That would make Jonah thirty-one, and only five years older than me. “He said he grew up in Anchorage.”

“He did. He resented his dad for taking them away. Came back as soon as he had the chance. I doubt he’ll ever leave again.”

Just like my dad won’t ever leave, I guess. But why? What hold does Alaska have on them? What makes this place worth giving everything else up?

“He may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but he’s the best bush pilot out there. Possibly one of the craziest, too, but we’re all wired that way to some degree. Some more than others.”

“He’s definitely embraced the whole crazy bush man look. Don’t know if I agree with you about the best bush pilot part yet.”

“The Cub was a bit too small for you.” My dad nods, as if he’s already heard the story.

“He flew that tiny plane intentionally, to scare me. I thought I was going to die.”

“Not with Jonah flying,” he says with such certainty. “He might take risks that even I don’t have the guts to take, but he’s always smart about it.”

Like flying in to save Ethel’s family, I’m guessing. “I almost puked. Had a bag ready and everything.”

My dad smirks. “Well, that would have served him right if you had. You know, this one time, he was flying a group of school kids home from a wrestling meet and two of them got sick on the way. He was the color of pea soup when he climbed out of that plane. He can’t handle the sound of it happening.”

“I wish I did puke now,” I admit, through a sip of beer. Though that may have made landing the plane difficult for him.

Dad’s soft chuckle tickles my ear as he butts his cigarette out in the empty beer can. “I’ll talk to him. Make sure he eases up on you. But he’s not so bad, once you get to know him. You might even find you like him.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

Dad wanders toward the door, collecting the empty dinner plates on his way. “There’s a bunch of movies in the cabinet beside the TV, in case you’re looking for something to watch.”

“I’ll probably just hang out here for a while and then go to bed, too. I’m still jet-lagged. But thanks.”

His gaze drifts over the porch. “Susan used to sit out here every night during the summer. ’Course, it was a lot nicer back then. She had a bunch of potted flowers and this big wicker thing.” He smiles as he reminisces. “She’d curl up with a blanket, like you are. Like a caterpillar in a cocoon.”

“She does that at home, too. We have a little sun porch off the back of the house. It’s a quarter of this size, but . . . it’s nice. Cozy.”

“Is she still growing her flowers and all that stuff?”

I chuckle. “Our house is a jungle of thorns and petals. She owns a flower shop now, too. It’s doing well.”

“That sounds right up her alley.” He purses his lips together and then nods with satisfaction. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. Well . . . ’Night, Calla.”

“’Night.” I feel the urge to tack on “Dad” at the end, but something holds me back.

“Oh, and don’t mind Jonah. He likes to get under people’s skin.” He slides the door softly behind him, leaving me to myself.

“Like a damn parasite,” I murmur.

And yet, if I’m not mistaken, that parasite helped force a lot of truth to the surface tonight.

Truth that was needed if I have any hope of reconnecting with my father.

Chapter 11

I cringe at the acrid taste of sweat and bug spray on my lips as I amble up my dad’s driveway, my heart pounding from a rigorous run. So far today feels much like a repeat of yesterday—another unintentional early rise, another overcast sky, another quiet, lifeless house, save for the aroma of a freshly brewed pot of coffee, evidence that my dad was there, but gone by the time I poked my head out.

Except today, things don’t feel as hopeless between Wren Fletcher and me as they did yesterday.

On the flip side, I haven’t begun to wrap my mind around how I feel about these phone calls between him and my mother. Angry, on Simon’s behalf, that’s for certain. Though something tells me Simon knows more than even he let on that night on the porch steps.

What if those calls hadn’t started? What if the feelings between my parents hadn’t resurfaced? Would my father still have decided that it was best for everyone if he distanced himself?

My gaze drifts to the green Ford Escape next door as I climb the porch steps, panting. I didn’t hear it roll in last night. Jonah must have come home after I went to bed.

I push through the door into the kitchen.

And yelp at the hulkish figure inside, pouring a cup of coffee into a travel mug.

“What are you doing in here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Jonah slides the half-full pot back on the burner. He’s dressed much the same as yesterday, swapping the black shirt for charcoal gray, the cotton material clinging nicely to his shoulders. His jeans are still too loose. The same ratty USAF baseball cap keeps his straggly blond hair off his face.

“You don’t have a coffeemaker at your place?”

“Wren brews a full pot every morning for the both of us. That’s our routine. I always come over to fill up my mug.”