The Simple Wild: A Novel(22)

The sudden urge to pee hits me.

No sooner has Jonah shut off the engine than he’s yanking off his headset, popping open the door, and hopping out with surprising grace.

I remain a while, though, enjoying the crisp, cool breeze that skates across my face, working like a salve for my churning stomach.

“Come on, let’s go!” Jonah barks.

I’m almost done having to deal with him, I remind myself as I slip out of my seat.

I stall at the plane’s doorway to size up the distance to the ground, struggling to figure out how I’m going to hop out in my wedge heels—while keeping my purse on my shoulder and my hat on my head—without falling flat on my face or twisting an ankle. I should have changed my shoes when I was pilfering through my suitcase to get the essentials.

Without a word of warning, Jonah seizes me by the waist with his giant hands and hoists me down as if I weigh nothing at all, earning my squeal of surprise. Setting me onto the ground, he then dives back into the plane to retrieve the nylon bag tucked in behind my seat. He unceremoniously drops it to my feet like he’s tossing trash to the curb. It lands in a puddle.

“Here. Puke all you want now.” He thrusts the plastic bag into my empty grasp.

I peer up at his face—still masked by all the mangy hair and sunglasses and baseball cap, pulled low despite the lack of sun. How long has he been growing that bush for, anyway? Years? There are long, wiry hairs sticking out in every direction. I guarantee it’s never seen a pair of scissors or a comb. Ever.

My disgusted expression stares back at me from the reflection of his lenses and my mother’s words about falling in love with a pilot suddenly hit me.

I burst out laughing. Is Jonah what she would call a “sky cowboy”?

As if I’d ever fall for this guy.

The skin between the bottom of Jonah’s aviators and the top of his unkempt beard flushes. “What’s so funny?” he asks warily.

“Nothing.” The cool wind picks up in a gust, sending strands of my long hair fluttering around my chin and threatening to lift my hat from my head. I brush away the strays and clear my throat. “Thanks for flying me here,” I say politely, keeping my expression flat.

He hesitates. I can feel his heavy gaze on my face and it makes me uncomfortable. “Don’t thank me. It wasn’t my idea,” he says, then flashes a tight, insincere smile, revealing straight, beautiful white teeth.

And here, I had assumed he’d written off all basic grooming and hygiene habits.

“Hello, there!” a female voice calls out, distracting me from thoughts of punching Jonah right in that perfect grill of his.

I gladly turn away from him, to see a petite woman marching toward us.

That has to be Agnes.

For the past three days, I’ve been imagining what the woman behind the calm, soft-spoken voice on the phone looks like. The “friend” who must be more than that. I guess I assumed—-stupidly—that she’d look something like my mother.

Agnes is about as opposite to my mother as you can get.

For one thing, she’s so small she’s almost childlike, especially in an orange safety vest that’s at least three sizes too big, baggy men’s jeans, and clunky work boots. An outfit my mother wouldn’t be caught dead in on her worst day. And, unlike my mother’s sleek and impeccably colored bob, Agnes’s raven-black hair—lightly peppered with gray—has been chopped to an unimaginative pixie length, almost as if she was annoyed with it one day and took a pair of scissors to herself without using a mirror for guidance.

For another, Agnes is an Alaska Native.

“You made it,” Agnes says, stopping in front of me, giving me a chance to take in her features. She has a pretty, round face, aged with fine lines across her brow and conspicuous crow’s-feet at the corners of deeply set, hooded eyes. I’d put her in her mid-forties, if I had to guess.

“I did.”

She smiles wide, showing off pronounced cheeks and slightly crooked front teeth the color of bone china.

Finally. Someone around here seems genuinely happy to see me.

“So, is he . . .” My words drift as my gaze wanders from the door Agnes exited moments ago to the other buildings around us, where half a dozen workers in reflective vests load cargo into planes. I search their faces while I hold my breath, an odd mixture of nervous butterflies and nausea competing for attention inside me.

“Wren had to go up to a site near Russian Mission to drop off supplies,” she explains, as if I know where that is. “He’ll be back soon.”

“Oh,” I stammer. He’s not here for my arrival? “He knew I was coming, though, right?”

“Yes, of course. He’s excited.” That wide smile wavers a touch, enough to make me suspicious.

He knew that his daughter, who he hasn’t seen in twenty-four years, hasn’t talked to in twelve years, was arriving tonight. Couldn’t he have found someone else to drop off supplies, so he could be here to greet her? Couldn’t he have sent Jonah instead? Or one of the six other available pilots, according to Jonah’s grumblings not long ago?

Better yet, seeing as he’s not too sick to fly, why couldn’t he have come to Anchorage to get me?

Is my dad intentionally avoiding me?

Will I be dealing with another Jonah, who is less than thrilled that I’m here?