by K. A. Tucker
“That’s because he knows you,” Jonah says, shaking his head. He’s smiling, but I get the sense that he believes the old woman might carry out her threat.
“When are you going to come to the village again?”
“We’ll see.” He shrugs noncommittally.
“Make it soon. We’ll have meat for you.” She turns her eyes on me again. “Jonah saved my Josephine and her baby’s lives. She went into labor too early and he flew in to get them when it was dangerous. When no one else would. The baby was blue when he came out and Josephine lost a lot of blood—”
“Just doing my job,” Jonah mutters, cutting her off suddenly, as if uncomfortable. “Tell Albert I said hi and to learn how to gut a fish.”
Ethel chuckles, patting his arm affectionately. “See you up the river.”
I watch her shuffle away. “Is that true? That you went and got them when no one else would?”
“It was a bit of snow. She’s exaggerating,” he mumbles, turning away from me to search the aisles, for Kayley perhaps, or just to close off a conversation he clearly doesn’t want to have.
Is it that he’s modest? Because something tells me that old woman doesn’t exaggerate much, and that when she labels conditions as “dangerous,” they’re apocalyptic by other people’s standards.
Kayley appears at the counter again, distracting my thoughts. She holds up a carton of soy milk that I’ve had once before. “You said ‘large,’ right?”
“Yeah, but . . .” I hesitate. “You wouldn’t happen to carry the Silk brand?” It’s the only one I’ve had that doesn’t taste like liquid chalk.
Her face sours with irritation. “This is the only one we have. Do you still want it?”
I sigh. “Sure. Extra foam, please.”
Kayley’s brow furrows.
“Our little princess will have it however you can make it, and thank you for going out of your way for her,” Jonah interrupts in an overly patient tone. “Right, Calla?”
“Of course.” My cheeks burn. How does he make me feel absurd over ordering a simple thing like a coffee, the way I like it?
He nods toward the produce section, letting go of the shopping cart with a little push. “Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll bring it to you as soon as it’s ready.”
Is he offering because he wants a few moments alone with Kayley? Or a few moments away from me? A few minutes to mock “our little princess”? I decide I don’t care either way. “Sounds great!” I stroll away with a wide, satisfied smile.
Because Jonah will have to fork over the $6.50 for my shitty cup of coffee.
“So, we’re done here, right?” Jonah pushes the cart toward the cashier lines, stealing a quick glance at his watch. No sooner had he handed me my steaming paper cup—without a sleeve to keep my fingertips from being scorched—than he seized control of the cart. I’d say he was being helpful, but given that I had to speed-walk the aisles to keep up with him, it likely had more to do with getting out of here fast than any kindness. To his credit, though, he hasn’t ditched me yet.
“I . . . think so?” I choke down the last of what might be the worst coffee ever known to man and toss it into a nearby bin. At least my headache is beginning to fade. But I don’t know how I’m going to survive the week, drinking this crap. I wonder if Amazon delivers here . . .
“Last chance,” he warns me.
I scan the cart—fruit smoothies for breakfast, green salads with chicken breast for lunch and dinner, along with a bag of almonds, a dozen eggs, ingredients for sandwiches, and bananas for snacks. Basically what I eat at home. I also remembered the twenty-dollar can of bug spray that will likely cause DEET poisoning, thanks to Jonah. He strolled down the household goods aisle—past an ATV and boat motor, because apparently in Alaska you can buy ATVs and boat motors at the grocery store—and tossed it in without asking, announcing loud enough for everyone two aisles over to hear that if I insist on jogging naked, it’s the only mosquito repellent that will work.
And yet I can’t ignore this nagging feeling that I’ve forgotten something.
“Come on. Let’s go. Get Wren to bring you back if you forgot something.”
“As if.” I let out a derisive snort. “He’s too busy making a buck to make time for his own daughter. He doesn’t even want me here.”
Jonah scowls. “Who told you that?”
