“Your mom? Your stepdad? What’s his name again?”

“Simon.”

He nods to himself. “What is he again? A doctor?”

“Psychiatrist.” I push around a piece of chicken with my fork, not hungry anymore. Finally I force myself to take a bite, and silently marvel at how tender and juicy it is.

“I knew it was something like that. Smart guy.”

“Super smart. And patient. It’s annoying sometimes, how patient he is.”

Dad’s face cracks a smile. One that fades quickly. “But he’s been good to you and your mom?”

“He’s been the best.” He’s been a real father to me.

And he would remind me to quiet that voice that fuels this lingering bitterness right about now, and remember why I came to Alaska.

But does he know about these phone calls that happened so long ago? He pays the bills. I’ve seen him combing through statements. Would he have figured out that it wasn’t me calling Alaska, but my mother?

My anger with her flares suddenly. Does she realize how good Simon is to her? That she might not deserve him?

My dad chews unhurriedly. Mom said he’s a slow eater. I wonder if that’s the case now, or if he’s using it as an excuse to avoid further conversation.

Eventually, he swallows. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to since we last talked.”

“You want to know about the last twelve years of my life?” I don’t mean it to come out sounding snarky.

He shrugs. “Unless you’ve got big plans tonight.”

“No, I can’t say I do.” Smoothing on a face mask and killing hours on social media until I fall asleep.

“Well then, I guess we’ve got time . . .” He lifts his can in the air and winks. “And Jonah’s beer.”

“Why are you smiling like that?”

My dad shakes his head, his smile growing wider. He’s long since finished his dinner and is leaning against a porch post about ten feet away from me, a cigarette burning between his fingers. “Nothing. It’s just, listening to you talk, it reminds me of all those phone calls over the years.”

I grin sheepishly. “You mean when I wouldn’t shut up?”

He chuckles. “Sometimes you’d be on such a roll that I’d have to put the phone down and walk away if I needed a restroom break. I’d come back a minute later and you’d still be talking away, none the wiser.”

“Are you saying you need to use the bathroom now?”

He eases open the porch screen door and empties the last dribs of his beer on the grass. We’ve shared two cans apiece, the remnants of Jonah’s six-pack that my dad brought back with him. “Actually, I think I’m going to hit the hay. I’m wiped.”

Tension eases back into my spine. I’d lost it for a time there—busy filling my dad in on my degree, my job, my recent layoff, Diana and the website, even Corey, who I’d given no thought to since leaving Toronto. Somewhere along the line, I forgot about reality. Now it comes back with a vengeance.

Is he tired because he’s had a long day?

Or because of the cancer inside his body, slowly leaching away his energy? Because, despite any bitterness that may linger beneath the surface, I don’t want my father to die.

I hesitate. “Agnes said you were starting treatment next week?”

His head bobs, the previous humor from his face fading.

“So . . . how bad is it?”

“It’s lung cancer, Calla. It’s never gonna be good,” he says quietly. “But I’ve waited twenty-four years to see you. I don’t want to think about that until next week. You’re here now. That’s all I want to be thinking about. Okay?”

I feel the smile curve my lips, unbidden. “Okay.” It’s the first time he’s made any indication that he’s happy I came.

A car door slams, pulling our attention toward the direction of Jonah’s house, just as an engine comes to life. Tires spit gravel as they spin away a moment later. “I think he might have another flight.”

“Now?” I check my phone. It’s nine p.m.

“Gotta take advantage of the daylight while we’ve got it. These guys work long days in the summer. They’re taking off at six in the morning and still in the air at midnight some nights.”

I grimace. “Where’s he going?”

“You know? I can’t remember him sayin’ anything about going anywhere tonight. But Jonah runs his own schedule most of the time.” He snorts. “Who knows. Maybe he’s on the hunt for another six-pack.”

I force thoughts of my dad’s health from my mind for the moment. “Good. Maybe we can drink that one, too.”

Dad chuckles. It sounds as smooth as it did over the phone for all those years. Warmth spreads through my chest, appreciating that I’m now finally hearing it in person.

“How do you deal with him every day? He’s . . . insufferable.” That’s Simon’s favorite word. Wait until I tell him I used it in a sentence.

“Who, Jonah?” Dad wanders over to the far side of the porch, to peer at the butter-yellow house, out of my view. “I still remember the day he showed up at Wild ten years ago. He was this skinny twenty-one-year-old kid from Vegas, full of piss and vinegar and desperate to fly planes. Damn good at it, too.”