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God, how on earth did I ever think marrying a born-and-bred bush pilot was a good idea?
“And what? Stay here, and be miserable? Sit at home with Calla under a happy lamp while you’re out, risking your life for a bunch of strangers? I can’t do it anymore, Wren. Every day is harder than the last.”
I’ve just kept on giving this man parts of me, not realizing that I was losing myself in the process.
He’s right; we can’t keep doing this, especially if he’s not willing to sacrifice anything to keep me around. But how can he just let us go like this? When I announced that my ticket was one-way, he did little more than grunt. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. Expressing feelings has never been one of Wren’s strengths.
Maybe he doesn’t love us enough.
That’s just it: Alaska will never feel like my home.
That wanting someone to be something they’re not won’t make it happen.”
while Susan may have been madly in love with Wren, I was madly in love with her. Still am.”
we started a small website aptly named Calla & Dee, an avenue to share our passion for the latest lipstick shades and shoe styles, just for fun.
It’s . . . somewhere in between the arctic and normal civilization. It’s like . . . the last frontier?”
why is Alaska Wild more important to Wren Fletcher than his own flesh and blood?
“Well . . . my friend went to Alaska a few years ago and he still raves about it. I’m sure it’ll be an experience, even if the reason behind it sucks.”
They can’t sense my loneliness, or the knot in my stomach. That’s the magic of social media, I guess. But there’s also an odd comfort to hiding behind the illusion.
How do you form a relationship with someone without forgiving them first?
Just like my dad won’t ever leave, I guess. But why? What hold does Alaska have on them? What makes this place worth giving everything else up?
“By being in his favorite place, high up in the sky, getting away from everything he’d lost down on the ground.”
I’d also forgotten how easy it is to talk to my dad when it has anything to do with planes.
“But I’m not your type. You know, blonde and leggy.” Good idea, Calla. Let’s remind him of this right now. His brow arches, but in his gaze I see confirmation of a guess. “That’s not my type.” “But you said—” “You’re my type.”
