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  “Hey.” Diana nudges me with her elbow, her eyebrows waggling suggestively. “Arabian admirer at three o’clock.”

  I turn to my right, to see a tall, ebony-haired guy standing about six feet away with a group of friends, his near-black gaze locked on me, his smirk flirtatious.

  A “whoa” slips through my lips, as a rash of butterflies churns in my belly. He’s attractive and built. Not my usual type, but he’s the kind of attractive that would make him any girl’s type. God knows how long he’s been sizing me up over there, waiting to catch my eye, hoping for a returning smile, the bat of my lashes, a wink . . . anything to give him the green light. I’ll bet his voice is deep. I’ll bet his skin smells of citrus and peppery cologne, and he has to shave twice a day to keep that chiseled jaw smooth. I’ll bet he likes to stand inside a girl’s personal space as he talks to her—not close enough to crowd her, but just enough to make her feel a hint of intimacy, a craving for a touch. I’ll also bet he never leaves the club alone, but he always—gladly—wakes up by himself.

  And that telling him I have a boyfriend won’t scare him away.

  But I do have a boyfriend, I remind myself. Jesus, Calla. This is the third time in the past few weeks that I’ve found myself drooling over an attractive guy—twice at a club and once while seated at a park bench over lunch, when a blond in a tailored pinstripe suit strolled past me, leaving me slack-jawed.

  I make a point of hardening my expression and turning my back to him, hoping he won’t mistake it for coyness and will simply move on. Picking up girls at clubs is like baseball for those kinds of guys, only with way more chances to swing before they strike out.

  “Hey!” Diana frowns, her narrowed gaze now locked on the bar. “Isn’t that Corey?”

  I spot the familiar-looking mane of lush blond curls. “Maybe?” The tall, lanky guy certainly looks like Corey from behind. And his shoulders hunch over slightly, like Corey’s do. And he’s dressed like Corey would be—in a fitted and stylish black collared shirt and tailored dress pants.

  The guy turns to show his youthful, clean-shaven profile, confirming our guess.

  I try to ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach as I dig my phone out of my purse, thinking that perhaps he called to check in after all.

  Nothing. Not even a text.

  Diana scowls. “Who’s he with?”

  I zero in on the faces around him. I’ve met three of them before. “Coworkers. I guess this is what he meant by having to work late,” I mutter.

  “Well, I guess we should go over there and . . .” Her words drift as there’s a part in the crowd and the diminutive female tucked in beside him appears. The one whose back Corey has his hand settled on, midway down in a semi-affectionate way. The way that says they’re not together but he desperately wants them to be.

  We watch as he leans down, says something in her ear, and then pulls away. No doubt something witty. I’ve always loved his sense of humor.

  Her long, chestnut-brown hair sways as she tips her head back and laughs, earning his grin. I can almost see the twinkle in his eyes, the same one that charmed me so long ago, when we would come out to the club with our friends and stand at the bar, his hand settled on my back like that.

  A sinking feeling settles into my chest as pieces click together. Stephanie Dupont started working at the advertising agency about three months ago. I met her once, at a party. She had a boyfriend then. But does she still? Because Corey looks like he’s putting in his application.

  “So you’re going to go over there and throw your drink in his face, right?” Diana says through gritted teeth. “No, wait. Don’t waste your drink. Use this one.” She grabs a random glass from the ledge where someone left it, half-full of melting ice and mangled lemon slices.

  I contemplate it for a split second. “Why bother?”

  Diane’s eyebrows crawl halfway up her forehead. “Because he lied to you about working tonight? Because he’s right over there, one drink away from cheating on you. And with a major downgrade, by the way. I mean, come on, look at you and then look at her.”

  I can’t see her face, but I remember her being cute and wholesome, with deep dimples and a friendly smile.

  I don’t answer and Diana’s voice turns shrill. “How are you not more upset right now!”

  “I don’t know.” Sure, it stings, but if I’m being honest with myself, that bite probably has more to do with my ego than anything else.

