The Simple Wild: A Novel(111)

Jonah throws his hands in the air. “What did I do?”

“Oh, come on. You know you’re intimidating.”

“I am not.” He turns to me. “Am I?”

“Sometimes,” I admit. “And obnoxious. And annoying . . .” And gentle and affectionate . . .

“Alright, alright.” He waves me off with a smirk.

Mabel is curled up in a chair next to Sharon, her head bowed as she plays a game on her phone.

Jonah pauses a moment to look down at her and his jaw tenses. “Hey, kiddo.” He ruffles her hair.

She looks up long enough to give him a sad, shy smile, before ducking down again. Clearly not in the mood to talk, which is shocking for her. He leaves her be, disappearing into the office.

“I love your hair all up like that,” Sharon says, gesturing toward my messy topknot. Her green eyes are full of sympathy, even as she tries to play it off casually.

“Yeah, that’s called ‘Jonah hid my hair detangler and my vol-umizer and every other beauty product I own in the name of revenge.’ ” I’ll have to search his house later, when I care enough to. In the grand scheme of things, I’ve almost forgotten that I’ve been bare-faced for days. It’s been oddly liberating.

“That sounds like something he’d do,” she says with a soft chuckle, and then swallows. A pained expression fills her face. “We heard the news. I’m so sorry, Calla.”

Word does travel fast. I wonder how exactly it came out. Not that it matters, really. I steal a glance at Mabel, and Jonah’s words from earlier linger in my mind. The reality is that while he may be my dad, I have an entire life built back home that doesn’t include Wren Fletcher, that hasn’t for many years. Meanwhile, he’s everything to people around here. Standing in Wild, accepting Sharon’s condolences . . . It doesn’t feel right. I should be the one offering it.

All I can manage is a nod, and then I duck into the back office. Agnes and Jonah are going over some scheduling and weather reports with George. Agnes flashes a sad, hesitant smile my way and I offer her one back. She’s as innocent in all this as I am, after all.

I hold my phone in the air. “Do you mind if I use my dad’s office for a minute?”

Jonah waves me in. “Nah, go ahead.”

I push the door shut behind me, quickly scanning through all the “Did you see all your likes?”, “Are you getting these?”, “Where are you?”, “Nordstrom’s having a sale on your studded boots! Did you bring them with you? You need to get a picture in a plane with them stat!” texts from Diana that I don’t have the energy or interest in responding to right now. There’s also a “How are things?” text from my mom.

My chest tightens with dread. How is she going to deal with this news?

I need to call and tell her, and soon. But I find myself hesitating. Maybe because it’ll seem more real, more final then. That voice is still there in my head, prattling away in a rushed, desperate tone, trying to convince me that the doctors are wrong about how serious it is, that my father has made a terrible decision, that he needs to fight, that maybe I can still get through to him.

And then Jonah’s voice mixes in, his sobering words about coming to terms with the grim reality. It’s on steady repeat.

Who knows when reality is going to sink in. But I do know one thing—I don’t want to be thousands of miles away when it does.

With a deep inhale, I call the airline.



“She finally fell asleep about two hours ago,” Simon says through a yawn. It’s not quite five a.m. in Toronto. I left Jonah’s house and trekked across the lawn to my dad’s to check my messages—he really needs to join this century and get internet—and found several from Simon, telling me to call his cell, no matter what time.

Of course I panicked and dialed, not even checking the clock.

I should have known Simon would want to check in on me.

I’ve never listened to so much dead air over a phone as I did this afternoon, when I sat down in my dad’s worn old office chair and called my mom to share the bad news. She barely spoke as I spelled out the reality of it all—that we were wrong, that they hadn’t caught it early.

That they caught it far too late.

I talked with a wavering voice, shedding quiet tears, and I listened to the silence on the other end, knowing that what I was actually hearing was her heart breaking.

“She didn’t take it well.”

“No, she didn’t.” Simon’s charming British lilt is a welcome voice. I realize how much I miss seeing him in the morning as I collect my latte with a grumbled thanks. I miss his dry-humored quips as I stroll through the house, always coming or going from something. I miss the fact that he somehow always knows when I could use an ear. I miss that he’s always there for me, in a way that my father never was.

In a way that I had started picturing Wren Fletcher to be in the coming years, without realizing that I was actually doing it.

“How are you taking this, Calla?”

I peer up at the strings of Christmas lights dangling from the ceiling that I just plugged in. The bulbs are too big, the colors too dull, the light cast too weak, and yet the canopy they provide is somehow mesmerizing. I can’t peel my eyes from them. “I don’t know. I’m angry.”