The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

“She was crying?”

“At night, when she thought I’d gone to sleep. Not often, but often enough. I’m guessing it was guilt over harboring feelings for him. And fear for what might happen when she saw him again, especially so soon after marrying me.”

What exactly is Simon suggesting?

He presses his thin lips together as he wipes the lenses of his reading glasses on the cuff of his sleeve. “I think she finally accepted that neither of you would ever have the relationship you longed for with him. That wanting someone to be something they’re not won’t make it happen.” Simon hesitates. “I’ll selfishly admit that I wasn’t entirely unhappy that he never came. It was clear to me that if Wren were willing to give up his home, my marriage to your mother would have dissolved.” He toys with the gold wedding band around his ring finger. “I will always play second fiddle to that man. I knew that the day I asked her to be my wife.”

“But why would you marry her, then?” As glad as I am that he did, for her sake as well as mine, it seems like an odd proclamation.

“Because while Susan may have been madly in love with Wren, I was madly in love with her. Still am.”

That, I know. I’ve seen it, with every lengthy look, with every passing kiss. Simon loves my mother deeply. At their wedding, my grandfather gave a mildly inappropriate speech, commenting on the two of them being an unlikely pair—that my mother is this vibrant and impulsive woman, while Simon is a calm and practical old soul. “An unexpected match, but he’ll sure as hell make her much happier than that last one” were my grandfather’s exact words over the microphone to a room of a hundred guests.

The old man was probably right, though, because Simon dotes on my mother, granting her every self-satisfying whim and wish. They vacation at expensive, all-inclusive tropical resorts when he’d rather be visiting dusty churches and ancient libraries; he’s her pack mule when she decides she needs a fresh wardrobe, schlepping countless bags through the streets of Yorkville; he humors her love of Sunday road trips to country markets and then comes home sneezing from the dozen allergens that plague him; he’s given up gluten and red meat because Mom has decided she doesn’t want to eat them. When we redecorated the house, my mother chose a palette of soft grays and pale mauves. Simon later confided in me that he despises few things and, oddly enough, the color mauve is one of them.

In the past, I’ve found myself silently mocking the gangly Englishman for never putting his foot down with my mother, for never showing a spine. But now, as I gaze at his narrow, kind face—his feather-thin hair long since receded from his forehead—I can’t help but admire him for all that he’s put up with while loving her.

“Did she ever admit her feelings to you?” I dare ask.

“No,” Simon scoffs, his brow furrowing deeply. “She’ll never admit any of this to me and don’t bother confronting her about it. It’ll only stir up guilt that does none of us any good.”

“Right.” I sigh. “So, should I go to Alaska?”

“I don’t know. Should you?”

I roll my eyes at him. “Why can’t you be a normal parent and tell me what to do for once?”

Simon grins, in that way that tells me he’s secretly delighted that I referred to him as a parent. Even though he’s always said that he sees me as his daughter, I think he would have been happy to have children of his own, had my mother been willing. “Let me ask you this: What was your first thought when Agnes told you your father has cancer?”

“That he’s going to die.”

“And how did that thought make you feel?”

“Afraid.” I see where Simon’s going with this. “Afraid that I’ll miss my chance to meet him.” Because no matter how many times I’ve lain in bed, wondering why my father didn’t love me enough, the little girl inside me still desperately wants him to.

“Then I think you should go to Alaska. Ask the questions you need to ask, and get to know Wren. Not for him, but for you. So you don’t find yourself ruled by deep regrets in the future. Besides . . .” He bumps shoulders with me. “I don’t see any other pressing matters in your life at the moment.”

“Funny how that worked out, eh?” I murmur, thinking of the chatty custodian on the subway earlier today. “It must be fate.”

Simon gives me a flat look, and I laugh. He doesn’t believe in fate. He doesn’t even believe in astrology. He thinks people who follow their horoscopes have deeply repressed issues.

I sigh. “It’s not like he lives in the nice part of Alaska.” Not that I remember any part of Alaska from my brief time there—nice or otherwise. But Mom has used the words “barren wasteland” enough to turn me off the pla

ce. Though she tends to be dramatic. Plus, she’s a city lover. She can’t handle the Muskokas for more than a night, and not without dousing herself in mosquito repellent every fifteen minutes while reminding everyone incessantly about the risk of West Nile.

“I’ll think about it.” I mentally start reorganizing my schedule. And groan. If I leave on Sunday, I’ll miss next week’s hair appointment. Maybe I can beg Fausto to squeeze me in Saturday morning. Highly unlikely. He’s normally booked four weeks in advance. Thankfully I have a standing nail appointment on Saturday afternoons and I had my eyelashes done last weekend. “I just paid for ten more hot yoga sessions. And what about squash? Mom would need to find a replacement partner.”

“All things you managed to work around when you went to Cancún last year.”

“Yeah . . . I guess,” I admit reluctantly. “But Alaska is a million hours away.”

“Only half a million,” Simon quips.

“Will you at least give me a script for Ambi—”

“No.”

I sigh with exaggeration. “What fun is having a stepdad with a prescription pad, then?” My phone starts ringing from its resting spot on the hood of Simon’s car. “Crap, that’s Diana. She’s in a line somewhere, mentally stabbing me.” As if on cue, a black Nissan Maxima coasts up to the curb in front of the house. “And that’s my Uber.” I look down at my missing heel and my soiled dress. “And I need to change.”