by K. A. Tucker
“By foot?”
“They’re probably just shifting a block or two. People don’t want to burn gas for that, not at almost seven bucks a gallon.”
“I take it that’s a lot?” I hazard, quickly adding, “We pay in liters.” Not that I could gauge the value in any measurement, but I’m tired of feeling like an idiot in front of Jonah.
Jonah lifts a hand in casual greeting at a passing man on an ATV. “Double the gas price in Anchorage. Almost three times as much as the Lower Forty-eight.”
The Lower Forty-eight? Do I dare ask? Or will that earn me another dry, thinly veiled “you’re so ignorant” response.
I reach for my phone to Google the term, but then my hand freezes as I remember my phone doesn’t work here.
“That’s what we call the rest of America,” Jonah murmurs, as if able to read my mind. “Up here, all our fuel comes in on a barge, and then gets dumped into a fuel farm for storage or carried up the river to the villages in smaller boats. That’s a lot of added cost in transportation and storage. And that’s just to keeping a car going. Every one of these vehicles cost thousands to get here, on top of what they cost to buy. A lot of people around here don’t own one. Those who do take good care of them so they last.”
I guess that explains why my dad is driving a truck that’s at least fifteen years old when it sounds like by normal standards he could afford better.
I quietly take stock of the vehicles we pass as if to prove Jonah’s words. They’re all older, worn models, with plenty of bumps and bruises. Fords, GMCs, Hondas. A lot of pickup trucks. Not a shiny BMW in sight.
A worn white sedan with orange writing on its side that reads TAXI CAB and a phone number drives by, surprising me. “You have cabs here?”
Jonah snorts. “Plenty of those. More per capita than any other US city. Five bucks flat will get you anywhere you want to go in town. Seven to the airport.”
I wish I had known. I would have gladly called one instead of dealing with Jonah. Though, he’s being civil now. More than civil, actually. He’s using full sentences.
Maybe that’s why I dare ask, “Have you lived in Alaska your whole life?”
There’s a long pause, and I wonder if maybe I misread his civility, if maybe I should have shut up while I was ahead.
“I was born in Anchorage. We moved to Vegas when I was twelve. I moved back about ten years ago.”
“Vegas. Really . . .”
Sharp blue eyes glance over at me quickly. “Why do you say it like that?”
“No reason. I’ve never met anyone who actually lived in Vegas.” My only weekend there was a drunken, costly three-day blur with Diana and two other friends for our twenty-first birthdays. By the time I curled up in my seat to fly home, I was more than ready to leave.
“Yeah, well, there’s more to it than the Strip. Most locals won’t be caught dead down there.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Hell, no. Couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
“Why?”
He sighs, as if he doesn’t have the energy to answer a question like that. “Too fast, too loud, too materialistic—take your pick.”
The exact opposite of Bangor, I’m quickly gathering. “But why this part of Alaska? I mean, why didn’t you go back to Anchorage, if that’s where you grew up? It looks nice. Peaceful. From what I saw, anyway.” And from what I read, it’s a real city.
“I like it better here.”
I’m sensing he could say a lot more but has no interest to. Still, I’m too curious to stop asking questions. “How’d you end up working for my dad, anyway?”
“One of the pilots was an old friend of my father’s. He hooked me up.”
Mention of Jonah’s father reminds me of what Agnes revealed yesterday. I hesitate. It’s a sensitive topic, but it’s also a connection between us. “I heard your dad had cancer, too.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something—when his father died, from what type of cancer, how long he suffered, how long he fought. I want to ask if Jonah was close to his father, if it still hurts. Maybe that bit of information will make him seem more human; maybe he’ll soften when he realizes that we have at least one thing in common.
“Yup.”
His hand tightens around the steering wheel and I instantly regret bringing it up. Though, I think I got the answer as to whether it still hurts.
I quickly search for a new, safe topic to switch to.
I find it in the form of a golden-yellow sign. “Hey! You guys have a Subway!” I don’t even like subs and yet I’m excited, for no other reason than it’s something familiar.
