The Simple Wild

by K. A. Tucker

  “I don’t know. Maybe thirteen?”

  Still at the beginnings of puberty, definitely, his face boyish and soft, his lips too full for the rest of his features—if that’s ever truly a problem. Young, but already likely capturing fellow classmates’ hearts.

  “Did he teach you how to fly?”

  “Yeah. He was a kick-ass pilot.”

  “And you didn’t want to join the air force?”

  “Nope.” A pause. “I was supposed to, though. He wanted me to. Expected me to. I applied, went through all the testing, but when it came to sign on the dotted line, I changed my mind and walked away.” There’s a somberness in his voice.

  “But he must have been okay with you doing what you’re doing, right?”

  “He was, eventually. Near the end. Not at first, though. He didn’t understand why I’d want to waste my time on a bunch of Eskimos. Those were his words, obviously.” There’s another long pause. “We didn’t talk for seven years.”

  “And then you reconnected when he got cancer?” I ask quietly.

  Jonah sighs. “He’d already been fighting it for a year by the time I finally went to visit him in the hospital. He died a few days later.”

  I steal a glance over my shoulder to find Jonah staring at the ceiling above him. “And you regret not going sooner.” He’s already told me as much, in more subtle ways.

  “He was too stubborn to apologize for all the shitty things he’d said and done over the years, and I was too stubborn and proud to forgive him for it.” His gaze flickers to me, where it settles. “And there’s nothing I can ever do to change that.”

  But I can, because I still have time. No wonder Jonah’s been pushing me to make peace with my dad, to build a relationship where there isn’t one. He doesn’t want me to feel whatever weight still sits on his shoulders. His situation isn’t unlike my own. And, had I not had someone like Simon sitting beside me that night, helping me past my resentment, would I have been so quick to come to Alaska?

  Jonah needed a Simon in his life.

  Everyone needs a Simon in their life.

  I pick up another picture, one of my dad and Jonah, sitting side by side in the pilot and copilot seats, turned to smile at whoever was behind the camera in the backseat. My dad’s hair is mostly brown still, the wrinkles across his forehead less pronounced.

  But it’s Jonah I can’t peel my eyes from. I can actually see his face, free of that unsightly beard and the straggly long hair.

  “When was this taken?”

  “First or second summer I was here. Can’t remember.” There’s a pause. “Why?”

  “You have dimples,” I blurt out. Two low, deeply set dimples that accentuate a perfect pouty-lipped smile and offset sharp cheekbones and a hard, angular jaw. Even the shape of his head is appealing—his blond hair cropped short to his skull. All beautiful features—many from his Scandinavian mother, I see proof of now—hidden by that unsightly mask of hair.

  All features that, coupled with those sharp blue eyes, make Jonah almost . . . dare I say, pretty? And this was at around twenty-one, twenty-two, when he still had a slightly boyish look. Ten years later . . .

  I turn to frown at Yeti-Jonah and find him smirking at me. As if he knows exactly how attractive he is and can read my mind right now.

  “So . . . are we gonna do this or what?” he says casually.

  “Excuse me?” My cheeks flush.

  “Work on this website. You brought your computer, right?”

  Oh. I exhale slowly. “Right.”

  “Good, ’cause once this pill kicks in, I’ll be lights out for the night.”

  Setting the picture of my dad and Wren back on the shelf, I retrieve my laptop from the kitchen and settle myself onto the other end of the couch.

  Acutely aware of Jonah’s gaze on me the entire time.

  “You said 1964, right? Jonah?”

  “Hmm . . .” His eyes are shut and his broad chest is rising and falling at a slow rhythm.

  “Jonah?” I call out softly.

  He doesn’t stir again.

  “Well, I guess that’s that.” Twenty minutes of help is better than nothing. Though, I couldn’t actually work on the website because, along with the lack of TV, Jonah doesn’t have internet.

