Under the Northern Lights(66)
Grieved by the pain I saw on his face, I quietly asked, “Are you okay?”
His sad eyes locked with mine. “No. Not really. Are you okay?”
I sighed as I zipped up my bag. “No. Not really.”
Michael stood, then looked down at the bed where we’d physically said goodbye to each other. Pain tore through my chest, and I grabbed his hand, needing to be near him, right up until the very end. He looked back at me while his thumb caressed mine. “We should go. We’re wasting daylight.”
I wanted to tell him that it was impossible to waste anything when I was around him, but I knew he was right—we couldn’t fly at night, and Michael had to make a return trip today . . . without me. Nodding, I grabbed my bag and started for the door.
The air was warmer than I expected it to be when I stepped outside. A reminder that spring was here, and it was time for me to leave. Michael grabbed the stack of furs he was planning on selling—the lifeblood that would allow him to buy essential commodities—then we headed for the plane.
It took quite a few minutes to load and prep the plane, but it felt like mere seconds had passed before Michael was spinning the propeller, starting the engine. I wanted to cry when it burst to life, but I’d shed enough tears. Now was the time to be strong. I’d fall apart later, once Michael was . . . gone.
When the plane reached cruising altitude, I was surprised I wasn’t scared. I had thought that remnants of my terrifying crash might have made flying difficult for me, but I felt completely at ease by Michael’s side. Probably because I was by Michael’s side, and he had a way of making me feel safe, even in the midst of terrible danger. That, and what was a plane crash compared to losing him? Nothing this mechanical beast did to me could make me hurt worse than I already was.
We arrived in Fairbanks much too soon, and as the plane finally stopped on the small runway just outside the city, I felt the beginnings of a panic attack clawing at my insides. Not yet. I’m not ready. Taking off his headset, Michael looked over at me. “Do you want to call your family now? Or maybe . . . help me buy supplies?”
Relief gushed into me, extinguishing the attack. Any second I could delay moving away from him was a second I would cherish. “I’ll help . . . if you don’t mind.”
He smiled, his expression brightening for the first time this morning. “I’d love that.” I love you.
His remembered words rang through the small space between us. My heart skipped a beat. I love you too. And I don’t want to go . . . but I have to. Fighting back tears, I leaned forward to give him a heartfelt kiss. He returned it warmly, softly kissing me back. When we pulled apart, he swallowed. “There’s still time. We don’t have to do this right now.”
I nodded, fighting back my own rising pain.
Once our emotions . . . settled, we hopped out of the plane and unloaded Michael’s furs. Selling those was our top priority. Once we were loaded up, Michael found a small car rental place and arranged for a van to use for the day. Seeing him behind the wheel of anything other than a plane was . . . odd. He seemed so natural in the woods that I often forgot he’d had a life before his self-imposed isolation.
Once we got into town, Michael drove us to the fur trader. When I stepped out of the van, I was assaulted by noise—car engines, horns, whining power tools in the distance, yelling, boisterous laughter, radios blaring, dogs barking, and cats mewling. Combined with the unnatural lighting everywhere and the constant bustle of people ceaselessly moving, it was almost sensory overload after my months of quiet living. It made me long for the forest.
Michael noticed me cringing. “Takes getting used to again, doesn’t it?”
Nodding, I told him, “Yeah.” My voice was loud to me, like I was overcompensating for the noise. And what made it even worse . . . this wasn’t even a big city. Not really. It was relatively small in the grand scheme of things, but it felt massive after how we’d been living.
We stepped inside the fur trader’s shop, loaded up with our bundles, and a small bell above the door announced our arrival. A weathered old man looked up from behind the counter at hearing the familiar sound. “Well, I’ll be . . . Michael Bradley. I was beginning to worry about you. You’re typically here earlier than this.”
Michael gave him a sheepish smile while I stared at him in surprise. He was known. And expected. For some reason, I imagined him not saying two words to people when he came into town. Hiding in plain sight. “Yeah . . . I had some plane trouble. Took longer than expected to fix.”
The man nodded. “Yeah, Gary said that was probably it. Told me he couldn’t get your part to you before the weather hit. Hope you stock up on parts earlier this year instead of putting it off to the last minute.”
Michael laughed. “Well, that all depends on how much you give me for these.”
As I watched, stupefied by the exchange, Michael laid out his furs for inspection. Once prices were negotiated and Michael had been paid, the old man pointed a stern finger at me. “So, Michael, are you going to introduce me to your lovely lady or not?”
Michael’s cheeks under his neatly trimmed beard flushed with color. “She’s not . . . we’re not . . .” Scratching his head, he turned to me and said, “Oh, uh . . . this is Mallory. Mallory, this is Billy. Or Grumpy Old Man, whichever you prefer.”
With a laugh, I extended a hand to Billy. “It’s nice to meet you.”