He relaxes his grip. “It’s the only chain you’ll find around here.”
“So . . . I guess that means no Starbucks?” I hazard, topping it off with a playful grin.
Icy blue eyes flicker to me a moment before adjusting to the road. “Nope.”
“Is there somewhere I can grab a coffee?”
We come to a stoplight, the first one so far. With his hand still curled around the steering wheel, he points a long index finger—the nail bitten off, cuticle cracking—at a forest-green building. “Right there.”
A white bristol-board sign hangs over the darkened entryway. “Berta’s Coffee and Bait Shop?” I read out loud.
“Yeah. You know . . . fish eggs, leeches, herring, shad, chunks of dead—”
“I get it,” I cut him off with a cringe. “But in a coffee shop? That’s got to be a health code violation.”
“People need to diversify to keep their businesses afloat around here.”
“I guess.” I’m still cringing when I notice the ramshackle building next to it, a medley of ill-sized plywood boards and metal sheets and worn paint, and a wooden board slapped to the front that has SZECHUAN’S scrawled across it with, I’m guessing, a wide paintbrush. “Oh my God. Is that . . . a Chinese food restaurant?” Because it looks like a backyard clubhouse built out of scrap material by a bunch of ten-year-old boys.
“It’s been there forever.”
That place would be shut down for a slew of health and building code violations in a day, anywhere else in North America.
“Where the hell am I?” I mumble, aiming my phone. Wait until Diana sees this.
I feel his steady gaze on me. “Do you want me to pull over, so you can run in and see if they have a fresh pot of—”
“No thanks. I’ll wait.” I’d rather deal with this pounding headache than accept a coffee from someone who most certainly didn’t wash their hands enough after sticking them into a vat of writhing earthworms.
I think there’s a small smile lurking behind that beard, but it’s hard to see. Still, I feel an odd sense of accomplishment at the possibility that this “teddy bear”—by Agnes’s description—might not despise me as much as he seemed to initially.
He makes another turn—either my dad’s directions on that note were wrong or Jonah took me the long way—and we’re now on Main Street, a wider road lined with more of the same simple siding-clad buildings, only with business signs. Bangor seems to have all the service staples—law office, dentist, chamber of commerce, bank, even a real estate broker—as well as a string of sandwich, pizza, and family restaurants that are basic but don’t look like they’re serving up listeria.
My stomach grumbles as we roll past Gigi’s Pizza & Pasta, a cute upbeat yellow place with more windows than anyone else on the street. But the neon OPEN sign by the door isn’t illuminated. If it were, I’d ask Jonah to drop me off there and I’d catch a cab home.
Jonah swerves into a parking lot and pulls in next to an ATV. A giant warehouse is ahead, finished off with an earthy brown siding and a gently sloped black tin roof. The sign above the door reads MEYER’S GROCERY, CLOTHING, AND HOUSEHOLD GOODS.
“Look, if you want to wait—”
He
pops his door open and with sleek moves, exits his truck and rounds the front of it, before I have a chance to finish my sentence. And then he simply stands there, arms folded across his broad chest, waiting for me.
“I guess I’m going grocery shopping with Jonah,” I mutter to myself. At least this way he can’t abandon me here.
I hope.
I slide out of the passenger seat, adjusting my fitted sweater over my hips and waist.
Jonah’s eyes catch the subtle move and then he turns away, looking wholly disinterested. That’s fine, because I’m not trying to attract him. What would be his type anyway, I wonder. I couldn’t even hazard a guess, other than to say “hardy.”
He marches for a set of stairs that lead to the main door.
And despite the fact that he’s a jerk, I can’t help but admire the curves of his shoulders and arms as I follow him in. He has an impressive upper body. The upper body of someone who lifts weights regularly. His lower body, I can’t discern. His jeans are too loose to show any real definition, plus he should tighten his belt a few notches because they’re sagging on his ass.
I look up in time to meet his eyes. Jonah has caught me and it probably looks like I’m ogling him.
