The Simple Wild: A Novel(53)
I frown. “Did you come in here yesterday, too?”
“Yup.” He turns and leans against the counter, settling his pretty blue eyes on me. “You were in the shower.” Did he trim his beard? It’s still long and full, but it seems less mangy than yesterday. Or . . . I don’t know. Something’s different about him. He looks a bit less wild and unappealing.
Bringing the mug to his lips, he takes a long sip, his gaze flickering over my sweat-coated body—clad in the pink shorts and tank top that he claimed leaves nothing to the imagination—before settling on my face. “Did your bug spray work?”
I can’t read him, not even a little bit, and that’s unsettling. “Seemed to,” I murmur, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Which is probably his goal. Setting my jaw stubbornly, I stroll over to the kitchen sink.
“Agnes warned you about the water, right?”
My hand freezes mid-swipe over my lips. “What do you mean? Is it contaminated?” I haven’t intentionally drunk any, but I’ve been brushing my teeth with it.
“No, it’s clean. But we’re on a hauled water system out here. A truck comes out once a week to fill that big tank outside. If you use it up before the next truck comes, you’re shit outta luck.”
“Does that happen a lot? Running out of water?”
“Not to people who don’t leave the tap on while they wash up,” he says pointedly, as water gushes freely from the faucet.
I slap a hand down to shut it off. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem.” A pause. “Those bites look nasty.”
I can feel his gaze on the backs of my thighs, on the angry, itchy red welts that cropped up overnight.
My cheeks begin to flush. “I’ll be fine.”
The floor creaks with his heavy footfalls as he heads for the door. “Have fun playing dress-up, or whatever it is you do all day.”
And . . . I guess he’s back to being an ass. Too bad, because for a while there, I thought I might be able to like this guy.
“Have fun annoying people, or whatever it is you do all day.”
His deep chuckle vibrates in my chest as he disappears out the door. I watch through the window as he strolls confidently across the lawn toward his SUV, as if without a care in the world.
“Bastard,” I mutter. At least the animosity that I felt for him yesterday has dulled considerably. Now I’m just mildly aggravated. I pour half a mug of coffee for myself and then, with great reluctance, reach into the fridge for the liquid chalk to top up the other half.
I frown at the fresh carton of Silk sitting front and center on the shelf.
That wasn’t there earlier this morning.
Did Jonah leave that in there?
I poke my head out the door, in time to see his Escape pulling out of his driveway and onto the main road, speeding off toward Alaska Wild.
What did he do, go out last night and buy it for me?
A quick Google search on my phone shows one other grocery store in town. I guess they must carry it. But still, for Jonah to even consider doing that for me . . .
I fill the rest of my mug, diluting the otherwise bitter taste, and then take a long, savoring sip.
It’s not Simon’s latte, but I can live with this, I decide with a small, satisfied smile.
“Thanks for the ride.” I push the taxicab door shut, my gaze wandering over the small assembly of grounds crew workers ahead, their orange vests fluttering in the cool breeze as they wheel skids loaded with packages toward the planes.
“Anytime. But you know it’s not that far to walk from your place,” Michael says as he lights up a cigarette.
“It’s closer than I thought,” I admit. Still, it would take me more than a half hour. I watch a curl of smoke sail upward. “You shouldn’t smoke.” At least he doesn’t do it while I’m in the car, or I’d have to find myself another cab driver.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ve tried quitting.” He dismisses it in an apathetic tone.
“Keep trying until it sticks. For your kids’ sake.” He talks about them enough that I know he cares, despite their living situation.
The car begins rolling away, Michael’s arm dangling out the window, the cigarette burning as he casts a lazy salute my way.
With a heavy sigh, I push through the front doors of Alaska Wild, an unexpected rash of butterflies suddenly stirring in my stomach. When I was young, I used to picture my dad’s company inside one of those cavernous architectural-masterpiece airport terminals like the ones I saw in TV movies, with hordes of people rushing like little black ants in all directions, frantic to catch their next flight, suitcases dragging behind them. I asked my mom once if that’s what Alaska Wild looked like. She laughed. “No, Calla. It’s not like that at all. It’s rather simple.”
So I tried to reset my imagination to picture a “simple” airport with planes and pilots and my father at the helm. I couldn’t.
Now, though, standing inside the spacious lobby, taking in the faux wood-panel walls, the dark gray linoleum floor layered with aged forest-green runners that wear scores of dusty boot prints; the panels of lights above, checkered amongst a tile ceiling; and the only window, a large one that overlooks the runway, I finally understand what she meant.
It looks like a mechanic’s shop my mother and I ended up at once, after a strange whistling sound coming from her engine interrupted our weekend wine-touring trip to Niagara. Even the water cooler in the corner, with its sad little paper cone cups jammed into a dispenser beside it, is eerily similar.