by K. A. Tucker
“So . . .” Jonah sighs. “Just making a buck, right?”
If he’s on a mission to make me eat my words today, he’s succeeding brilliantly. It was a long and tiring day of teeth-gritting landings on bumpy airstrips that are nothing more than short dirt roads, isolated by thousands of miles of mostly uninhabited land in every direction. Almost every trip today was to meet villagers to hand off essential supplies that had been ordered weeks before. Jonah knew all of them by name. He’d joke with them and apologize for the wait. They’d thank him for coming, even though most of them had been waiting by those airstrips for hours. One of them on and off for days, thanks to a heavy fog that kept pilots from being able to land there.
And all I kept thinking about as I smiled at that guy was how many times I’ve ordered makeup or clothes online, only to feel utterly disappointed when I arrive home from work and find it not delivered. And my mother, who dropped her phone in the sink that one time and ordered a new one for next-day delivery. She lingered at home, anxiously waiting. Her package finally arrived just as I was coming home from work, and so I had the pleasure of witnessing her dress-down of the deliveryman firsthand—how she’s lost an entire day of her life, how a phone carrier should understand how vital a phone is to society, how the mail carrier company needs to upgrade their system to give smaller, more accurate delivery windows, how they don’t value their customers’ time and she deserves compensation for her hours of work lost—all while the man in uniform waited with forced patience and a glazed look for her to sign for it. As if he was so used to people yelling at him over seemingly important packages that it all just slid off his back. And I’ll bet it happens all the time.
My mother, who would never be described as patient, berated a complete stranger about a cell phone—that arrived the day it was supposed to; meanwhile, this villager was cheerily catching up with Jonah, showing him pictures of the huskies he was training for some big dogsled race, the penicillin that he’d waited days in this field for, that the village clinic had waited weeks for, sitting by his feet.
I’m not surprised my mother didn’t adapt well here.
And I’m beginning to see how Jonah would take one look at me—the twenty-six-year-old girl who showed up in wedge heels and a Brixton hat, her two giant suitcases in tow—and want to set me straight.
“Just making a buck and delivering pizza,” I correct, jokingly.
“Right.” He chuckles. “But did you see how that kid’s face lit up?”
“The happiest little birthday boy I’ve ever seen.”
He shakes his head. “And you almost ruined it.”
I let out a groan. “That would have been your fault.”
He shoots me a look of bewilderment and I can’t help but start to laugh. “Why would I believe you?” When a cab pulled up and handed Jonah two pizza boxes from Gigi’s earlier today, I assumed that lunch was being delivered. And then, when Jonah said we were taking it to a village for a little boy’s sixth birthday along with some other cargo, I assumed he was messing with me.
I was reaching for the crust to rip off a piece and peel off the cheese—starved—when he hollered and snatched the box away.
Thank God, because the mother and the little boy were waiting for us by the airstrip when we arrived at the village of three hundred, the boy’s eyes wide with glee and anticipation. His mom explained how, ever since the village teacher—a woman from Chicago—told the class about the popular food staple last year, all he’s wanted for his birthday was a pizza party.
Speaking of pizza . . . “I’m hungry.” And exhausted.
“Yeah, me, too. Good thing we’re calling it a day.” Jonah sighs and unbuckles his seat belt. But doesn’t make to get out just yet. His mouth opens, and I sense him wanting to say something, and then changing his mind. We’re left in awkward silence.
“Hey, thanks for taking me out. And not crashing,” I offer, hoping to break up the sudden, odd tension. “I had fun.” And, even more important, I’m starting to get a sense about how integral Alaska Wild is to so many people; how many villages rely on my dad and Jonah, and the other pilots, to bring them what they need to survive.
And to think my dad’s had the weight of that on his shoulders since he was in his early twenties.
Meanwhile, I’m twenty-six and I don’t even want the responsibility of keeping a pet alive.
Jonah’s gaze flickers to me for a moment before it drifts out his side window. “Thank your dad. He made me take you.”
“Sure he did,” I murmur as Jonah slips out of the plane. Why can’t he just admit that he enjoyed today, too?
My dad and Agnes are strolling toward the plane when I step out.
“So? Where’d you guys end up?” my dad asks, his curious gaze shifting between us.
“Calla?” Jonah prompts.
Suddenly I feel nine years old again, coming home to the painful “what’d you learn in school today” interrogation. Except back then my answers were reluctant and amounted to “stuff,” and now I’m listing off village names I can’t pronounce and passing on well-wishes from the people I met.
“I take it you got some pictures?” He nods toward Simon’s Canon.
“Until the battery died on me halfway through.”
“You’ll have to go out with Jonah again tomorrow, then,” Agnes says casually, a tiny, amused smirk touching her lips.
I’m just about to say “Sure!” when Jonah’s hands go up in surrender.
“I’ve done my penance. We’ve got plenty of pilots around here.”
I feel my face fall unexpectedly and my stomach sink.
“Seriously, Wren. She might be the worst passenger I’ve ever had. You should be embarrassed.”
My jaw drops. “Hey! I was a great passenger!”