  What normal thirty-one-year-old male doesn’t have a television and internet access in his house?

  I shut my laptop and then simply stare at his relaxed face for a moment, chewing my lip in thought. I already knew he wasn’t like any other guy I’ve ever met. And what would possess him to hide a face like that? Lord knows it’s not a confidence issue. He seems pretty damn happy with himself.

  But it’s not like he’s let himself go, either. He’s not slouching on the couch with a bag of Doritos, wiping cheesy fingers over his boiler belly before he reaches for his tenth can of beer. Even lying there in baggy sweatpants and a T-shirt, it’s obvious he’s fit.

  A chattering sound calls from outside. Bandit is perched on something in the screened-in porch, his front paws pressed against the glass, staring at me through beady black eyes.

  “I am not letting you in.” I shake my head at him.

  He chatters back in answer and then hops down. An odd thumping noise sounds. Curious what he’s up to, I wander over to the window, to find him standing next to an empty metal bowl, pawing at it like a dog. “You’re hungry,” I realize. “And I guess I’m supposed to feed you.” With a reluctant sigh, I head to the kitchen to put Jonah’s dinner in the fridge and, I guess, get a can of dog food for his not-pet raccoon.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter, pushing the sliding door open, an open can and spoon in hand. Jonah’s porch doesn’t have much on it. Basically just a few shelves and storage bins on one side and a giant plywood box on the other that I’m guessing is Bandit’s haven. There isn’t even anywhere to sit.

  Bandit stands up on his hind legs and paws excitedly at the air. How much does this thing even eat? He’s half the size of Tim and Sid. A runt really. And cute as far as raccoons go, I guess.

  “Shoo! Back up!” I scold, wary of his sharp claws as I scoop out half the can’s contents, my nose curling in disgust as the congealed mess flops into the bowl. “Ugh!” I cringe, feeling a slimy chunk land on my hand.

  Bandit shoves his triangular face in and starts devouring it, not bothering to come up for air.

  With an overwhelming urge to wash my hands, I turn to head back inside.

  That’s when I notice the small wheels peeking out from beneath a heavy wool blanket, tucked into the corner. Wheels that remind me of suitcase luggage wheels.

  A sneaking suspicion creeps over me and when I pull back one corner of the blanket and see a silver hard-case suitcase—my silver hard-case suitcase—I’m left gaping.

  How the hell did my suitcases end up on Jonah’s porch, hiding under a blanket?

  There’s only one way, really.

  Jonah must have put them there.

  Which means he’s been intentionally keeping my things from me.

  How did he even get them? I feel my face screw up as I work through the possibilities. Did he fly to Anchorage and get them? If he did, he couldn’t have done it today. Or yesterday—because we were together all day. That means he must have gone the day before. And, what, stole my luggage from Billy?

  He’s had my things for days.

  But . . . why?

  I glare at the sleeping giant through the window, feeling the overwhelming urge to march in there and slap him awake to explain himself. If he hadn’t been in a plane crash today, I might.

  Fucking Jonah.

  Have we gone a whole day yet without him irritating the hell out of me?

  I make a point of banging the door frame as I drag my suitcases into the house, the hard plastic thumping against the metal. He doesn’t stir.
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  I wheel them past the couch, intentionally checking my hip against the side where his head rests, hard enough that I might have earned myself a bruise.

  Nothing.

  “You son of a bitch,” I growl as my anger boils over, letting the cases roll into the kitchen cabinets with a thud while I go back to get my laptop. “I should open the door and let Bandit in. Wouldn’t that be something to wake up to, asshole. You’d sure as hell deserve having your place ransacked.” What is he even going to say when I confront him tomorrow? Will he just smile smugly at me and throw a clever line?

  And what will Agnes and my dad say? Will they shrug it off? Will my dad say he’ll have a talk with him? Will Agnes wave her hand and say, “Oh, he likes to play games,” or something along those lines again?

