Page 32 of Smoke Signals

HARTLEY

My phone rings in the middle of a stretch I don’t actually need to be doing, palms pressed into the edge of the massage table, spine lengthening because my body doesn’t know what else to do while waiting.

I wipe my hands on my scrub pants before I pick up, even though they aren’t damp. The second I see his name on the screen my breath catches.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound normal and like my pulse isn’t suddenly in my throat.

“Hey,” Stellan says. I’m picturing him smiling even if I can’t see it. “You busy?”

I glance at the schedule taped to the wall. A client just left, and my next one isn’t for almost two hours. A big, rare gap I’d been planning to use to catch up on notes or doom scroll or stare at the ceiling and think about all the ways I’ve been fucking up my own life lately.

“I have some free time,” I say. “Why?”

There’s a pause, just long enough that my brain starts filling it with worst-case scenarios, and then he says, “I was thinking of grabbing lunch. Nothing fancy. There’s a place a couple blocks from your place. If you want.”

Lunch.

Not tutoring. Not Alaska. Just lunch.

My first instinct is to say no. Not because I don’t want to go, but because I do.

“I can do lunch,” I hear myself say anyway. “I’m not at home, though. I’m at work. I’ll shoot you the address.”

I hang up and text him that I’ll meet him at the corner. He tells me he’s already nearby, and when I set my phone down, my hands are shaking a little. I press my palms flat on the counter and breathe until it eases.

This is fine. This is normal. Two adults eating lunch.

I grab my jacket and step outside. The Chicago air is sharp against my cheeks, the noise of traffic, voices and bus sounds grounding me whether I want it to or not. Stellan’s already there when I reach the corner, leaning against a light pole like he belongs to the street itself. Hands in his pockets, shoulders broad under a hoodie that looks soft enough to sleep in.

He looks up when he sees me and smiles. “Hey,” he says again, like he didn’t just say it ten minutes ago.

“Hey,” I reply, because apparently that’s the only word I can say around him.

The place he takes me to is exactly what he promised. Chicago dogs wrapped in paper, fries dumped into a red plastic basket, cans of soda sweating onto the table. It smells like onions and mustard and fried grease, the kind of food that demands you commit to it fully, or not at all.

We sit inside because it’s one of those days where spring is trying, really trying, but the wind still bites a little. I balance the hot dog carefully, already knowing I’m going to get mustard on my sleeve and Stellan laughs when it happens, like he expected it.

“Rookie mistake,” he says.

“I live here,” I protest. “I should know better.”

“You still did it anyway,” he points out.

He’s not wrong.

We eat messily, elbows brushing, fries stolen back and forth like it’s instinctive. Every time our hands bump, something low and warm twists in my stomach. I tell myself it’s nothing.

“You’re good with Alaska,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. “You let her lead.”

I wipe my hands on a napkin, buying time. “I don’t really know how else to do it.”

“Most people rush kids,” he says. “Fill the quiet because it makes them uncomfortable.”

“I hate that,” I say. “She doesn’t need noise. She needs space.”

He watches me when I say it, really watches me.

“You’re a good guardian,” he says.