them all for a second; the easy flow of conversation, the warmth in the room, the way Alaska already looks comfortable.
Tim claps his hands once, like he’s moving a crew through a plan. “Tour,” he says, pointing at me. “Come on, Hartley. Let’s show you the place.”
I follow him through the house as he shows me everything.
The living room, the family photos, the den where he watches sports, the back room that used to be a workshop before it turned into storage.
He talks about the neighborhood, the schools, which roads flood when it rains, where the best grocery store is, practical things.
He doesn’t pry, but he keeps looking at me like he’s taking stock, figuring out if I’ll protect his son or hurt him.
“I hear you run a studio in Chicago,” he says as we pass a set of French doors that lead to a back deck.
“Massage therapy,” I confirm. “I lease the space.”
“Good work,” he says. “Hard work.”
“Yeah,” I admit.
He glances toward the kitchen. “Julia’s excited,” he says. “She’s been talking about meeting you two all week.”
My mouth goes dry. “No pressure.”
Tim’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “Pressure’s part of the job,” he says, and then he opens a door to the backyard and gestures. “At least here you get a yard with it.”
A couple hours later, we’re heading into town. The restaurant is nicer than I expected; warm lighting, dark wood, a koi pond inside near the entrance with a little bridge over it, water moving slowly beneath it. Alaska stops to stare at the fish, eyes wide, then signs fish at Stellan.
He crouches beside her. “I see them,” he says. “They’re showing off.”
She presses her face to the spindles of the bridge and giggles again, that bright sound that still feels rare.
A host leads us through the restaurant a minute later. The place smells like garlic, soy sauce and grilled meat. We pass a few tables where chefs are already working, spatulas clanging against metal while flames jump up from the grills. Alaska slows down just enough to stare at each one.
We reach our table and slide into the seats around the big flat hibachi grill in the center. The metal surface is already warm, heat rising in soft waves.
A waitress appears almost immediately with menus and a practiced smile.
“What can I get everyone to drink?” she asks.
Stellan glances at me first.
“Mai tai?” he suggests.
“Twist my arm.”
“Two mai tais,” he tells the waitress, nodding toward both of us.
Julia smiles politely. “I’ll have a glass of moscato.”
Tim barely glances at the menu. “Coke.”
The waitress looks at Alaska next, eyebrows lifting slightly.
“Sprite,” I say for her.
Alaska nods enthusiastically.
The waitress disappears and returns a few minutes later, balancing a tray. She sets the drinks down one by one. My mai tai lands in front of me in a little ceramic cup shaped like a chubby guy with a wide belly and tiny painted smile. I blink at it, then laugh.
“Okay,” I say, lifting it. “That’s incredible.”
We place our orders after taking a sip of our drinks.
Steak and rice for me and Tim, a kids chicken and rice for Alaska while Stellan and Julia both order the seafood and rice dinner.
Julia asks questions as we wait for the chef to arrive. Alaska’s school, her favorite treats, which shows she likes, and I answer her with enthusiasm.
Then she turns the conversation to my life.
“Where’d you go to school?” she asks.
“Local community college at first,” I say. “Then I did my massage program after.”
“And you like it?” she asks.
I think about my studio, the steady work, my hands knowing what to do. I think about how I built something out of grief because I didn’t know what else to do.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
The chef arrives with a tall hat, grinning, and Alaska’s attention locks in.
He quickly starts the show. Onion rings stacked into a tower, oil poured, flame whooshing up into a volcano.
Alaska’s mouth opens in a silent gasp, then she claps hard, eyes shining.
The chef flips an egg on a spatula, tosses it up like it’s nothing, then holds it out toward Alaska, inviting her into the game.
She freezes then looks at me.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You can try.”
Stellan’s hand rests on her back, steady. “You’ve got it,” he says.
Alaska tosses the egg and the chef catches it against his chest, then makes a big show of tucking it into his pocket like it’s a magic trick. Alaska loses it. She claps and giggles, shoulders shaking, and the sound hits me so hard I have to look down at my plate for a second.
Julia laughs too, eyes bright. “Oh she’s going to remember this,” she says.
Food starts landing in front of us as the chef cooks, the smell of seared steak and garlic filling the air, the rice hot and buttery. We eat and talk while Alaska watches every trick, mesmerized.
Julia tells stories about Stellan as a kid, stubborn, always climbing things he wasn’t supposed to climb. Tim adds details with dry humor, and I just know he’s been saving these stories for the right moment.
“He tried to build a ladder out of couch cushions,” Tim says.
Stellan groans. “I was six.”
“You were determined,” Julia says, smiling. “He always was.”
At some point Julia says, with zero subtlety, “It’s going to be so fun to be grandparents.”
Alaska’s eyes go huge. She nods hard and points at Julia and Tim, then points at herself, then Stellan, finally me. She arranges us with her hands like a little director building a scene. Tim’s eyes flick to Alaska, then back to me, and he opens his mouth.
“Dad,” Stellan says quietly, warning in one word.
Tim still says it, because he’s a dad and dads ask questions even when they shouldn’t. “Why doesn’t she speak?”
The table goes still for half a beat. Julia knocks her elbow into his side hard enough that he hisses, and Stellan’s jaw goes tight. I look at Alaska first and she’s watching me, waiting to see if I’m going to make this moment scary.
I keep my smile, reach over and wipe a small smear of sauce off her chin with my napkin.
“She hasn’t said a word since her daddy went to Heaven,” I say, voice steady. “She can hear, she can speak, she chooses not to. She’ll let us hear that cute little voice again when she's ready.”
Julia’s face softens, immediate regret in her eyes. Tim looks like he wants to crawl under the table.
“But,” I add, because there’s light too, “she’s said two words since tutoring with Stellan.”
Stellan’s whole face changes, pride flashing through him.
He tickles Alaska’s side, playful, quick. “She’ll talk again,” he tells her. “She’s waiting for the right moment.”
He winks at her.
Alaska tries to wink back and it comes out as an exaggerated blink. The table breaks into laughter, Tim included, relief loosening the tension. Julia reaches over and touches my hand for a second, a quiet apology without saying a word.
Dinner finishes with full stomachs and lighter air. Alaska is sticky with Sprite and rice, sleepy but still glowing, her eyes tracking the koi pond again on the way out.
Back at the house, Alaska yawns hard the second we step inside, her body finally giving up the adrenaline.
Julia crouches beside her. “Milk before bed?” she asks.
Alaska nods solemnly, then signs thank you.
Julia’s eyes shine. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Stellan squeezes my hand as we head down the hall, and I realize I’m not bracing for the door to shut behind us. I’m not counting minutes until we can leave.
Stellan leans in close and murmurs, “You did good.”
I believe him.