Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

So maybe that all this is happening now is for the best.

On my way back upstairs, I pass the curio cabinet that arrived a few weeks ago. Only one piece sits inside at the moment—Ethel’s ivory sculpture. It catches my eye and I stall there a long moment, studying it.

Perhaps Ethel’s tale of the raven and his goose wife isn’t inaccurate after all.

I manage to keep my composure until I’m tucked beneath our bedcovers, alone. And then I muffle my sobs with my pillow, feeling for the first time since last summer that my relationship with Jonah is surviving on borrowed time.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Calla.”

“Hmm?” I crack my eyelids.

Jonah looms over me with a mug in his hand. “Figured you might need this.” He sets it on my nightstand. The rattle of a pill bottle sounds as he slips it from his pocket and sets it next to my coffee.

Just enough daylight creeps in from the hallway for me to note the frothy milk. “Did you make me a latte?”

“I owed you one from yesterday, remember? That machine isn’t as complicated as I thought it would be.” There’s no hint of anger or resentment in his voice. If anything, I’d say it’s strangely docile.

“Thank you.” I check the clock. It’s after nine. “Is Diana awake?”

“She’s been up since five.” Jonah moves to draw the curtains, upsetting the shadows with sunshine. The forecast called for another warm day with no promise of rain anytime soon, in the driest, warmest June on record for this area. “Muriel’s here. She took her out to the garden.”

“I should get up, then.” And rescue her. I groan and heave myself out of bed, wandering to the bathroom to relief myself and brush my teeth, dismayed by the puffy, sore eyes that stare back at me in the mirror—physical evidence of the disastrous end to my birthday. I’m not sure I can even force a smile at this point.

I climb into the shower, hoping that ten minutes immersed beneath a stream of hot water will help clear my head and my heavy heart. I was far drunker than I realized. At least that hopeless despair I carried to sleep has faded with the alcohol. But it’s been replaced with an odd emptiness, a melancholy.

Regret.

And lingering confusion.

All the things we said to each other last night …

I cringe. What would possess me to become so wrapped up in jealousy over Marie? In the light of a new day, I feel like an idiot. It wasn’t about her at all. Granted, I still don’t trust her intentions, but I allowed it to drive a wedge between Jonah and me when we have much bigger, more pressing issues to face.

Jonah thinks I haven’t tried here?

Could he have a point? Did you come here seeing Alaska as only temporary?

I hear Simon’s British lilt in my mind as readily as if the phone were pressed to my ear. Years with my stepfather have taught me to try to weigh all sides and opinions—even those I don’t agree with—but I’m struggling. Maybe because I now have this niggling, gnawing feeling in my gut. Maybe because it would mean I’ve fallen into the same trap my mother did all those years ago, of not trying with my father when she claimed that she had.

How many times have I told myself—and my mother, and Simon, and Diana, and even Agnes—that I’m willing to try Alaska because Jonah said he was willing to leave?

My stomach clenches with that mental count.

Have I been clinging too tightly to that all these months? From the very beginning?

And is he right? Have I been spending all this time focused too much on everything Trapper’s Crossing and this house and my time in Alaska is not, instead of everything that it is?

I thought I was embracing it, making the best of my less than ideal situation, but maybe I’ve been going about it the wrong way. What I do know is that our relationship slid down a steep, muddy slope yesterday. How do we climb back to the top? Is there even a way back up for us from this?

Panic begins to swirl. Maybe the docility that greeted me this morning wasn’t docility at all, but resignation. Has Jonah recognized something I’m not willing to admit yet?

Has it become not a matter of finding a way back up but a way out for him?

What I feel for Jonah, I’ve never felt a fraction of for anyone ever, and the idea that this could be the beginning of the end—that I might lose Jonah over this—has me slamming my hand on the tap and scrambling to dry off, nausea churning my stomach.

I barrel out of the bathroom with a towel hastily wrapped, intent on dressing quickly and finding Jonah wherever he is downstairs, to fix this mess I’ve made of us.