That hard expression finally cracks with his smile.
He’s joking, I realize. Relief washes over me.
Followed by a wave of confusion. Why am I relieved? Why do I even care if Jonah wants to take me out again?
Because even though I spent a good portion of it gripping my seat and saying small prayers under my breath every time we took off or landed, it was a terrifying and exhilarating day like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, that’s why.
A day I can’t describe. A day I’ll probably remember for the rest of my life.
And the fact that I was with Jonah probably played a part in that.
Sure, he’s rough around the edges. He can be too brash and too blunt and too outspoken. In fact, he sorely needs to learn how not to speak his mind just because it suits him. But he can also be playfully witty and thoughtful. And no matter how hard he tries, he hasn’t been able to hide the fact that he cares about these people.
“Hey, did Bart find anything wrong with Betsy?” Jonah asks, doing his hat-hand-hair move.
My dad shakes his head. “Said he’s gone back and forth over her twice and can’t find anything. Starting to think it’s all in George’s imagination, which is totally possible. The guy’s still convinced that bird flew into his propeller because Bobbie didn’t sew up the hole in his lucky socks.”
“And that he hit that stump and snapped off his landing gear because of that black cat on his front step,” Jonah adds.
“George is a bit superstitious,” Agnes explains to me in an exaggerated whisper.
“I don’t think I blame him.” Birds in propellers? Snapping off landing gear? I’m glad we didn’t start the day off with these stories.
“We can’t afford to have her sitting in the hangar any longer than she needs to be, especially not with that big weather system coming in. We could be grounded all weekend,” my dad says.
“All weekend?” I echo. “Will I be able to get to Anchorage for my flight on Sunday?”
“Might not,” he admits and then adds slowly, “If you’re worried about it, Jonah co
uld fly you to Anchorage on Friday morning. The rain isn’t supposed to start until that night. You could spend a couple days in the city.” His eyebrows squeeze together. “That might be a bit more your style anyway.”
“Friday morning.” That means I’d have only one day left here. One day left with my father.
“Just to be sure you make that Sunday flight home.” His gray eyes shift to the ground, as if searching for something in the potholes.
Is he feeling what I’m feeling?
That I just got here and I’m not ready to say goodbye yet?
I could stay, I remind myself. But why won’t my dad just ask me to stay longer, then?
Other than the obvious answer—that he doesn’t want me here.
I hush the insecure little girl’s voice in my mind and search for another reason.
Maybe he thinks I want to leave. Maybe he doesn’t want to say anything and make me feel obligated. Just like he never asked my mother to stay.
I feel Jonah’s heavy gaze on me. As if able to read the swirl of conflicting thoughts in my mind, he gives me a wide-eyed “you know what you have to do” nod.
I hesitate. “Or I could just move my flight out to next weekend.”
My dad’s eyebrows arch as he studies me. “Is that something you’d want to do?”
“I mean, if you’re okay with having me stay at your house longer. I know you’re starting treatment on—”
“It’s okay with me,” he answers quickly, following it up with a smile and, if I’m not mistaken, a sigh of relief. “It’s your home, too. Here, in Alaska.”
“Okay. I’ll stay a bit longer, then.” Am I making the right decision?
Agnes is beaming and Jonah gives me a tight-lipped nod, and it makes me think that I am.
The wind has picked up since earlier and it sweeps past us then, rustling my hair and sending a shiver through me, reminding me that I don’t have my warm clothes. “Did you get my bags, by the way?”
“Yeah. About that . . .” My dad’s face pinches. “When Billy went into the storage room to grab your suitcases, he couldn’t find them.”
And just like that, the happy little bubble that had been growing around me bursts.
“What do you mean, ‘couldn’t find them.’ They lost them?” My clothes . . . my shoes . . .
“With all the delays and shuffling back and forth, they probably just got shoved somewhere. I’m sure they’ll turn up soon.”
“And if not?” My voice has turned shrill.
My dad frowns in thought. “Insurance usually covers a couple hundred bucks. You got insurance, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, it’ll replace maybe a sweater and a pair of heels,” I mutter. My exhilarating day has just taken a nosedive into the ground. “I’ve been wearing two pairs of jeans since I got here. How am I supposed to manage even longer?”
Jonah, who’s been quiet this entire time, offers with faint amusement in his voice, “I’ll be more than happy to take you to Meyer’s to grab a few things.”
I stab the air in front of him with my finger. “This is your fault. If you took the bigger plane in the first place, my luggage wouldn’t be lost.”
“If you’d packed for a week instead of a year, we wouldn’t have had to leave your things behind,” he retorts smoothly.
“Hey, you admitted to being a jackass about that whole thing earlier!” Why is he changing his tune again?
“Give it a day or two,” Agnes says calmly, the ever-gentle referee stepping into a feud between opposing teams. “These things happen, but they have a way of working out.”
I grit my teeth against the urge to call bullshit. I know she’s only trying to help.
My dad sighs. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s go home.”
