Page 34 of Falling For Alaska

And then, I’ll breathe again.

Alaska

“No, Dad, I’m good. I’ve just watched another episode,” I tell my father. We used to watch shows together when I lived at their place, and now, from time to time, we choose a new one and watch it together, even if we don’t live in the same house anymore. Currently, it’s a western family drama. Not my favorite kind of show, but he likes it, so I watch it with him, too.

“I don’t know, kiddo. The road’s flooded. I don’t like knowing you’re there on your own.”

“Dad, really, I’m okay, alright? I’ve got the generator, and I plugged it in like you showed me,” I assure him, which is true. My dad owns a plumbing company, and since I was old enough to hold a tool, he’s taught me a lot about home maintenance.

“Good, good, but…thank God at least your area isn’t flooded. Here, it’s getting under control, but I heard from the neighbors that the folks living on the north side of town had to evacuate.”

“Really?” I ask, not realizing I’m chewing on my lip. Could it be more serious than I thought? I tried to stay away from local news all day, but the rain has been particularly hard today.

“Thank god we’ve got the generator because it’s pitch black out there.” He sighs. “Promise me you’ll tell me if you need me?”

“I promise, Dad, but it’s all fine, really,” I assure him. The rumble of a car reaches my ears, and I look at the little window near my entryway. Who could it be? Power out, I can deal. But is someone coming to attack me? I’m not equipped.

“Wait, there’s someone coming-”

“What? Who?” he hurries out. I check the window and notice a police car. So definitely not a threat. Perhaps an officer making rounds during the storm.

“All good. It's a police car, I think they’re making rounds.”

“Alright, alright. You stay safe, honey.”

“Yes, Dad. Don’t worry. I have to go. Be safe, okay?” I tell him.

“Night, kiddo. Keep updating us. Love you.”

“Love you, Dad,” I say, closing the call. I fidget on my feet, tiptoeing to get a better view, and through the rain and trees, I notice the blue signs and sirens glowing. My heart goes back to a normal pace before starting to thump again.

Could Jack be in this car?

I run a hand along the side of my hair and take a deep breath, footsteps echoing on my porch, and a strong knock blasts near me, making me jump.

“Alaska?” Jack’s voice shouts, concealed by the sound of wind and harsh rain. “It’s Jack, I’m—” he pauses, “is everything okay?” he asks again, knocking twice, hard. My belly makes a double spin, and without thinking twice about it, I open the door in my white and pink heart PJs. He drinks me from head to toe in a second, his lips parted. Without a word, I wave him in. He removes his navy cap as he steps inside. His clothes are drenched, and he looks like a man who hasn’t slept in days. A few candles and two small lamps are lit in my living room, the air warm and smelling of vanilla muffins. I turn red when I realize that I’m not wearing any makeup or anything under my shirt and cotton pants.

Thank God there’s not more light in here. He’s standing in my entryway, his clothes dripping on my wood floor, studying me like he’s searching for any kind of injury. Out of breath, he asks, “I...I just wanted t-to check if you were alright.” He swallows, his gaze burning me like lava. He came to check on…me?

“You came even after—” I try to say, remembering the time I came to the police station.

“Yeah,” he breathes out like a murmur. “I-I, uh, I don’t have much time,” he pauses, “just needed to check if, um,” he clears his throat, “you need anything, c-c-call me. I’ll be making rounds all night, I c-can write my num-number if you have a p-piece of p-p-paper, I think I g-got one in there, wait⁠—”

“Jack?”

“We had s-so many folks to evac-cu-cuate up north. A pregnant lady who was panicking hard, I-I-I have no idea when we’ll get b-backup⁠—”

“Jack,” I call him, his gaze drifting to my large window in the living room, the forest unleashed, thrashing its branches against the glass.

“And wh-who knew l-l-lakes could overflow, uh? I tell you, we don’t have that in M-Minneapolis. Two-two boats landed on the highway, it’s a f-f-fucking mess and—” Without interrupting him, I take his hand, pulling him gently to my living room. I sit on my soft sofa, tugging on his hand until he’s seated next to me. He follows me without asking, trusting me. Running a hand down his face, fatigue and worry painted on every pore of his handsome, perfect skin, he grunts, “S-s-sorry, I didn’t want to-”

Without saying a word, I kneel on the sofa, my feet tucked under my thighs, my whole body turned toward him, hoping my shirt will conceal the shapes beneath it. And for no other reason but instinct, I do something I never thought I could. I rest my palms on both sides of his face. He doesn’t stop me, nor ask me what I’m doing. But he stopped talking. Like the storm inside his head has taken a rest, just for a second. I take a deep breath, my heart quickening from the courage it’s taken me to touch him. I lean in, hesitantly, resting my forehead against his, breathing each other's air like it’s our only oxygen.

He exhales.

I inhale.

We stay like this for two minutes, the rumble of trees as our only companion. My thumbs run mindlessly along his face, making small circles on his temples, while I listen to his breathing getting back to a normal pace.