  Looking at him lying there, blissfully dead to the world, that mop of straggly hair scattered over the pillow, that wiry, tangled bush on his face, I should just . . .

  I feel the vindictive smile slowly stretch over my face.

  Chapter 17

  You can’t walk around downtown Toronto without passing the homeless. They hide in plain sight beneath layers of blankets as they sleep. They sit on street corners, with Tim Hortons paper coffee cups held in their grasps, their matted hair hanging over their grim faces, waiting for the loose change of a charitable stranger.

  I’ve sometimes wondered what those people look like beneath all that grime and poverty. What a hot shower, a comb, and a razor might do for them. If people might not speed up when they pass them, might not disregard them so quickly. If they might look at them in a different light.

  Kind of like the way I’m looking at Jonah now, more than a little awed at what kitchen shears and clippers, which I discovered tucked away in a bathroom cabinet, could achieve.

  It was supposed to be one cut. One highly noticeable chunk taken from the right side of his beard with a pair of scissors, one of those practical jokes that guys play on their friends when their friends pass out drunk on the couch. Just enough maiming to force him to take action when he woke up.

  But then I thought to myself, What if he leaves it like that, just to drive me insane? Because that’s something Jonah would do.

  So I started cutting.

  He didn’t stir once.

  Not when I lopped off handfuls of blood-flecked hair. Not when the buzz of the clippers filled the silent living room. Not while I carefully—with the most delicate touch—trimmed and combed that formless bush covering half his face. It kept shrinking and shrinking, until I had uncovered the full, soft lips and the sharp cheekbones and the promise of the chiseled jaw I knew was beneath.

  Jonah now has a thick but tidy beard, the kind that inspires envy from men, that causes girlfriends and wives to shove magazines into the faces of their bearded significant others, demanding, “Make yours look like this!”

  I didn’t stop there, though. I hacked off that straggly mop on his head, shaving the sides and back—as well as I could given his horizontal position. I left a strip of hair about two inches long on the top, which I’ve styled because, lo and behold, Jonah also had an old bottle of cheap gel tucked away in the vanity.

  Now I sit back and admire the ruggedly handsome man I uncovered under all that wild, dark-ash-blond hair, in peaceful slumber, itching to smooth my hand over his face. He’s even more attractive than the picture version I was drooling over earlier, his face filled out with age and weight, the delicate lines making him more masculine.

  And I wonder, how the hell did this go from a simple act of vindication to me sitting here, fawning over the conniving bastard?

  I groan. “You’re an ass even when you’re unconscious, aren’t you?”

  His head shifts to the right and I inhale sharply. I hold my breath as his eyelids begin to flicker.

  And release it with a heavy sigh of relief only after he stills again.

  I don’t want to be here when he wakes up, I realize as mounting dread shoves aside whatever glory I’ve been basking in up until now.

  Because how is Jonah going to react when he sees what I’ve done to him? Will he laugh it off in a “well-played” manner?

  Or did I just go way too far?

  I mean, I cut off a plane crash survivor’s hair while he was sleeping off his injuries.

  Anxious flutters fill my chest as I scoop up the obvious evidence and dart to the kitchen.

  This isn’t just about his taking my clothes, I remind myself, as I shove my weapons into a drawer and toss the bag of hair under the sink. He’s been a dick to me over and over again. I finally snapped. That’s what happens when you push someone too far—they snap and cut off all your hair while you’re sleeping.

  I grab the pad of paper and pen that sit on the counter and scrawl a quick note, and then leave it on the side table next to his pills and a full glass of fresh water for him when he wakes up. A pretty lame peace offering.

  Where I was intent on using my luggage as a battering ram earlier, now I tiptoe, easing each suitcase out the door and down the steps with painstaking efforts to not make a sound. It’s an absolute nightmare, lugging each weighty suitcase across the wet, marshy land, and my arms are burning by the time I finally reach the safety of my dad’s house.

