Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

“Of course, I know that. It’s just …” She catches a tear with her freshly polished nail—cranberry, for the season. “I finally understand that look on my mother’s face all those years ago, when I told her I was moving to Alaska. I should probably phone her and apologize.”

My heart races with anticipation. It’s been four weeks, five days, and twelve minutes since I said goodbye to Jonah in this very spot after his surprise visit to Toronto.

Since then it’s been a flurry of preparation: copious forms, signatures, and exorbitant rush fees to renew my US passport; hours spent online learning about Anchorage; a myriad of “are you really sure you want to do this?” questions and cautionary “what if he’s after your inheritance?” discussions with my mother that sparked more than one catastrophic fight; and carefully worded, psychoanalytical conversations with Simon over his secret stash of instant mashed potatoes—about how my feelings for Jonah could be a residual of our deep connection after facing my father’s death together and, if so, not a strong foundation upon which to begin a life together.

And, of course, countless texts and phone calls to Jonah as I packed and planned and counted down the days.

And now here I am, standing in Pearson International at 5:17 a.m., gripping my phone that holds three boarding passes for three flights that will close the thirty-four-hundred-mile distance between me and Jonah’s arms, because it’s the only way I’ll ever know where this can lead.

What would you think about this turn of events, Dad?

It’s been over three months since Wren Fletcher passed away, and I still think of him daily. My chest still aches with each fond memory. My eyes still water when I flip through countless pictures from my time in Alaska this summer. My throat still clogs when I speak his name.

To think he was virtually a stranger in July—a man estranged from me since I was fourteen and nothing more than a distant voice over the telephone before that—and yet he has inadvertently shaped a future in Alaska for me.

Jonah was like a son to him. He’d be thrilled about this, I’m sure of it.

“Susan, we really ought to think about catching the train to our terminal,” Simon warns in that gentle Hugh Grant-esque British accent of his, patting her shoulder while stealing a pointed glance my way. We all knew saying our goodbyes in the airport wasn’t a smart idea. That didn’t stop Mom from booking their flight to Turks and Caicos to leave twenty minutes after my flight, thus guaranteeing we’d be in this exact situation.

She adjusts the wide-brimmed sun hat perched atop her head as it was far too fragile to pack in her suitcase. My own hat much like it—the one I foolishly wore on my flight to Alaska the first time—is hanging on a hook in Jonah’s house. I left it there, both to remind Jonah of me and because I was uninterested in the tedious effort of flying home with it.

I’m much more practically dressed this time, in leggings and a loose, cozy sweater, and suede hiking boots that will be a pain through security but are otherwise perfect for a day of travel.

“I wish you guys would reconsider spending the holidays with us,” Mom mutters.

“It’s a bit too late for that.” On December 23, I doubt there are any seats to Turks available anymore. Certainly not ones that don’t cost five thousand dollars per ticket.

But I know my mother isn’t holding out hope for a last-minute switch. Jonah’s not going to change his mind about needing to be with Agnes and Mabel this year.

And I’m not going to change my mind about needing to be with him.

“I’ll text you when I get to Jonah’s tonight,” I promise. The guy finally invested in internet at his house.

“And call me as soon as you wake up.”

“Yes, yes …” I wrap my arms around my mom’s shoulders, pulling her into me. “Have a merry Christmas, beachside.”

Her returning embrace is fierce for such a slight woman. As she squeezes me tight against her, I inhale her floral perfume. So apropos for a florist. “I’ll pray that the snow holds off until you get there,” she whispers, and the hoarseness in her voice makes the knot in my throat flare. “Say hello to Jonah for me.”

“Will do.” I peel away from her, shifting my attention to Simon, who’s been relegated to suitcase lackey and is busy tugging on the collar of his winter coat, his face flush from heat. Ever since I came back from Alaska in September, I’ve noticed his age that much more—the lines marring his forehead and mouth, his wrinkled hands, his sparse, graying hair. He was the only father figure I could turn to for twelve years of my life. Now that I’ve lived through the pain of losing my real father—a man I learned to love again—I’m acutely aware that I’ll have to live through losing Simon one day, too.

I’m banking on that happening many years from now, though.

“Work on that tan, will ya?” I tease. Simon will no doubt spend his days hiding beneath the largest umbrella he can find, slathered in SPF 100, with a stripe of zinc down the bridge of his nose for added protection.

“You, too.” I laugh as he pulls me into a tight hug. “She’ll be fine. I won’t let her mope,” he says, too low for anyone but me to hear. “You do this Alaska thing with Jonah for as long as it makes sense to you, but you’ve always got a place here, if you find you need it, with no questions asked. Well … maybe a few.” He winks.

“I know. Thanks.” My stomach stirs with butterflies as I hike my backpack over my shoulders, relieved that the three suitcases containing everything I need to survive are already funneling through security for the plane to Chicago. “Okay, so … talk to you guys soon?” What else do you say to your parents on the day you move to the other side of the continent?

Mom’s head bobs up and down, her throat shifting with a hard swallow, her hand blindly pawing for Simon’s.

“I’m just a phone call or text or Facetime away,” I assure her, the soles of my boots sliding across the polished tile as I edge away. “Safe flight.”

“You, too.” Simon offers an encouraging smile.

Fishing my newly issued US passport out of my purse, I trudge forward to hand it to the stone-faced man in uniform. It’s the first time I’ve flown as a US citizen in over twenty-four years. He barely eyeballs it before thrusting it back, admitting me with a head nod.

I turn back one last time to see Simon’s lanky arm encircling my mother’s shoulders, pulling her tight to his side. She wasn’t anywhere near this emotional the last time I left for Alaska. Then again, that was temporary. That was for my father. And for me.