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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 inspirat
ional?
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.
For a split second, I forget that I’m unemployed and single.
And in Alaska to meet a father who may be gravely ill but still doesn’t want me here.
Pushing the sleep mask off my face, I let my eyes adjust, focusing on the faint glow of daylight that creeps around the edge of the curtains. My muscles ache with weariness after yesterday’s long, grueling day of travel. Or maybe it’s this bed. My bed at home is a king—big enough that I can sprawl sideways and never have a limb dangling over the edge—and dressed in memory foam to mold to my body. This one has all the qualities of a Salvation Army cot by comparison.
The pillow’s not much better, hard and lumpy against my face. I must have punched it a dozen times last night, trying to soften it, before giving up.
I paw at the small wooden chair next to me until my fingers grasp my phone.
I groan. It’s not even six a.m. and I’m awake. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised—my internal clock thinks it’s ten.
I also shouldn’t be surprised that my mother has sent three more texts.
Are you awake yet?
How is your father doing? Does he look well enough?
Let me know when you’re awake!
She’s also tried calling.
I’m not ready to handle the Susan Barlow inquisition just yet. I mean, what would I even tell her? He looks healthy, meeting him was brief and awkward at best, and I don’t know why the hell I came?
There are also two messages from Simon.
Be patient with your mother.
Remember, you are a stranger to him, as he is a stranger to you.
“No shit, Simon,” I mutter. I’m sure there’s a deeper meaning behind his words. There always is. Simon is who I need to speak with right now. I’m desperately in need of one of his shrink pep talks. But I’m sure he’ll be prescription-pad-deep with real patients all morning, so my issues will have to wait.
If there’s one good thing about waking up this early, though, it’s that I’ve bought myself a few hours before I have to call home.
