The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

“I’m just giving Calla something she needs,” Jonah says, back to his normal, cool self, though with a hint of amusement in his voice.

I turn to stare at him, momentarily speechless. Well, if Mabel hasn’t already picked up on it . . .

With a knowing smirk, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls something out. “Here.” He tosses it in the air and I fumble to catch it. It’s my antiperspirant stick. “See? I’m not a complete dick.” He strolls away, playfully mussing Mabel’s hair on his way past. Moments later, the door closes with a thud.

Mabel’s face crinkles up. “Jonah bought you deodorant?”

I’m too overwhelmed to try and explain any of this. “What do I need to bring with me?” I ask, ignoring her question.

“Just yourself! I’ve got you covered.” She grins and holds up her arms. A yellow slicker dangles from one hand and a stack of baskets sits in the other.

“Perfect.” A morning of picking berries in the cold rain with a bunch of strangers is probably the best thing I can do right now, while I try to sort out what the hell just happened between Jonah and me.

And whether I want it to happen again.

Chapter 20

“Max has his heart set on ‘Thornton,’ after his grandfather.” Sharon’s lip curls in an unpleasant way.

I shrug. “It could be Thor, for short? That’s a cool name. Unique.”

“Except his mother would refuse to shorten it. Everything would be ‘Thornton’ this and ‘Thornton’ that.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ve given up a lot, already, being here and all. I am not naming my son Thornton.”

“I don’t blame you,” I mock-whisper. “Where are you moving to, anyway?”

“Back to Portland, Oregon. I can’t believe I’ll be home soon.” Sharon’s hand smooths over her belly in a slow, circular motion while the other reaches for another blueberry from the basket Mabel and I brought to the airport. After several hours of crouching in drizzle among an endless stretch of prickly bushes, my thigh muscles are still burning and I haven’t been able to shake this cold-to-the-bone chill. “I still remember the day Max came home three years ago and said, ‘Babe, guess what? I got the job! We’re movin’ to Alaska!’ I didn’t even know he’d applied.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “Don’t get me wrong, we’re going to miss the people like crazy, but everything is so hard up here. And now we’re going to have a baby to add to it.”

I’m betting Sharon and my mom would get along well, commiserating. “And Max is okay with leaving?”

“For now. He’s already talking about coming back in five years to work for Wren again. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Or should I say, airstrip.”

In five years. I can’t help but do the math. I’ll be thirty-one in five years. Where will I be by then? Back in Toronto, obviously. How many trips back to Alaska will I have made? Will Dad come to see me? Will I still be living with Mom and Simon? Or will I be married and gone? Will I be rubbing my pregnant belly like Sharon is?

Will my dad be around for any of it?

I swallow against the lump in my throat.

A shrunken Alaska Native woman shuffles toward the desk, clutching a small weekend bag. Her gray hair is wrapped in a hot-pink floral handkerchief, but otherwise her clothes are drab shades of brown and green, meant for warmth and nothing more.

“Any news yet?” she asks politely, smiling. As if she hasn’t been sitting in this lobby since seven this morning, which is how long most of these people have been lingering, according to Sharon. People who’ve been playing the waiting game all day, hoping that their flights will take off at some point. I count fourteen in total. Mostly fishermen, anxious to get out to their camps. It’s easy to spot the ones who aren’t from Alaska—they’re pacing around the lounge like caged animals, peering out at the sky every time they pass the window, grumbling with impatience. Those familiar with how things work sit quietly in their chairs, their attention on their phone screens or their knitting needles, or those they’re traveling with.

Planes were cleared for takeoff an hour ago. Half the flights have already left. Now it’s just a matter of being called.

“The guys are loading it up, Dolores.” Sharon smiles sympathetically at the woman. The supply plane that she’s hitching a ride with was stuck in a village overnight and was just landing when I got here. “You must be excited to see your sister again after a year.”

Dolores shrugs and mutters, “I wish she’d move down here.”

To me, Sharon explains, “You should see the village where Dolores is from. It’s near Barrow. I haven’t been, but Max has. The sun hasn’t set since when, Dolores?”

“Early May,” the old woman confirms.

“Right. Early May. It’ll finally go down in a few weeks. And then it doesn’t come up for two months in winter. At all. We can’t even fly there during the polar nights.”

“They get their supplies in the fall, or not at all,” Dolores confirms.

“And it’s cold up there, all the time.” Sharon shivers. “What’s the high for there today?”

“Forty.” Dolores tugs on her quilted coat as if to emphasize that.