Chapter 15
When Jonah strolls through my dad’s door the next morning, I’ve already gone for my run, showered, dressed, and am filling half a travel mug with coffee while scrolling through my Instagram feed. To my delight, I woke up to a slew of new followers and comments, thanks to the aerial shot above one of the villages that I posted last night, along with a quick story about the little boy with the pizza and a recap of the terrifying landing, which people seemed to find amusing. “So where are we going today?” I ask, pushing aside thoughts about our little spat last night over my luggage.
Jonah sidles in next to me, smoothly lifting the pot without hesitation, his callused hand—nearly twice the size of mine—momentarily grasping mine in the process.
My heart stutters.
“I’m taking a group of hikers and their guide into the interior.” His voice sounds especially deep, cutting into the stillness of the house. “There aren’t any extra seats.”
“Oh.” I frown, a wave of disappointment hitting me. I thought he was joking yesterday about doing his “penance” by taking me out for the day. But maybe there was some truth to it.
I focus on filling the other half of my mug with soy milk.
“Did you want some coffee with that?”
“I don’t like the taste of coffee. That’s why I always drink lattes at home.” I tell him about Simon’s Cadillac of barista machines.
He eases the pot back onto the burner and shuts the machine off. “Sounds like you’ve got a decent stepdad.”
“Yeah. He’s been pretty great to me and my mom.” When I texted home last night to tell them that I’d decided to stay, Simon sent me his credit card number in case the airline charged me. And then he told me that I was doing the right thing and he was proud of me.
“My stepdad’s a dick,” Jonah murmurs. “Then again, so was my dad.”
I steal a glance as he takes a sip from his mug, squinting against the bright sun as his gaze drifts to the yawning fields beyond the window. He’s opened a door for me, just a sliver. I prod through gently. “So your parents were divorced, too?”
“Yup. My dad was a selfish jerk who didn’t treat my mom right. Look, I’ve got a supply drop for a camp this afternoon, if you want to come out with me then.”
“Okay!” I say, a little too quickly, too eagerly. “Maybe I’ll come in to the office this morning anyway. I can work on the website some more. Download the pictures I took yesterday.” I didn’t get much of anything done last night, the excitement from the day catching up with me as I listened to Mabel trash-talk my dad before beating him at checkers for the fifteenth day in a row. I can’t figure out if he’s letting her win or not.
Jonah doesn’t seem to be in as much of a rush as usual, wandering aimlessly through the kitchen, his mug to his mouth. Eventually he pauses in front of the small kitchen table, his eyes roaming over the wallpaper.
“Do you know who drew the nipples on those ducks?” I keep forgetting to ask my dad.
“Drew what?”
“Nipples. On those ducks.”
He frowns at the wall. “What are you talking about?”
“Those!” I close the distance and lean over the table, tapping the wall with the tip of my fingernail. “See? Nipples. There . . . There . . . Someone drew nipples on every last one of these ducks.”
“Say it again for me?”
“What?” Frowning, I turn to find him struggling not to laugh. It finally dawns on me that he knew what I was talking about all along. “Oh, shut up. You are so immature.”
He peers down at me, his gaze crawling over my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth. “You looked better yesterday, by the way. Without all that crap on your face.”
I feel my cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and anger. “You look the same as yesterday, with all that crap on your face.”
He reaches up to drag his fingers through his beard. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Nothing, if you’re planning on living alone in the mountains and foraging for food. And not walking quite upright.”
“So you’re saying
you don’t like it.” There’s no mistaking the amusement in his voice.
“Definitely not.”
He shrugs. “A lot of women like it.”
“No they don’t.”
“It’s my style.”
“No. Hipster is a style. Rockabilly is a style. Yeti is not a style.” I search the mass of wiry hairs for what might be hidden beneath—a hard jaw, cutting cheekbones—but it’s impossible to find. “I have no idea what you look like under all that.”
He pauses in thought. “And that’s important to you? Knowing what I look like?”
“No! It’s just . . . why wouldn’t you want . . .” I stumble over my words, my cheeks heating. Why am I so curious—and hopeful that there’s a handsome face buried beneath that?
The corners of Jonah’s eyes crinkle with his chuckle. “Come on, Calla. Time to get to work.”
The sleepy customer lobby of Wild is gone, replaced instead by a crowd of backpack-clad bodies and a low buzz of excited voices, plus a wailing newborn baby.
“The bears haven’t gotten you yet?” Jonah smiles and reaches toward the tall, slender guy in the army-green jacket holding a clipboard.
“Not yet. Good day for flying, hey?” They clasp hands and jump into easy conversation. I’m guessing this is the group Jonah is taking out and that he knows this guide well.
I make my way toward the back, where a plump, dark-haired receptionist behind the desk gives me a knowing wave while holding a phone receiver to her ear. I’m guessing that’s Maxine.
I mouth a hello to Sharon, who has commandeered a young Alaska Native woman’s mewling baby and is pacing and rocking and shushing the child cradled within her arms. A tall, handsome blond guy with a brush cut stands next to her, his arm casually settled around her shoulders as he watches Sharon with an adoring gaze. That must be Max. Meanwhile, the new mother looks on, a duffel bag by her feet, the heavy bags under her eyes evidence of her sleepless nights.