“I thought you were in a rush.” I nod my chin to urge him forward, feeling my cheeks burn.
He tugs on a shopping cart handle, pulling it free from the rack. “Where to, first?”
Good question. One of the luxuries of still living at home is that I don’t have to think about meal planning. Sure, when my friends and I head off for a weekend, we’ll stop at the grocery store and load up a cart with burgers and the like, but Mom takes care of planning food for the week. When was the last time I had to do it?
Have I ever?
The interior of Meyer’s is pure chaos, I realize, as I take in the sea of products that seem to occupy every available square inch of real estate. This is not what I’m used to. On the rare occasion that I have to grab something we’ve run out of, it’s at the local Loblaws, a sleek, stylish store with spacious aisles, polished floors, and tempting produce displays.
As far as aesthetics go, this place sorely pales by comparison, with everything from its flickering low-voltage lights above to the scuffed gray floors and narrow aisles, the shelves crammed with product and topped with brown cases for excess stock. Islands of soft drinks and toilet paper sit on pallets, creating obstacles for carts to navigate around. Everywhere I look, there are oversized SALE signs, but the prices marked can’t possibly be right because ten dollars for a box of Cheerios? Thirteen bucks for a twelve-pack of bottled water? Thirty-two dollars for toilet paper?
The one thing Meyer’s does have, I note with delight, is a small coffee bar next to a glass case of cream pies and icing-laden cupcakes to my right. A whiteboard hangs on the wall above the metal chest-level counter, with a handwritten menu of hot drink options.
I make a beeline to where a young girl hides behind the stacks of paper take-out cups. “I’m desperate for caffeine.” A painful throb flares in my head as if to emphasize my need.
Her near-black eyes do a once-over of me. “What size?”
“The largest you have. A latte, with soy, please.”
“We don’t make those.”
I glance up at the sign, to double-check that I’m not hallucinating. “It says you do.”
“Well yeah. We make lattes. Normal ones.”
Six fifty—American dollars—for a grocery store latte is not normal, I want to say, but I bite my tongue. “It’s the same thing, just made with soy milk.”
“I don’t have soy milk,” she says slowly, as if to help me understand.
I take a deep, calming breath. “Okay, do you have almond milk or cashew or . . .” My words drift with her shaking head.
“So . . . I guess you don’t want the latte, then.” She sounds put out.
“No, I guess I don’t.” I can’t recall the last time I stood in front of a barista—if that’s what I can even call her—and was told that there was no alternative option. I don’t think it’s ever happened.
“She giving you problems, Kayley?” Jonah asks, coming up from behind me.
“Hey, Jonah.” The girl—Kayley—grins at him, dismissing me entirely.
She isn’t so much girl as woman, I now realize as I study her more closely. Early twenties, maybe mid, with large, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. Not a smudge of blush or a swipe of a mascara brush has touched her face today. She’s naturally pretty, and the fact that her brunette ponytail is masked by a hairnet doesn’t detract from that.
I wore a hairnet once, when I was sixteen and rebellious, and decided that I couldn’t handle working weekends for my mother at her florist shop. So I got a job at the cupcake shop three doors down. I lasted one Saturday before I went back to my mother, because as difficult as she seemed, she didn’t make me wear an unflattering headpiece.
“Why aren’t you flying today?” the girl asks, her idle hands lazily stacking and restacking paper cups, her hawkish gaze never leaving Jonah’s face.
“I’ll be in the sky within the hour, as soon as I’m off day-care duty.” He tips his head toward me. “This is Wren’s daughter. She hasn’t figured out where she is, yet.”
“In hell, at the moment,” I snap, my irritation flaring unexpectedly. I’m hungry, my head is pounding, and he’s making jokes at my expense.
He gives me a flat look before leaning in to rest his sinewy forearms on the counter. “Hey, any chance you can grab a carton of whatever it is she needs off the shelf and make her that coffee so she’ll be a bit more pleasant?” His voice has turned soft, gravelly.