“No one has to. It’s pretty damn clear.” If it weren’t for Agnes, I wouldn’t even know he was sick.
Agnes.
Dinner tonight.
That’s what I was forgetting. “Red or white?”
“What?” Jonah frowns in confusion, caught off guard by my question.
“Agnes invited me and my dad to dinner tonight. I need to bring something for her.” Plus, I think I hear a bottle of vodka calling my name, to get me through this week. “Red or white wine?”
He waves it away. “Don’t bother. She doesn’t expect it.”
“I’m not going to show up to someone’s house empty-handed,” I mutter, my eyes roving the store signage, searching for the liquor aisle that we obviously missed. “Who does that?”
“I do it all the time,” he retorts, as if proud of that fact.
“Yeah . . . well . . .” It was a rhetorical question, but I shouldn’t be at all surprised that the yeti doesn’t understand basic etiquette. Meanwhile, my mother had me bringing cookies and cupcakes to my friends’ houses as a thank-you for arranged playdates when I was as young as eight. “It’s considered good manners to bring something for the hostess. Like wine,” I say calmly, with as little judgment as I can muster in my voice.
He levels me with that icy gaze for three long beats. “Aggie doesn’t drink. Your dad will have the occasional beer.”
“Great.” Maybe if I show up with a six-pack, he’ll feel obligated to talk to me for more than a minute. “Where can I get—”
“You can’t. It’s a dry community. They don’t sell alcohol in Bangor.”
“What?” I feel my face twist with shock. “You’re lying.”
His eyebrows arch. “You’re arguing with me about this?”
“What the hell is this, the 1920s prohibition?”
“No. It’s Western Alaska, where alcoholism is a serious problem,” he says, his voice carrying with it a condescending edge. “People will drink so much, they pass out in snowbanks and freeze to death in winter.”
“So no one can buy any alcohol, then?” That seems a bit drastic.
“Nope. Not even you.” He’s enjoying this way too much.
“Well, how does my dad get beer, then?” I counter. “You said he drinks beer.”
“He brings it home with him when he goes to Anchorage or Seward. And no . . . I’m not flying there to grab you a damn six-pack.” His perfectly straight, white teeth glint with a wide, spiteful smile. “I guess you’ll have to forgo proper dinner etiquette for tonight.”
“That’s fine. I’ll buy her flowers.” I eye the green pail next to the cash register, where three sad-looking bouquets of lemon-yellow daisies sit, the bright dye in the petals unable to hide the browning edges. My florist mother would die witnessing this, I think, as I grab one and trail Jonah to the last cashier, all while glaring at his back.
A dry community? What do people order at the bar on a Friday night? Cocoa and cream sodas? Come to think of it, I didn’t notice any flashing neon lights or the word “bar” anywhere.
So what the hell do people do around here for fun?
“Shouldn’t you be working?” the cashier—a white woman in her fifties, with blonde hair, soft blue eyes, and a slight Southern accent, the kind that’s faded with time—smiles up at Jonah, while stealing frequent, curious glances at me. I’ll take that over being blatantly stared at by every other person in this place. Elderly women hunched over bins of discounted canned vegetables, staring at m
e through cataract-clouded gazes. Stock boys, pausing with their hands in midair, gripping produce, staring at me—my face, my chest, my shoes—as I edge past. Middle-aged ladies in unflattering jeans and clunky shoes, their hair pulled into messy ponytails, quieting in mid-conversation, staring at me like I’m some sort of circus sideshow. Or, more likely, like they know I’m an outsider and they’re trying to figure out what on earth brought me to Bangor, Alaska.
I’m quickly sensing that everyone knows everyone around here, and if they don’t directly know them, then it’s through one or two degrees of separation at most, and they’ll strike up a conversation to find out exactly how. Coming to Meyer’s seems to be a social activity as much as a life necessity. Shoppers meander up and down the aisles, blocking paths as they slow to comment on the sale on ground beef and lettuce, or the forecasted break in the rain, or who’s coming in from Anchorage. No one is in much of a hurry.