  My dad is settled into his recliner in the living room. He turns away from the baseball highlights on the TV to peer over at me. “How’s our guy doing?”

  Such a simple question and I’m hit with a sudden wave of guilt. “He’s asleep. He took some pills that knocked him out.”

  “I’ll bet he needs the rest. That was quite a day.” My dad covers his mouth against a bout of coughs.

  “Are you feeling okay?” I noticed he was coughing through dinner, too.

  He waves it off, clearing his throat several times. “Shouldn’t have been running through fields, is all. So . . . did you two get a lot done tonight?”

  “A little bit. He passed out pretty fast.”

  “You were there for a while.” There’s something odd in his tone, something I can’t pinpoint.

  I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s almost eleven. “I also fed Bandit and then . . . spent some time checking out books.” I stumble over my words, averting my gaze as my cheeks flush, hoping he can’t read me well enough yet to know that I’m hiding something. But I can’t bring myself to admit what I just did to Jonah.

  What if my dad says I went too far?

  What if he’s disappointed with me?

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “What?”

  “The books . . .” His gaze drops to my empty hands.

  “Oh. No, I’m not a big reader. Anything good on TV?”

  “Nah. I just threw it on for a bit. I was sitting outside on the porch for a while tonight. You and Mabel sure made it look good. Brought me back a few years.”

  “Wait until the sun goes down.” We had enough strands of old Christmas lights to crisscross the ceiling twice over.

  He sighs and, hitting the power button to cut the picture, tosses the remote to the side table. “Maybe tomorrow night. Today’s excitement wiped me out.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty tired, too.”

  His movements are slow as he pulls himself out of the chair, collecting his dirty mug. “You sure you’re okay? You seem a bit . . . jittery.”

  “I’m fine. Hey, what time are you going in tomorrow morning?”

  “Probably the usual. Before six, anyway.”

  “I should get a ride in with you since Jonah won’t be going anywhere.”

  He chuckles. “A few stitches across his forehead won’t keep him away from Wild, even if he can’t fly yet.”

  “Right. Okay.” Great. I press my lips together.

  My dad gives me another curious look. “Well, okay then. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yup.”

 
He spots the two suitcases sitting in the doorway by the kitchen. “Hey! Told you they’d turn up!”

  “Yeah, they turned up alright,” I mutter under my breath. Do I tell him what Jonah did? A part of me wants to tattle on his golden boy, but a bigger part wants to hear Jonah’s bullshit reasoning myself first.

  Besides, this is between him and me now.

  My dad frowns. “How’d they get here, anyway?”

  “A cab. Just as I was coming home.”

  “Hmm . . .” His frown deepens, as if he knows that’s a flat-out lie. But then he shrugs. “Well, you’ve got all your clothes now. That’s good. ’Night.”

  “’Night, Dad.”

  He pauses to give me a small, satisfied smile and then disappears into his room.

  I let out a shaky sigh the second my bedroom door shuts behind me. Jonah got what he deserved. Besides, it’s not like I disfigured him. And hair grows back. If he prefers looking like he belongs in a cave, carrying a club around, it won’t take him too long to transform back.

  I set to unpacking my things.

  Two hundred and forty-four.

  Someone drew nipples on two hundred and forty-four ducks.

  That’s one thousand, four hundred and sixty-four hand-drawn nipples in my father’s kitchen.

  “Calla?”

  I turn to find my dad standing in the kitchen doorway. “Hey! I’m making coffee for us. It’s just finishing up.”

  His surprised gaze shifts from me to his coffeemaker as it noisily dispenses the last drips of hot liquid from its spout, and then back to me. “You feeling okay?”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d get ready and go in with you.”

  He studies my tired eyes that no amount of concealer and Vi­sine seemed to be able to fix. “I didn’t sleep well last night, either,” he admits, the bags under his eyes telling. “I’ll bet seeing Jonah like that unsettled you.”