I don’t know what to do with my hands, but I feel the urge to do something with them. I tuck them into my jeans pockets, and then pull them half out, only to remove them completely to ball them into fists. From there it’s a fold and tuck into my armpits, as I hug my arms around my chest.

He clears his throat. “How were your flights?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

The bang of a metal door and the crank of a dial in the background reminds me that Agnes is still here.

“Are you hungry? I didn’t have a chance to go shopping—”

“No. I’m fine. I ate in Seattle.”

He nods slowly, his gaze studying the worn carpet beneath our feet. “How’s your mother?”

“Great.” No doubt on her third glass of wine and driving Simon insane as she paces circles around him in his chair, waiting to hear from me. I hesitate. “She’s shocked by the news.” I don’t think there’s any need to elaborate further.

“Yeah, well . . . it is what it is.” He reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “I’ll let you get settled, then. See you in the morning.” He turns and, just like that, he’s gone, the kitchen door letting out a loud groan to signal his exit.

I stare at the empty space where he stood.

See you in the morning?

Four planes, 5,500 kilometers, and twenty-four years later, and all I get from my father is two minutes of polite conversation and “see you in the morning”?

Disappointment threatens to bowl me over.

I sense eyes on me and look up from my daze to find Agnes there, her dark, worried gaze studying me. “Are you okay?”

I swallow away my emotion. “I’m fine.” My shaky voice betrays me.

“Wren isn’t the best at expressing himself. This is a lot for him to take in.”

I let out a breathy laugh, but all I feel is the urge to cry. “For him?” What about for me?

At least the smile she gives me is sympathetic. “I’ll move your clothes to the dryer for you. Go on and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be better.”

I’m glad for the dismissal. I duck into my bedroom, pushing the door shut behind me, fighting against this prickly feeling that’s growing, the one that says I’ve made a terrible mistake, coming here.

I know the moment my phone has connected to the Wi-Fi because a rapid-fire succession of chirps sound, all text messages from my mother.

Have you made it to Anchorage yet?

Let me know when you get to your dad’s.

Are you there yet?

Okay, I checked your flights and saw there was a delay from Seattle into Anchorage. Call me as soon as you can.

I called Alaska Wild and they said you landed about fifteen minutes ago. Have you made it to your father’s?

My thumbs pause over the screen, deciding what to say. If I give her an honest rundown, she’ll insist on calling, and I don’t have the energy to dissect this disastrous reunion with her and Simon yet.

I made it. You were right about the small planes. I’m exhausted. I’ll call you tomorrow.

First thing, okay? We love you!

And remember to take lots of pics!

I quickly swap my clothes for my pajamas—one of a few clothes items that didn’t get wet, thankfully—and dart into the bathroom to wash up. My father and Agnes are nowhere to be found, which makes me think they’re outside, talking.

Shutting myself into my bedroom once again, I draw the curtain and crawl under the blankets with my phone, hoping to distract my dark thoughts.

I pull up the picture that Agnes took earlier. As horrifying as the flight in that thing was, we pose well together, the plane’s cheerful colors especially striking against the gloomy backdrop.

The only flaw is the asshole standing inside the frame.

Jonah’s back is to the camera, his clipboard is gripped in his hand, but his head is turned to showcase the fur around his face and the fact that there’s no mistaking it—he’s watching me. If it were any other guy, this picture might tell a different story, a romantic tale of a man drawn to a woman.

So not the case here.

I play around with the various photo editing tools, cropping, tweaking, and filtering, until I have a stunning snapshot for Instagram, sans angry bush pilot.

But my thumbs stall over the keyboard, unable to come up with a suitable caption. Diana’s voice preaches in my head. Be upbeat and inspirational! Bonus points for funny!

I feel the opposite of those things right now.

I always struggle with writing captions. Not Diana. Then again, most of her posts don’t sound like her, at least not my best friend Diana, the girl who shoves sweet potato fries into her mouth five at a time while she gripes about the lawyers at her firm.

How can I make anything about today upbeat or inspirational?

How should I lie?

By keeping it superficial, that’s how. Simple and light and happy.

I quickly type in the first thing that comes to mind: “City girl in the Alaskan wild. Love my life!” I throw in a bunch of hashtags—another golden rule à la Diana—and hit “post.”

All the while I’m biting my lip against the worry that comes with my growing reality—that everyone would be happier had Agnes never made that phone call.

I wake to soft ocean waves lapping rhythmically at the shore, a peaceful sound courtesy of the white-noise app I use every night.