“She is Norwegian, so that would make sense.”

A grinning boy of maybe six sits next to her, his scrawny, tanned legs dangling over the edge, equally light hair glowing under a bright summer sun. His piercing blue eyes, though so innocent there, are an easy match to the man lying on the couch behind me.

“Is she still in Vegas?”

“Oslo. She moved back when she remarried.”

“Do you see her much?”

“It’s been a couple years. I was supposed to go see her this Christmas, but I doubt I’ll be going now.”

“Why not?”

“Because of Wren.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like “why else wouldn’t I go see my mom for Christmas, other than for Wren?”

“Right. Of course.” Jonah will be running Wild and flying my dad back and forth to Anchorage for treatment. Jonah, who’s not even blood-related. “Are you still going to be able to fly him on Monday morning?”

“Me, or someone else.”

A pang of guilt stirs in my chest. Am I wrong to be leaving a week into my father’s treatment? I mean, I pushed my ticket back, but should I be staying longer? Should I be staying to help him while he’s at home? I am his daughter after all, even though we’re only just newly acquainted. Do I owe him that?

And if not for him, then for Jonah, and Agnes, and Mabel, to help share the burden?

And if not for them, then for myself?

I need to call Simon later. He’s always my voice of reason.

The next picture is of a tall, gangly, teenaged version of Jonah standing stiff and somber-faced next to a man dressed in military fatigues. A fighter jet is parked behind them. This must be Jonah’s father. It’s not a surprise that he’d have such a beautiful wife, himself a handsome though stern-looking man, with a jawline that could crease paper. I hold the framed photo up. “How old are you in this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe thirteen?”

Still at the beginnings of puberty, definitely, his face boyish and soft, his lips too full for the rest of his features—if that’s ever truly a problem. Young, but already likely capturing fellow classmates’ hearts.

“Did he teach you how to fly?”

“Yeah. He was a kick-ass pilot.”

“And you didn’t want to join the air force?”

“Nope.” A pause. “I was supposed to, though. He wanted me to. Expected me to. I applied, went through all the testing, but when it came to sign on the dotted line, I changed my mind and walked away.” There’s a somberness in his voice.

“But he must have been okay with you doing what you’re doing, right?”

“He was, eventually. Near the end. Not at first, though. He didn’t understand why I’d want to waste my time on a bunch of Eskimos. Those were his words, obviously.” There’s another long pause. “We didn’t talk for seven years.”

“And then you reconnected when he got cancer?” I ask quietly.

Jonah sighs. “He’d already been fighting it for a year by the time I finally went to visit him in the hospital. He died a few days later.”

I steal a glance over my shoulder to find Jonah staring at the ceiling above him. “And you regret not going sooner.” He’s already told me as much, in more subtle ways.

“He was too stubborn to apologize for all the shitty things he’d said and done over the years, and I was too stubborn and proud to forgive him for it.” His gaze flickers to me, where it settles. “And there’s nothing I can ever do to change that.”

But I can, because I still have time. No wonder Jonah’s been pushing me to make peace with my dad, to build a relationship where there isn’t one. He doesn’t want me to feel whatever weight still sits on his shoulders. His situation isn’t unlike my own. And, had I not had someone like Simon sitting beside me that night, helping me past my resentment, would I have been so quick to come to Alaska?

Jonah needed a Simon in his life.

Everyone needs a Simon in their life.

I pick up another picture, one of my dad and Jonah, sitting side by side in the pilot and copilot seats, turned to smile at whoever was behind the camera in the backseat. My dad’s hair is mostly brown still, the wrinkles across his forehead less pronounced.

But it’s Jonah I can’t peel my eyes from. I can actually see his face, free of that unsightly beard and the straggly long hair.

“When was this taken?”

“First or second summer I was here. Can’t remember.” There’s a pause. “Why?”

“You have dimples,” I blurt out. Two low, deeply set dimples that accentuate a perfect pouty-lipped smile and offset sharp cheekbones and a hard, angular jaw. Even the shape of his head is appealing—his blond hair cropped short to his skull. All beautiful features—many from his Scandinavian mother, I see proof of now—hidden by that unsightly mask of hair.

All features that, coupled with those sharp blue eyes, make Jonah almost . . . dare I say, pretty? And this was at around twenty-one, twenty-two, when he still had a slightly boyish look. Ten years later . . .

I turn to frown at Yeti-Jonah and find him smirking at me. As if he knows exactly how attractive he is and can read my mind right now.

“So . . . are we gonna do this or what?” he says casually.