Page 3 of Falling For Alaska

Will I see him again at the Fall Festival next week?

Jack

“Looks like a two-man job,” Axel Callahan says, his voice irritated as he gestures to the splintered front door. The guy’s built like an oak tree, late twenties, brown hair, arms crossed over a worn grey T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. His workshop, Callahan & Hartwood Furnishing, smells of fresh-cut wood and sawdust, with every tool neatly hung on the wall as if it’s part of a display. I glance around, taking in the details, but part of my mind drifts back to the girl from the bookshop.

Alaska.

She was quite…a sight.

Crouching beside the damaged frame, a low whistle slips through my teeth before I say anything, an old habit that buys me a second without drawing attention.

“I s-see,” I manage. “Any other signs of forced entry?” My stutter’s mostly under control when I’m working, being in my element, and all that. It helps. I know what I have to do, and how to do it. Still, it never really leaves. It’s always there, dormant, waiting to come back when I least expect it. I’ve had months where it barely showed up at all. Thought I was past it. Then one morning, I woke up to find it back in full strength. There were times I didn’t even want to leave the house. Couldn’t stand the idea of ordering food or having to speak to anyone, even my own family. I live in fear of it, of the words locking up, of people doubting my ability to do my job just because I stumble on a word. Every morning, I wake up bracing for whatever new limitation I’ll have to work around that day. And knowing my Captain back in Minneapolis wants me to “get rid of it” like I can just shake off… He has no idea. My stutter isn’t something you cure. I tried. Speech therapy from age six to fifteen. A decade of frustration costing my mom a fortune. Any progress I made was usually crushed by someone finishing my sentence just to hurry the conversation along.

So I built my own strategies, made of breathing patterns, words to avoid, and workarounds, to make it easier. People think the worst part is the spasms or the choking on words, but that’s only the tip of the iceberg.

Physically, it’s frustrating.

Mentally, I’m trapped inside myself and I don’t know if I’ll ever get out.

“Don’t think so,” Axel replies, walking toward the back. “The fuckers had the nerve to come in through the front. Bold as hell.” He grits his teeth. “They took some tools, a brand-new cutting machine, and a bit of cash. If I’d caught one of them…” He trails off, jaw tight. I listen, jotting a quick note in my notebook, keeping my breathing measured like I’ve trained myself to. My eyes catch faint scuff marks on the floor near the back door. Dragging motion, maybe. A cutting machine wouldn’t be light.

“You n-notice these?” I ask, pointing.

Axel leans in, frowning. “No. Good catch.”

“Could be a lead. I’ll follow up at the s-s-station, see if anything similar’s happened lately.”

“Appreciate it,” he says, keeping eye contact. “You’re new here, right?”

“Yeah. I arrived two days ago. I was stationed in Minneapolis b-before.”

“You don’t say? What’s a guy like you doing in our town? Ain’t you gonna get bored here?” He lifts a brow.

I exhale through my nose, clenching my arms tight. “N-no,” I say, then clear my throat. “Different pace, sure,” I pause, gathering myself, “work’s work. Doesn’t matter where you are, people still find ways to g-g-get into t-trouble.” I bite my tongue, hating myself for stumbling so much. Axel doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest, leaning against the bench.

“Well, trouble’s scarce here most of the time. Fall Festival’s probably the liveliest it gets. You planning to check it out?”

“Haven’t heard of it,” I admit, glancing back at the scuff marks. “What’s it like?”

“Big deal around here,” he says, scratching his neck. “Food stalls, music, workshops, bonfire by the lake. Pretty much everyone shows up. Even tourists come in for it.” He flicks a hand dismissively. “Good excuse to drink cider and let loose a little.”

“If there’s a…uh, c-crowd, I guess we’ll all be on duty.” I straighten, sliding my notes into the back pocket of my jeans.

“It’s not much, but yeah, we like it here,” Axel says before gesturing toward the door. “And hey, thanks for catching that clue. You might be sharper than some of the other guys we’ve had through here.” I let out a low, stilted hum, my lungs pulling tight. So far, I’ve met three officers and my captain. Five of us total. From what I’ve seen, they seem decent. Still, I’ve only been here two days. Plenty of time to find out who’s really carrying their weight.

“I’ll keep you p-posted,” I say as I step outside. The crisp fall wind hits my face as Main Street slowly comes to life. Shops opening, folks moving about. I can almost see her store from here. As I head back to my car, I glance toward the bookshop window. She’s inside. Her wild brown hair catches the light as she talks to someone, her back to the street. She’s listening carefully, one hand resting on the shelf beside her. I shouldn’t stare. She’s just a stranger. Someone I spoke to for all of two minutes. Sliding into my car, my phone lights up as the calendar app opens, the Fall Festival’s next week. The engine turns over, my grip tightening on the steering wheel as I try to ignore the voice insisting I might see her there again.

Chapter Three

ALASKA

The streets of Lakeside are packed, locals mingling with out-of-towners drawn in by the Fall Festival. Everything’s happening down by the lake, which, if I’m being honest, isn’t my favorite spot. But I’m trying to be a good sport, so I agreed. I’ve carved out a little nook for myself near the main path: a pop-up version of my bookstore, complete with stacks of paperbacks, a small writing workshop station, and a book giveaway. This is my second year doing it, and people seem to love it. I’ve tried to recreate the feel of my shop with soft pinks and pastels, draped linens, dried flowers, and tiny string lights clipped along the booth’s frame. It smells like old pages and fresh coffee. There’s a breeze off the lake that carries the warmth of kettle corn, roasted nuts, and Sherry’s infamous pumpkin pies from the next booth over. She’s on my left, greeting everyone with flour-dusted hands and trays of cinnamon buns. On my right, Alec’s selling seashell necklaces and postcards featuring watercolor sketches of the lake. We’ve all been here since sunrise, setting up in the misty chill. Now the sun’s warming up the air, and by ten a.m., the crowd is already swelling.

Across the grassy stretch, the first event of the day, an oyster-eating contest, is drawing cheers and groans from a lively group gathered by the announcer’s tent. The air is full of laughter, music, and the occasional squawk of a seagull overhead. Somewhere in the background, the Lakeside Ladies Choir, ten retired women in matching plaid scarves, is making their rounds, singing cheerful folk songs and harmony-layered classics.

I glance out at the water. It’s unusual still today. Holding onto its breath. A few leaves skate across the surface, and I shut my eyes for a second.

I’m okay.