The Simple Wild: A Novel(38)

“I . . . think so?” I choke down the last of what might be the worst coffee ever known to man and toss it into a nearby bin. At least my headache is beginning to fade. But I don’t know how I’m going to survive the week, drinking this crap. I wonder if Amazon delivers here . . .

“Last chance,” he warns me.

I scan the cart—fruit smoothies for breakfast, green salads with chicken breast for lunch and dinner, along with a bag of almonds, a dozen eggs, ingredients for sandwiches, and bananas for snacks. Basically what I eat at home. I also remembered the twenty-dollar can of bug spray that will likely cause DEET poisoning, thanks to Jonah. He strolled down the household goods aisle—past an ATV and boat motor, because apparently in Alaska you can buy ATVs and boat motors at the grocery store—and tossed it in without asking, announcing loud enough for everyone two aisles over to hear that if I insist on jogging naked, it’s the only mosquito repellent that will work.

And yet I can’t ignore this nagging feeling that I’ve forgotten something.

“Come on. Let’s go. Get Wren to bring you back if you forgot something.”

“As if.” I let out a derisive snort. “He’s too busy making a buck to make time for his own daughter. He doesn’t even want me here.”

Jonah scowls. “Who told you that?”

“No one has to. It’s pretty damn clear.” If it weren’t for Agnes, I wouldn’t even know he was sick.

Agnes.

Dinner tonight.

That’s what I was forgetting. “Red or white?”

“What?” Jonah frowns in confusion, caught off guard by my question.

“Agnes invited me and my dad to dinner tonight. I need to bring something for her.” Plus, I think I hear a bottle of vodka calling my name, to get me through this week. “Red or white wine?”

He waves it away. “Don’t bother. She doesn’t expect it.”

“I’m not going to show up to someone’s house empty-handed,” I mutter, my eyes roving the store signage, searching for the liquor aisle that we obviously missed. “Who does that?”

“I do it all the time,” he retorts, as if proud of that fact.

“Yeah . . . well . . .” It was a rhetorical question, but I shouldn’t be at all surprised that the yeti doesn’t understand basic etiquette. Meanwhile, my mother had me bringing cookies and cupcakes to my friends’ houses as a thank-you for arranged playdates when I was as young as eight. “It’s considered good manners to bring something for the hostess. Like wine,” I say calmly, with as little judgment as I can muster in my voice.

He levels me with that icy gaze for three long beats. “Aggie doesn’t drink. Your dad will have the occasional beer.”

“Great.” Maybe if I show up with a six-pack, he’ll feel obligated to talk to me for more than a minute. “Where can I get—”

“You can’t. It’s a dry community. They don’t sell alcohol in Bangor.”

“What?” I feel my face twist with shock. “You’re lying.”

His eyebrows arch. “You’re arguing with me about this?”

“What the hell is this, the 1920s prohibition?”

“No. It’s Western Alaska, where alcoholism is a serious problem,” he says, his voice carrying with it a condescending edge. “People will drink so much, they pass out in snowbanks and freeze to death in winter.”

“So no one can buy any alcohol, then?” That seems a bit drastic.

“Nope. Not even you.” He’s enjoying this way too much.

“Well, how does my dad get beer, then?” I counter. “You said he drinks beer.”

“He brings it home with him when he goes to Anchorage or Seward. And no . . . I’m not flying there to grab you a damn six-pack.” His perfectly straight, white teeth glint with a wide, spiteful smile. “I guess you’ll have to forgo proper dinner etiquette for tonight.”

“That’s fine. I’ll buy her flowers.” I eye the green pail next to the cash register, where three sad-looking bouquets of lemon-yellow daisies sit, the bright dye in the petals unable to hide the browning edges. My florist mother would die witnessing this, I think, as I grab one and trail Jonah to the last cashier, all while glaring at his back.

A dry community? What do people order at the bar on a Friday night? Cocoa and cream sodas? Come to think of it, I didn’t notice any flashing neon lights or the word “bar” anywhere.

So what the hell do people do around here for fun?

“Shouldn’t you be working?” the cashier—a white woman in her fifties, with blonde hair, soft blue eyes, and a slight Southern accent, the kind that’s faded with time—smiles up at Jonah, while stealing frequent, curious glances at me. I’ll take that over being blatantly stared at by every other person in this place. Elderly women hunched over bins of discounted canned vegetables, staring at me through cataract-clouded gazes. Stock boys, pausing with their hands in midair, gripping produce, staring at me—my face, my chest, my shoes—as I edge past. Middle-aged ladies in unflattering jeans and clunky shoes, their hair pulled into messy ponytails, -quieting in mid-conversation, staring at me like I’m some sort of circus sideshow. Or, more likely, like they know I’m an outsider and they’re trying to figure out what on earth brought me to Bangor, Alaska.