No one except Jonah.
“Hey, Bobbie.” Jonah starts chucking produce onto the belt. “Yeah. I’m supposed to be. I was ambushed on my way in.”
I roll my eyes. Jonah’s gone from babysitter to hostage. “Thanks. I’ve got this.” I yank the green pepper out of his hand before he can toss—and bruise—it, too. “Do you mind bagging things? Over there.” Away from me. I punctuate my words with a little push against his bicep, rock hard beneath my palm.
The cashier—Bobbie—continues ringing things up, her fingers flying over the keyboard with memorized vegetable codes. “George said they’re calling for a few clear days this week. I’m tired of getting my hopes up. Still, it’d be a nice change from all the rain.”
“You should be used to the rain by now,” Jonah says gruffly, stuffing my groceries into brown paper bags.
“Is anyone ever used to it?” There’s a pause and then, “So, is this your sister? Or a cousin?” She’s asking Jonah, but she’s looking at me.
“This is Wren’s daughter, Calla.”
Her quick fingers stall. “Oh . . . right! George said something about you going to Anchorage to pick her up. George is my husband,” she explains, now addressing me directly. “Him and Jonah’s dad used to fly together in the air force. Now he flies for Wren.”
I’m guessing this George guy was the connection to Alaska Wild that Jonah mentioned earlier. And this Bobbie lady has also given me another piece of information—Jonah’s father was a pilot in the US Air Force, and it sounds like Jonah followed in his footsteps, as far as flying goes, anyway. That must be his father’s hat.
Bobbie shakes her head. “I forgot Wren had a daughter all those years ago. Gosh, it’s been forever. You and your mom ended up in . . .” She lets that hang, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
“Toronto.”
She gives a small nod, like that answers an unspoken question. “And this is your first time here?”
“Since we left, yeah.”
“So . . . you figured it was time for a visit?”
“As good a time for a vacation as any, right?” Jonah answers for me, his piercing eyes on mine, the warning in them clear.
From what Agnes said, my dad doesn’t want people knowing about his cancer diagnosis yet. I guess that includes his employees.
“Yeah. Had some time to burn and I’ve always wanted to see Alaska,” I add, solidifying our lie.
Bobbie gives me a polite smile—one that says she was hoping for a juicier answer than that—and then finishes ringing up the rest of my groceries.
My eyes bulge at the final tally as I count out the bills. How do two bags of groceries cost that much?
Bobbie laughs. “That’s some sticker shock, huh? Well, you enjoy your time in Alaska, Calla. And be careful,” she warns, nodding Jonah’s way, “or that one will charm you so much, you won’t want to leave.”
“Yes, I’m already struggling to control myself.” My voice drips with sarcasm.
Her head crooks, confusion filling her face.
And my mouth drops. “Oh my God, you’re not kidding.”
An awkward chuckle sails from her thin lips. “Make sure you send that husband of mine home right after work, Jonah. He gets to talking and next thing he knows, the sun has gone down.”
Jonah throws a flat-faced wink her way as he scoops up the grocery bags in one arm, his biceps straining beneath his cotton sleeve. “Will do.”
I trail him out, cradling the bouquet of near-spent flowers, feeling countless eyes on my back.
I can’t help myself. “So, if you’re charming, what would Bobbie consider an asshole?”
“There’s one right now.”
I follow his nod and find a reflection of myself in a window.
He’s quick with the comebacks, I’ll give him that much.
Jonah peers up to the sky, squinting, and I can tell he’s searching for a looming rain cloud.
“People really obsess about the weather around here.”
“Why wouldn’t they? Strong winds, thick fog, too much rain or snow . . . any of it will ground us for hours, a day. Even longer, sometimes.” His boots scrape along the dusty ground. “People rely on planes for food, medicine, doctors, mail. Everything.”
I try to ignore the heavy gazes of two teenaged boys of maybe sixteen, with cans of Coke in their hands, gawking openly at me. “And they stare even more than they obsess about the weather,” I mutter, more to myself.
