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Chapter 27
Two months later . . .
“You know they have more cabs per capita in Bangor, Alaska, than anywhere else in North America?”
I catch the Uber driver’s eyes flash to me in the rearview mirror before returning their focus to my street.
“There’s this one driver named Michael. He’s only twenty-eight and he has eight kids. No, wait—six kids.” I frown in thought. “Seven kids in December; that’s right. His wife should be having it next month.”
“You said this house on the corner, right?” The driver eases in front of our big brown brick house.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I mutter. He clearly has no interest in knowing about Bangor, Alaska’s staggering cab population. I sensed that the second I climbed in, and yet I couldn’t help but prattle on, as I’ve found myself doing more and more lately, as the acute pain of my losses morphs into a hollow throb with the passing days.
Still, each morning and each night and almost every hour in between, my thoughts wander to memories of fresh crisp air against my skin and the smell of coffee filling the tiny moss-green house, to the pound of my feet against the dirty, quiet tundra road, to the vibrating hum of Victoria’s engine as she carried us through the vast, open Alaskan skies. To my father’s soft, easy chuckle. To the way my heart would skip beats under Jonah’s knowing, blue-eyed gaze.
I think about it all and my heart aches because that time in my life is over. My father is gone for good.
And so is Jonah.
I haven’t heard from him in almost a month. We texted back and forth a bit, those first few weeks. But the messages were awkward—as I’d expect, coming from a guy who hates technology—and they quickly dwindled in frequency. That last text from him, the “Aro’s keeping me too busy for anything else” felt like a brush-off. At least that’s what I convinced myself it was. It was easier that way. It gave me an excuse to cut the cord that was already barely hanging on by a thread. But I still haven’t found a way to stop thinking about him—wishing for him.
With my house keys in hand, I slide out of the Acura and begin slowly making my way up our driveway. The temperature is hovering just below freezing, enough to keep the asphalt coated with the light dusting of snow that fell earlier tonight.
I ease past Simon’s car, and then my mom’s, past the array of garbage and recycling and . . .
“Ah, crap,” I mutter. It’s garbage day tomorrow. Well, today, technically, as it’s now one a.m.
I toss my purse on the stone pathway and then backtrack, to start hauling the bins down the driveway, one at a time. On my third trip back to fetch the recycling, I give the handle a sharp yank to pop the bin on its wheels. The lid lifts and a furry black face pops up in front of me.
I let out a shriek as I stumble back in my heels, barely catching my balance.
“God dammit, Sid. You get me every single time!” I yell through gritted teeth, my heart racing. “Why won’t you hibernate!”
He chatters back and then leaps out of the bin to run under Simon’s car, scattering a few cans on his way. Tim scampers behind.
A deep, warm chuckle from our front porch fills the silence.
My lungs stop working.
There’s only one man who laughs like that.
I dart up the stone path, ignoring my heels in the cracks, to find Jonah settled into one of the chairs, his legs splayed, his arms lying casually on the rests. As if it’s not cold out.
“How do you know which one’s which?” he asks casually.
“The white patch above Tim’s eyes is wider,” I mumble, still trying to process this.
Jonah’s here.
Jonah’s in Toronto.
Jonah has no beard.
“What’d you do to your face?” I blurt.
He runs his hand over his chiseled jaw. He looks so different without it. More like that picture of him with my dad from a decade ago. “I lost my groomer a while back and I couldn’t find another one as good.” His icy blue eyes rake over my black dress and heels as I climb the steps, my legs feeling wobbly.
“How long have you been here?”