  My heart should be aching with loss.

  My stomach should be twisting with betrayal.

  My eyes should be burning with emotion.

  But if anything, what I’m feeling right now could be described more like a mixture of disappointment and . . . relief?

  Diana huffs. “Well, what are you going to do?”

  I shake my head as I try to make sense of it. My yearlong relationship with the seemingly perfect guy is unraveling in front of me and I’m not feeling any urge to storm over there and fight for it?

  “Wait, I know!” Diana spins around. “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “That guy. That beautiful guy over there who was drooling over you—”

  “No!” I grab hold of her with my free hand to stop her, because when Diana gets an idea in her head . . . “I am not going to hook up with some stranger to get back at Corey.”

  “Well . . . But . . .” she sputters, “you have to do something!”

  “You’re right, I do.” I clink my glass against hers before downing the rest of my drink, my legs itching to whisk me away before Corey notices me here. “I’m going home.”

  And then I guess I’m going to Alaska.

  Chapter 4

  “These are nice.” My mother holds up the new pair of military-red Hunter rain boots.

  “Right? Except they take up a lot of room. I’m not sure if I should bring them.”

  “Trust me. Bring them.” She lays them into the suitcase I’ve reserved for footwear and toiletries—that’s already brimming—and then takes a seat on my bed, her finger toiling with the small pile of price tags heaped by my pillow. Evidence of the “Alaska” wardrobe flash shopping spree I went on yesterday. “You sure you’re only going for a week?”

  “You’re the one who taught me that ‘overpacking is key.’ ”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right. Especially where you’re going. You won’t be able to just run out and grab something that you’ve forgotten. They won’t even have a mall.” She cringes at the very idea of mall shopping. “There is literally nothing there. It’s a—”

  “Barren wasteland. Yes, I remember.” I cram a pair of wool socks resurrected from my winter clothing bins into the corner of a second suitcase. “You haven’t been there in twenty-four years, though. Maybe it’s changed. They have a movie theater now.” I know because I Googled “Things to Do in Bangor, Alaska” and that popped up. It was the only indoor activity to pop up, besides weekly knitting classes and a community book club, two things I have no interest in. “Bangor could have doubled in size. Tripled, even.”

  She smiles, but it’s the condescending kind of smile. “Towns in Alaska don’t grow that quickly. Or at all, in most cases.” Reaching for one of my favorite fall sweaters—a two-hundred-dollar soft pink cashmere wrap that Simon and Mom gave me for ­Christmas—she folds it tidily. “If I know your dad at all, that house is the same as when we left.”

  “Maybe seeing it will jog an early childhood memory.”

  “Or give you nightmares.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “That god-awful tacky wallpaper that Roseanne put up was the worst.”

  Roseanne. My father’s mother. My grandmother, who I was too young to remember ever meeting. I talked to her occasionally over the phone, and she sent birthday and Christmas cards every year, right up until she died, when I was eight.

  “Agnes probably took down the t
acky wallpaper.”

  “Maybe.” Mom sniffs, averting her gaze.

  Do you still love my dad, even now? I bite my tongue against the urge to ask her about what Simon told me. He’s right; she’ll never admit to it, and I don’t want to make Simon’s life hell for the entire time that I’m gone. Things have already been tense around the house as it is. Mom went to sleep on Thursday thinking about blush rose table arrangements and orchid bridal bouquets, and woke up to news of a woman named Agnes, my dad’s cancer diagnosis, and my impending trip to Alaska.

  I can’t tell what upsets her most—the fact that there’s another woman or that my father is seriously sick. All of it has left her unsettled. I’ve caught her standing in front of the bay window in the kitchen, clutching her mug and staring off into nothingness, at least a half dozen times. For a woman who’s always on the go, that’s a jarring sight.

  Still, I can’t skirt the question entirely. “You would never leave Simon for Dad, would you, Mom?”

  “What? No.” A deep frown pulls her brow tight, as if she’s reconsidering her answer after she’s given it. “Why would you ask that?”

