Page 25 of Falling For Alaska

She brings the cake closer. "Do you have a knife?"

I reach for the one I carry clipped inside my pocket, flip it open, and hand it to her handle-first. She pauses, her gaze flitting to mine before reaching for it. My eyes drop to her fingers, and there they are again, those pale, raised scars running over her knuckles. The ones of someone who’s hit too many things, too hard. She grips the knife, slicing into the cake without a word.

“Don’t they have…weekends in Minneapolis?” Her voice catches, her hand trembling slightly. I take it as a diversion. She doesn’t want me staring at her scars. It makes her uncomfortable. Copy that.

“We do Alaska, we do… I just thought you’d be better off without me, that’s all.” She stops cutting the cake mid-air, then frowns, like she can’t register what I just told her.

“And do you miss your friends there?”

"Y-yeah," I say, grabbing a couple of paper towels from my drawer, the kind we use to wipe down windows. "B-but it's just a few hours away. I-I'll see them soon." I place a piece of cake on one towel and slide it across to her, then do the same for myself.

"I-I don’t have any spoons or plates," I mutter. "Th-this okay?" She chuckles, and I swear the sound fills every damn corner of the room, bright as a ray of sunshine.

"It’s fine," she says, her voice lighter now. "Cake tastes better like that anyway." I take a bite, and damn. The chocolate hits like a memory of childhood birthday cakes.

"Wow," I mutter. "This is...amazing, Alaska. Seriously." She blushes, her eyes dipping to her own slice like the compliment’s too much to handle.

"It’s just a simple recipe."

"N-no way I could do it. I c-can’t cook. I even burn water. Never tried baking though, don’t think I got the p-p-patience for it." She giggles, soft and sweet. I want to bottle that sound and carry it around with me. Our eyes meet. She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

"So...you’re eager to get back?" she asks finally, eyes flicking away. I lean back in my chair. Am I? When I first got here, the trees outnumbered the people; my presence felt like a punishment. But things changed. My coworkers are decent. The cases are interesting enough. And…Alaska’s here.

"N-not really. Maybe they can visit me here. F-fresh air might do them good."

She watches me closely. "Bella said you’re only staying a year."

News travels fast. "Yeah," I confirm, "I-I'll be back at my old station in a year. There’s a promotion waiting for me. I worked for years for it and, yeah, if everything goes well..."

"Why…why wouldn’t it?"

"Th-there's a f-few things I, uh, I gotta work on," I admit, instantly wanting to slap myself in the face. Why am I confiding in her? She stays silent, waiting. "S-speech-related stuff," I drop, voice low, chest tightening as I brace for her reaction. My stutter isn’t a topic I like to talk about. Ever.

"Is that why you're here?" My shoulders sink, wishing I didn’t have to explain this part of myself. That my stutter’s a warzone. That every day’s a battlefield where I never know when the next landmine will blow.

Some days I dodge.

Some days it guts me.

"Did you always have it?" she asks gently, and it hits me that I haven’t talked about this in years.

"S-started when I, uh…lost my dad. I was s-s-six."

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her hand resting on the table, inches from mine.

"It was barely there at first. M-my mom thought it’d go away…shock and all. But it got worse and… Well, yeah." I wave a hand at myself, the living proof of what grief did to me. I wish she’d met me before all this. Before it rewired me. It was unfair. So damn unfair. My dad, healthy and strong, was taken by a stroke, like life was flipping a coin just to spite us. Since then, it’s been my mission to become what he always wanted me to be. A good man. A good cop. Someone who protects people and seeks justice. Someone he'd be proud of. He would always point at them in the street, lower to my level, and say, heroes Jack, they’re heroes. And I wish I could show him that I’ve become one too. Only this stutter turned into a second person inside me. One that jumps out without warning, hijacking my voice. And I fight it every damn day, but it never really goes away. Never fully loses. It doesn't matter how much I try, put on my uniform and protect people, the inside is still very much in ruins.

"Does it get worse with stress?" she asks. I huff a quiet laugh, dry and sharp. She’s watching me close, a little furrow in her brow, trying to solve me. And God, it’s…adorable. Alaska’s so damn sweet and I’m craving her like a forbidden candy.

"Y-yeah and no. At work, on the field, I’m okay. It’s the rest of life that’s harder. Everything else is...c-complicated." My eyes drift to her hands, her knuckles. White scars running like threads on her skin. What happened to her? Did she punch something? Or someone? Those aren’t the kind of marks you get from paper cuts. Those are fighting scars.

"W-was it anger?" I ask, waving at her fingers. She drops her gaze. Set her cake down and I notice her jaw flexing. Just when I think she won’t answer, her lips open like she’s about to speak.

"It wasn’t anger. I don’t… I can’t even remember the last time I was angry."

"Really?" I arch a brow.

She ums, then pivots the topic. "That must be nice. To have a clear goal. To know what makes you happy."