The Simple Wild: A Novel(47)

“Bangor’s technically a damp community now, because they passed a law that allows the sale of it,” my dad says. A snap and sizzle sounds as he pulls the tab on his can to crack the seal. “But the town hasn’t been willing to issue any licenses yet because they’re so worried about the villages. So you either have to fly or go to one of the bootleggers, which I don’t recommend you doing, Calla. Some of the stuff they have will make you go blind.” He shifts his gaze between Jonah and me, his brow furrowing a touch. “Let me know what you want and we’ll get it in for you next time someone’s in the city.”

“Thank you.” I breathe through my irritation. “And I promise I’ll bring something better to dinner than cat piss.” I nod toward the red-and-white cans with distain, aiming that slight at Jonah.

Jonah snorts. “Your dad happens to love cat piss. But I guess you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

We square off against each other, my jaw clenched tight as I search for a retort. Yes, Jonah knows my dad better than I do, and he uses that as a weapon, jabbing whenever he sees an opportunity.

Our tense showdown is broken up by laughter.

My dad and Agnes, doubled over, tears streaming down Agnes’s plump cheeks.

I steal a wary glance at Jonah. He looks as confused as I am.

“I think you need to expand your palate, Wren,” Agnes says, transferring a large hunk of succulent white breast meat onto the platter.

My dad takes a sip and then makes a point of smacking his lips. “I don’t even like cats.”

Jonah hangs his head for a long moment, and then his shoulders begin to shake and a genuine, deep-in-the-gut sound that reverberates in my chest fills the room.

“What do you know? Satan is capable of laughter,” I mutter, though my own smile is emerging, the tension in the kitchen dwindling quickly.

My dad shakes his head, still chuckling. “Exactly how hard a time have you been giving my daughter, Jonah?”

My daughter. Such foreign words, and yet the simple acknowledgment makes me blush.

It quickly evaporates as Jonah’s heavy arm lands on my shoulder and he pulls me into his side. He’s a brick wall compared to Corey’s lanky frame. “Me? Give this patient, delightful, down-to-earth girl a hard time?”

I try to wriggle free but Jonah only tightens his vice-like grip, pulling me in closer, until I’m practically molded to his torso and hip, my cheek pressed against his chest. The faint woodsy-scented soap on his skin is gone after a day of work, but he still smells indescribably pleasant.

The last thing I want to be doing is smelling Jonah.

“We couldn’t be getting along better if we tried. Peas and carrots, Wren. Fucking peas and carrots.”

I use my hands for leverage, digging fingers into his ribs, hunting for a sensitive divide. I find nothing but a thick layer of muscle and hard ridges. So I do the only thing I can think of: search the hard plane of his chest with my fingers until I find what I think is a nipple.

And squeeze, then twist.

He releases me with a grunt of pain.

“More like vinegar and milk, I’d say,” Agnes says, still thoroughly amused.

Soft footfalls pad down the hallway. “What’s going on out here? What’s so funny?” Mabel saunters into the kitchen, changed into black leggings and a plain but fitted white T-shirt that shows off narrow hips and the small buds of breasts. Long, poker-straight hair hangs halfway down her back, recently brushed. Her innocent eyes flitter quickly at our faces before settling on Jonah’s to linger.

And I instantly see the truth behind Agnes’s claim.

Mabel has a serious crush on Jonah.

Oh, God. Why?

“Hey, kiddo.” My dad ropes an arm around Mabel’s shoulders and pulls her to him. “How was the farm today?”

My stomach clenches. That’s my nickname. He used to call me that.

“Fine. Kinda boring. Why can’t I hang out at Wild?” Mabel fakes a pout.

He chuckles. “Because that’s got to be even more boring. What twelve-year-old wants to spend their entire summer sitting in an airport?”

She’s only twelve? She acts so much older. Granted, I haven’t hung around with any twelve-year-olds since I was twelve.

Mabel rolls her eyes. “Twelve years plus almost one month. And I wouldn’t be sitting if you’d teach me how to fly.”

“Oh, here we go . . .” Agnes murmurs.

“What? He said he would!”

“When you’re fourteen,” Agnes reminds her.

“Yeah. And that’s only one year and eleven months away. Don’t forget.” Mabel pokes her finger into my dad’s stomach and his body buckles slightly.

“How could I forget?” He ruffles her hair. “You’ve only been reminding me every week since you were six.”

A distinct wave of jealousy bowls into me. My dad and I used to talk about how he’d teach me to fly a plane one day, so many years ago, back before I realized that I prefer my feet on the ground. And here he is now, his arm around Mabel, promising her the very same things he used to promise me. Acting every bit the father I imagined he could be for me.

An uncomfortable suspicion begins to bloom in the back of my conscience.

Agnes and my dad have what she calls a “complicated” relationship. She says they’ve known each other for almost sixteen years. And, just by the look of Mabel, I’d bet money that her father is not Yupik, or any other type of Alaska Native.