  “No reason.” I hesitate. “Have you talked to him at all?”

  “No.” She shakes her head, then pauses. “I did send him an email a few years ago, though, with a copy of your U of T grad picture. So he’d know what his daughter looked like.” Her voice trails, her eyes transfixed on a chip in her coral nail polish.

  “And? Did he ever answer?” Did he care enough to?

  “He did. He said he couldn’t believe how much you’d grown. How much you looked like me.” She smiles sadly. “I didn’t keep the conversation going, though. I figured it was for the best. You’re not going to need that,” she says, eying the striped tank top that I’ve laid on top of my other clothes. Swiftly changing the topic.

  “Didn’t you just say to pack for every situation?”

  “They’re calling for highs of only fourteen degrees Celsius all week. Four, at night.”

  “Then I’ll put a sweater overtop.”

  She smooths a hand over the bedspread. “So, Wren is picking you up in Anchorage?”

  I shake my head through a mouthful of water. This intense heat wave that shifted into Southern Ontario has refused to vacate, making the third floor of this house stuffy, despite the air-conditioning that pumps through the vents. “Some guy named Jonah is picking me up.”

  “Why not your dad?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s not feeling well enough to fly.” What shape will he be in when I get there? My email exchanges with Agnes have been focused on travel arrangements, not his current state of health.

  “But he knows you’re coming, right?”

  “Of course he does.” Agnes said they’d have my room ready and they were so happy I was coming.

  Her mouth twists with worry. “What kind of plane?”

  “One that stays in the air, hopefully.”

  She spears me with a sharp look. “This is not funny, Calla. Some of your father’s planes are tiny. And you’re flying through the mountains and—”

  “It’ll be fine. You’re the one who’s afraid of flying, remember?”

  “You should have waited for a commercial flight. They fly those Dash 8s to Bangor daily now,” she mutters.

  “There weren’t any seats available on whatever you said until Tuesday.” I’m heading to Alaska and suddenly Mom’s a plane-model expert. “Relax, you’re being dramatic.”

  “You’ll see . . .” She gives me a smug look, but it fades quickly. “When’s he starting treatment?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find out when I get there.”

  Mom huffs. “And you’re connecting through where again?”

  “Minnesota, Seattle, Anchorage.” It’s going to be a grueling day of travel, and not even to anywhere exotic like Hawaii or Fiji, places I’d eagerly spend a day flying to. But the flip side is that, twenty-four hours from now, I’ll be standing face-to-face with Wren Fletcher, after twenty-four years.

  My stomach squeezes.

  Mom drums her fingertips over her knee. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you to the airport? I can get someone to start doing the arrangements for me.”

  I’m struggling to maintain my patience. “I have to be there at four a.m. I’ll grab a cab. I’ll be fine, Mom. Stop fretting.”

  “I just . . .” She tucks strands of her hair behind her ear. We used to have matching hair color but now that she dyes it to cover the invading gray, she’s opted for a darker shade of brown with hints of copper.

  I know what this all boils down to. It’s not the long distance or the tiny plane or the fact that I’ll be away for a week that’s got her so unsettled.

  “He can’t hurt me any more than he already has,” I say more softly.

  The silence in the room is deafening.

  “He’s not a bad man, Calla.”

  “Maybe not. But he’s a shitty father.” I struggle to tug the suitcase zipper closed.

  “Yes, maybe. Still, I’m glad you’re going. It’s important that you meet him, at least once.”

  She studies a small wound on her thumb, likely a prick from a rose thorn. “All those years of smoking. I begged him to quit. You’d think he would, after watching your grandfather wither away from damn cigarettes.” Mom shakes her head, her brow—smoother than it should be at her age, thanks to rounds of laser skin care and ­fillers—furrowing ever so slightly.

  “Maybe he did quit, and it was too late. But if he hasn’t, I’m sure the doctor will make him quit now.” I haul a suitcase to its wheels, dusting my hands for impact. “One down.”

