Chapter 14
HARTLEY
The kiss doesn’t leave my body when I wake up.
It’s there before I even open my eyes, a phantom pressure on my mouth, heat curling low in my stomach.
My lips feel different, sensitive enough that I press them together just to check.
That makes it worse. Memory floods in anyway; the way his hand braced near my shoulder, the way he waited, the way it didn’t feel rushed or hungry or reckless. It felt deliberate.
I roll onto my side and stare at the wall. Somewhere outside a truck backfires and my body jumps before I can stop it. I swallow hard and wait for my pulse to slow.
This is stupid. It was just a kiss.
Except it wasn’t.
Alaska pads down the hall a few minutes later, bare feet soft against the floor. She doesn’t announce herself. She never does. She climbs into my bed and curls against my side, her head warm and solid against my shoulder. I slide my arm around her automatically.
“Morning,” I murmur.
She hums, then pulls back just enough to look at my face. Her eyes search mine, slow and careful. I know that look. It’s the same one she uses when she’s checking the room, checking me, checking for something that feels off.
I’m the thing that’s off.
She touches my mouth with her fingertip then she signs.
S-T-E-L-L-A-N
“He’s okay,” I say, even though that isn’t what she asked. “He’ll be here Friday.”
I don’t know if she believes me. I’m not sure I even do.
The morning starts rough. I burn the toast and forget to water down her juice and have to remake it. Alaska lines up her shoes by the door and then moves them an inch to the left, correcting herself.
At preschool drop off she lingers longer than usual, fingers hooked in my hoodie pocket. Ms. Rodriguez gives me a look that’s gentle and curious.
“She’s been pointing to Friday a lot during calendar time,” she says quietly.
I nod. “That’s the night her tutor comes, she really likes him.”
Alaska presses her forehead into my hip, then lets go and walks inside without looking back. I stand there longer than necessary, hands shoved in my pockets.
The drive to work feels longer than usual. Every red light stretches, sirens thread straight through my chest. I keep seeing Stellan’s face when I pulled back, not angry or disappointed, but steady and hurt. That might be the worst part.
Work doesn’t help today. My hands are fine, but my head isn’t. I catch myself zoning out between clients, staring at the wall. One of my regulars asks if I’m seeing someone, and I laugh too loudly and say no way too fast. She raises an eyebrow like she knows better. Maybe she does.
By lunchtime I’ve decided exactly nothing except that avoiding this isn’t working.
I eat a granola bar and scroll through my phone without seeing anything. Stellan hasn’t texted. That’s not surprising. He said he’d give me space, and apparently he meant it.
That should make me feel relieved.
It doesn’t.
I leave work early because my last appointment doesn’t show up and the quiet in my car feels louder than the city. I don’t turn the radio on. I let my thoughts circle instead of shoving them away.
I keep telling myself this is about Alaska, about not bringing chaos into her life, about keeping her world predictable and safe. That’s the story I’ve been telling since the day Lance didn’t come home. It’s a good story. It’s responsible. It’s also incomplete.
Because if this was only about Alaska, I wouldn’t feel this hollow ache every time I picture Stellan not walking through our door again.
I pull into the parking lot outside my apartment and sit there with the engine running, hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. My reflection in the windshield looks tired and older than I feel inside.
“You don’t get to do this halfway,” I say out loud.
I don’t know who I’m talking to. Lance, maybe. The version of me that learned how to shut things down before they could hurt.
I turn the engine off and sit there for a second, hands still on the wheel, before I force myself to move.
By the time I pick Alaska up and get us home, the silence in the truck feels heavier than it should.
At home, she’s quieter than usual. She eats her snack without lining it up first, and she watches the door. That hurts more than it should.
I crouch in front of her. “Hey,” I say softly. “You know I love you, right?”
She nods.
“And you know I’m always going to be here. Uncle Hartley will always do what’s best for you.”
She looks at me then reaches up and pats my cheek, the way she does when she thinks I’m the one who needs comforting. The simplicity of it almost wrecks me.
Dinner is easy because I don’t have the energy to fight with ingredients or the stove. We do grilled cheese and apple slices. She helps me flip the sandwich, serious and focused, her small hand steady on the spatula handle.
“You’re really good at that,” I tell her.
She smiles, just a little.
After her bath, she insists on wearing her dinosaur pajamas even though they need to be washed. I don’t argue. I sit with her until she falls asleep, counting her breaths, listening to the hum of the building around us.
When I leave her room, the apartment feels too quiet.
I pace the living room once. Twice. I stop in the kitchen and lean my palms against the counter, head bowed. The smell of dish soap, bread, and home presses in around me.
I think about Lance. About the way he’d roll his eyes when I overthought things.
About the way he loved fiercely and recklessly, and paid for it with everything.
I think about the day the fire department chaplain knocked on my door, and how the world tilted sideways and never quite righted itself again.
I don’t want to lose someone like that again, but I also don’t want Alaska growing up thinking love is something you avoid to stay safe.
Fear kept me alive this long. It doesn’t get to run the rest of my life.
I grab my phone before I can change my mind.
My fingers hover over Stellan’s name. My heart is pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. I type, delete, type again.
Me: I’ve been thinking about lunch. And the kiss…A lot.
I stare at it. It feels honest. It also feels terrifying.
Me: I don’t want to keep pretending that it doesn't matter.
I take a breath and add one more line.
Me: Friday can you stay after I put Alaska to bed? Just to talk.
I hit send before my courage can evaporate. The wait is excruciating. I pace again. I check the clock. I stare at the door like it might open on its own.
When my phone buzzes, I nearly drop it.
Stellan: Yeah. I’d like that.
That’s it. No pressure. No expectations. Just yes.
My knees feel weak and I sink onto the couch, phone still clutched in my hand.