“They’re not used to seeing a real, live Barbie doll is all.”
I frown. Did he just call me . . . “I am not a Barbie doll!”
“No?” He gives me a sideways glance, amusement in his eyes. “Fake hair, fake face, fake nails . . .” His eyes dip to my chest before flashing away. “Is anything on you real?”
My jaw drops. “These are not fake!” And I’ve never had anyone insinuate otherwise. They’re not even particularly impressive.
“I don’t care one way or the other. You wondered why they’re staring at you. That’s why,” he says in a bored tone. He pops the hatch of his SUV, and then sets the grocery bags in.
And I simply gape at him, astonished. At least twenty-five people said hello to him in Meyer’s. All those little waves and friendly greetings, as if people are actually happy to see him. Bobbie called him charming. Agnes claims he’s a teddy bear. Ethel talks about him like he walks on water.
Am I in some sort of alternate universe?
One where everyone else sees Jonah in one way and I see the truth?
“Have I done something to make you not like me?” I finally blurt out.
He chuckles darkly. “No. I just know your kind and I’ve never had much patience for it.”
“My kind?”
“Yup.” He slams shut the gate of his SUV and turns to settle a stony gaze on me, his muscular arms folded over his chest. “The shallow, self-absorbed, entitled kind.”
My mouth hangs open for three beats. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Really . . .” He bites his bottom lip in thought. “Let’s see . . . you show up in Anchorage with an entire closet’s worth of clothes for a one-week visit, expecting, what, a private jet to bring you the rest of the way? And looking like you mistook the airstrip for a fucking runway in Milan.”
I push aside the shock that he knows a thing about the fashion industry to defend myself. “I had to pack for this moody weather—”
“Were you going for a jog or to a nightclub this morning, with all that makeup on? I’d bet my left nut that no one’s seen your real face in years. You spend all your money on looking pretty and all your time posting pictures to prove to complete strangers how pretty you are.”
My spine begins to tingle. Is he talking about my Instagram profile? How could he know about that? And, oh my God, did he just make a reference to his balls? “So, some people take pride in their appearance.” I give him a pointed look, even as my cheeks
burn from being picked apart.
He goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’re dramatic, entitled, and judgmental. You like attention and you’re used to getting it. You don’t know much about the world outside your little bubble. You didn’t even bother educating yourself a little about where your dad’s from. Where you were born.”
“It’s not like I had much time—”
“You’re twenty-six years old and you’ve never had time?” His eyebrow arches in that doubtful way. “You decided you weren’t gonna like Alaska before your toes ever touched the soil, and you’ve had your nose turned up to everyone and everything ever since.”
“I have not!”
“Agnes figured you might have a hard time up here, but you could at least try for a damn week. You haven’t seen your father in basically your entire life, and when you finally show up here, you’re pissed that the fridge isn’t full for you? You probably haven’t even considered how tough things have been on Wren, or how he might not know how to talk to you after this long”—he drops his voice—“or what he’s going through right now. But no, you’re more focused on getting your fucking soy latte and what hostess gift you should bring to dinner tonight.” He smiles smugly. “How am I doing so far? Do I have you all wrong?”
“Completely,” I counter with a wavering voice, unable to manage more in my current state of shock. I’m used to Simon—to his gently probing questions, his thoughtful pauses as he quietly evaluates the real meaning behind my words, the way he tries to help me see myself for who I am. It’s his nature, given his profession. There have been times that it’s annoyed me, when I’ve screamed at him to stop psychoanalyzing me. But he’s never done it in a vindictive, disparaging way.
And then here comes this guy, who I met twelve hours ago, making all kinds of unfounded assumptions and picking me apart as if there’s no real substance to me at all.
The cold amusement fades from his eyes, leaving something that looks almost sad. “I wish I was wrong. Because then maybe you’d get over yourself, cut Wren some slack, and use the time you have to get to know him.”