Kayley’s lips twist with reluctance. “Yvette doesn’t like us doing that. It always ends up going to waste.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll take the carton with us and pay for it up front. Won’t cost you a thing. Come on, Kayley, you’d be doing me a huge favor.” I can only see his profile, but by the way his eyes are crinkling, I can guess the look he’s giving her.
Is he . . . flirting with her?
Does the yeti actually know how to flirt?
Kayley rolls her eyes but then tilts her head to the side, her lips twisting playfully. “Sure, Jonah. Give me a sec.”
I can’t help the momentary glare, but then cover it up with a wide, fake smile. “Thanks so much, Kayley. I’m so sorry for any inconvenience.”
She ignores me, disappearing around the corner, her hips swaying slightly. She has a thing for Jonah. She’s hoping for something romantic between them. That or something romantic has already happened between them.
Both scenarios mean she’s clearly masochistic. Also, possibly a psychopath.
I feel Jonah’s gaze on me. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Couldn’t wait to get home, could you?”
“You know what? Thanks for the ride. You can head on over to fly your little planes now. I’ll be fine.”
I’m expecting him to jump at the chance to ditch me, but instead he leans against the shopping cart handle, amusement in his eyes. “And how are you gonna get everything the five miles home?”
“I’ll borrow a duffel bag for the essentials and fly the rest later,” I mock, staring pointedly at him. Though a cab would be easy enough to grab.
He holds a hand up in a silent greeting to an older gentleman who passes by. “Relax. Your clothes will be here today or tomorrow.”
“Today, thanks to Agnes and Billy.” And not you.
“Billy?” Jonah’s brows pop and then his head tips back. An unexpectedly loud, boisterous laugh sails from his mouth, turning numerous heads in the vicinity. “Billy spent last night with his hands in your things.”
“He did not!” I scoff.
“Brought your suitcases home, emptied them onto his bed. Got naked and rubbed his—”
“Oh my God! Stop it
! Gross!” I don’t know whether to cry or laugh. He’s joking, right? He must be joking.
His expression makes me think he might not be joking.
“You might want to wash your panties before you wear them again.”
My face is twisted with disgust when an older Alaska Native woman wearing an oversized New York Knicks sweatshirt and a navy-and-orange floral pink headscarf over short, gray hair sidles her cart up to Jonah. She settles a hand on his forearm. “I could hear Tulukaruq’s laugh from a mile away.”
What did she just call him?
Her face reminds me of Agnes’s, though age and weight has made her cheeks heavy and her wrinkles much more prominent. She’s also short like Agnes. I’d put her at five foot one, which makes the height difference between her and Jonah almost comical.
Jonah peers down at her, and even that beard can’t hide his genuine smile. “What are you doing down the river, Ethel?”
“Gathering supplies.” She waves a weathered hand at her sparsely filled cart of rice, pancake mix, and a can of Coke.
“How’s Josephine and the baby?”
Mention of a baby cracks the old lady’s face into a wide grin. “He’s getting nice and fat, finally. And Josephine’s strong.”
“All you villagers are strong.”
Ethel grunts, shrugging off what I sense is a high compliment from Jonah, her dark eyes shifting to me. “Who’s she?”
“Wren’s daughter. She’s visiting.”
She nods as she studies me intently, her wise gaze impossible to read.
I squirm under the scrutiny, offering a soft “hi.”
“She’s pretty,” Ethel finally states with a nod, as if passing her approval of me. As if I’m not standing right here.
“Albert bring you down?” Jonah asks, quickly changing topics.
“Yeah. He’s at the hospital, getting his hand looked at.”
“What’s wrong with his hand?”
“Cut himself at the fish camp back in June.”
Jonah frowns. “Must be bad, for him to come all the way down to see a doctor.”
“It’s festering,” she admits solemnly. “The healer said it will get worse without medicine.” Then she lets out a bark of laughter. “I told him I would cut his hand off at the wrist while he was sleeping before the infection spread. I guess he believed me.”