Running Wild (Wild 3)

I laugh. “Actually, I could use an escape from everything right about now.”

For old times’ sake.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“You wanna borrow the cot in the back?”

I cap off my gaping yawn with a laugh. “I might. I’ll let you know.” We left Jonah’s private airstrip at five a.m., the sun already high in a cloudless sky, the day promising to be unseasonably warm. After dropping Calla in Bangor and refueling, Jonah and I took off to a few villages along the river, stopping in to check with locals, as much to say hello to them as to treat their pets. It was nostalgic and therapeutic—and exactly what I needed.

We arrived back in Trapper’s Crossing at six with Agnes and Mabel, giving me just enough time to get home to shower, try on everything in my meager closet, and consider canceling my appearance tonight.

Toby’s face splits into a wide grin as he slides a bottle of Coors Light across the bar toward me. The sable-brown scruff that coated his jaw during the winter months is long gone, revealing a baby face that looks far younger than his thirty-six years. “Might have to wrestle Rich for it.”

I search out the construction worker—a staple drunk around here—to find him leaning against the wall for support before letting my focus wander. The Ale House’s interior of mismatched tables covered in vinyl clothes, kitschy signs, and dead animals mounted on the walls has enough charm to draw in a crowd on the regular, and it’s filling up tonight, as the aroma of batter, hot oil, and fried fish lingers in the air.

Jonah and Calla are on the other side of the bar, mingling, Jonah’s arm slung over Calla’s shoulders in a way that’s casual and yet protective.

Calla stands out as usual, her caramel-colored hair styled in beachy waves, her makeup impeccable, her simple outfit of jeans and a rich red-plaid shirt looking both effortless and carefully selected.

She catches me staring, and her smile transforms from amused to sympathetic. I don’t know what reason Jonah gave her about my spontaneous tag along today, but since I arrived at their place this morning, she’s been handling me with kid gloves, as if I might burst into tears at any moment.

She holds up her martini glass in a cross-the-room cheers. This place had never seen anything beyond a pint glass and beer bottle before she moved in. Now she has the McGivneys stocking their bar for her drinking tastes, and I doubt she ever asked them to. They just started doing it because they wanted to. It’s a gift to have that kind of influence over people.

I return the gesture before shifting my focus to Agnes and Mabel, standing with them, Agnes’s smile wide while Mabel absorbs the Ale House’s rambunctious crowd with innocent curiosity. It’s a different world here from the life they’re accustomed to in the west, where booze may no longer be outright prohibited in Bangor, but it’s still restricted due to high rates of alcoholism among the villages.

“Haven’t seen it this busy in a while.” I check the clock on the wall. It’s after nine, and there’s still no sign of Tyler.

Will he come?

“That’s because you haven’t been here in a while,” Toby chides softly.

“I guess I haven’t.” Not since the wedding on New Year’s Eve, when a team of ambitious women, led by Calla’s mother, transformed this shabby place into a sophisticated reception hall that could rival any rustic-themed magazine spread, teeming with copper and crystal and flowers and candlelight. “I’ve been busy.”

“As long as that’s all it is.” His gentle gray eyes leave the pint glass he’s filling for just a second to meet mine, the unspoken question in them.

Toby and I went on two official dates last year, and then we didn’t go on any more. There weren’t any awkward conversations, any “it’s not you, it’s me” excuses. I’m not sure if Toby felt anything for me, but I didn’t feel anything beyond friendship for him, and I think he figured that out when I deftly avoided a good-night kiss.

I think he also figured out where my heart loitered, struggling to let go.

But friends, we’ve remained, because I enjoy his easygoing demeanor.

“That’s all it is. I promise.”

The door creaks, and I swivel on my bar stool to check the newcomers. I don’t recognize them. Fishermen, from the lower forty-eight, probably.

“Who are you expectin’?” Toby asks.

“No one.”

“Is that why you look so nice tonight? For no one?”

“I look the same as I always do.” Except with makeup and an attempt at loose waves and a casual black summer dress that I reserve for nights out—few and far between.

“And you keep lookin’ at the door.”

I suck back a gulp of beer to avoid answering, earning his chuckle.

Toby’s father, Teddy, waddles over to this side of the bar, his thumbs hooked behind his orange suspenders, his frown aimed across the room. “How old is Agnes’s girl again?”