  Mom’s hazel-green gaze rolls over me. “Your highlights look nice.”

  “Thanks. I had to grovel to get Fausto to squeeze me in last night.” I glance in a nearby mirror as I brush a strand of blonde hair off my face. “He went lighter than I wanted, but I don’t have time to fix it before I go.” I can’t help but notice the dark circles lingering under my eyes, which even a thick smear of concealer can’t hide. The last two days have been a whirlwind—of shopping, primping, packing, and planning.

  Breaking up with my boyfriend.

  “So, you and Corey are officially over?” Mom asks, as if she can read my mind.

  “I cut the shiny red ribbon and everything.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know what I am. It feels like my life has been turned upside down. I’m still waiting for the dust to settle.” After I left the club on Thursday, Diana made a point of bumping into Corey “accidentally”—because she would have exploded from indignation otherwise—to let him know that he’d just missed his girlfriend. I’d bet money that she delivered her perfect poison-laced smile as she walked away, satisfied to make Corey squirm.

  I woke up the next morning to a voice message from him. His tone was lighthearted as he gave some lame-ass excuse about how he ended up at the club. He didn’t say a word about Stephanie Dupont, or why he was practically draped over her at the bar.

  I didn’t respond right away, giving him a dose of the medicine he’s been dishing out recently.

  Childish?

  Maybe.

  But I needed more time to sort out my thoughts and feelings, something I still wasn’t entirely clear on after spending the night staring at the slanted ceiling above my bed as the hours reached for dawn.

  I needed more time to face the truth.

  Corey did love me at one time. Or at least, he thought he did. And I was so sure I loved him, too, back at the height of our relationship, after the newness wore off but before the comfort began to fray at the seams. We had a good thing going on. We never argued; we were never jealous or rude to each other. If I had to choose one word to describe our relationship, it’d be “smooth.” As in, our relationship has operated without a hitch
.

  There is no reason for us not to work.

  We are textbook perfect together.

  And we have grown bored.

  Whatever magic there was in the beginning has been fizzling away, like a slow leak in a tire after it has taken a nail. You could go on for months without knowing something’s wrong, until one day you end up stranded on the side of the road with a flat.

  At least, that’s what I’ve heard about slow leaks in tires. I’ve never actually experienced one. I don’t even have my license. But I do have to face facts—the enamored “Calla and Corey” who posed for the camera on that pile of rocks last year took a long, sharp nail somewhere along the way, likely before Stephanie Dupont ever came into the picture.

  It’s the only reason I can come up with for why seeing Corey flirting with another girl didn’t gut me, and why I wasn’t more than mildly irritated that he couldn’t make time for me after the day I’d had. And why I didn’t bother trying to phone him after learning of my father’s illness, in the small hope that he might answer and give me comfort in the sound of his voice.

  I think, buried deep down somewhere, I already sensed that our relationship was evaporating. I just hadn’t admitted it to myself yet. Maybe because I was hoping it wasn’t true. Or, more likely, because once I did acknowledge reality, I’d feel like I would have to do something about it. And what if Corey didn’t feel the same way I felt? What if he thought everything was perfect between us, and begged me not to end things?

  What if I hurt him?

  All unconscious worries simmering beneath the surface. All reasons to avoid confronting him. At least, reasons for me, a girl who is acutely allergic to confrontation. It’s my one defining “Wren quality,” my mom has said. My dad is ninja-level at avoiding conflict and, well . . . apple and tree, apparently, even if I landed fifty-five hundred kilometers away.

  Sure, I can throw a verbal jab like the best of them when you push me far enough, but when it comes to truly facing someone or something that pains me, I run from my own shadow. But I’d run out of places to hide, the truth now glaringly obvious. I couldn’t imagine flying off to Alaska to meet my dad with this on my mind. So I sent a text to Corey on Friday night, mentioning the trip and how I thought maybe it would be better for us if we took a break, with all he had going on at work “and stuff.”