Page 56 of Smoke Signals

My breath catches hard enough that I forget to answer right away.

Boyfriend.

I inhale slowly. “Okay,” I say, not bothering to hide my smile.

His exhale sounds relieved, warm. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I repeat, quieter but certain.

We talk a few minutes longer, nothing important and somehow everything important; about dinner, about his shoulder holding up, about Alaska’s construction project.

When we hang up I stare at my phone for a second, a grin still stuck on my face.

I have a boyfriend.

The thought feels unreal enough that I laugh under my breath.

“Alright,” I say, clapping my hands once. “Dinner.”

Alaska immediately abandons construction and follows me to the kitchen.

Tomato soup warms on the stove, the smell filling the apartment while butter melts in a pan. Grilled cheese sizzles, bread turning golden as I press it down carefully. I make her sandwich smaller, cut into triangles the way she prefers, and throw together a tuna melt for myself because suddenly I’m starving.

We eat at the table, soup cooling in slow swirls while she dunks her sandwich with serious concentration.

I catch myself smiling for no reason.

After dinner comes bath time, pajamas, the familiar routine of bedtime. She signs goodnight before curling onto her side, fox tucked in her arms, eyes already heavy.

I sit beside her a minute longer than usual.

“Guess what,” I whisper, even though she’s half asleep. “I have a boyfriend.”

22

STELLAN

I don’t sleep much after asking Hartley to be my boyfriend.

Not because anything went wrong. Because everything went right and my brain doesn’t know what to do now that we’re together-together.

The alarm clock reads 4:52 AM when I give up pretending and swing my legs off the bed. My apartment feels different this morning, quieter than usual but not empty. Last night keeps replaying in pieces while I move through the motions without thinking, pulling on jeans, tying boots, grabbing my jacket from the chair.

Hartley’s voice stays with me the most.

I was mad, but I’m not anymore.

I hear the hurt underneath it now that I’m alone with it. He hadn’t yelled or accused. He’d just sounded scared and careful at the same time, like he was trying not to ask for something he didn’t think he was allowed to want.

Someone worrying whether I come home or not is new territory.

I make coffee, drink half of it standing at the counter, then leave before I can overthink anything else.

The firehouse parking lot looks the same as always, gray morning light bouncing off metal doors, rigs lined up like they never moved. Inside, noise hits immediately. My brothers arguing about breakfast burritos while someone else laughs too loud at something that probably isn’t funny.

Jake spots me first. “Look who decided to keep the job.”

“Missed you too,” I say.