Page 74 of Hunter

“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I’ve watched you fight to win—” I remember her screaming, “Hike!” to the Garrison’s dogs, and my chest swells with pride. “—and I know that even when hope is gone, you don’t give up.”

“That’s true,” she says, sniffling and giggling at the same time. “I’m a little crazy like that.”

“Then I’m gonna be a little crazy, too,” I tell her. “Because even when I thought I hated you, I was maneuvering myself to be closer to you. I couldn’t give up on us. Not without seeing you again. If I didn’t give up then, no way I’m giving up now.”

“So…you’re saying you want to try to figure this out?” she asks, the littlest bit of hope lightening her tone.

I hope to God I’m not just building castles in the sky to make us both feel better. There’s got to be a way to make this work. We just have to figure out what it is.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what I want.”

***

Isabella

Hunter’s and my conversation eases a little of the burden on my mind and in my heart, but not entirely. Time is flying—probably because I’m so damn happy with him—and before I know it, I’m receiving my final contract for the upcoming school year. I’m offered the same job as last year: second grade teacher, with a salary bump of seven percent. My benefits stay the same and I’m asked if I want to continue to lead the middle and upper school cheerleading squads after school. It’s a good contract, and the salary bump is a nice surprise; an annual raise isn’t guaranteed when you work for a private school.

I don’t think long before signing it and sending it back. The less I think about it, the better. After such a wonderful summer,it’s tempting to think of a life here in Skagway. The Stewarts are warm and welcoming, and McKenna makes it feel like home. But I meant what I said about leaving my parents. I can’t do it.

I have always imagined my parents as an active and important part of my everyday life, especially when I become a mother. I know how much grandchildren will mean to them, and I know how much I want my children to have strong memories of their Mexican American grandparents and strong ties to our extended family. It’s nonnegotiable.

But, more and more, Hunter is nonnegotiable, too.So where does he fit into my future?I don’t know yet. I’m desperately trying to figure it out.

Asking him to leave Alaska feels like a crime, feels like a total betrayal of the strong and growing love we have for each other. Even if he offers to follow me to Seattle and build a life with me there, I’m not certain I can let him do it. I’m too afraid of the pushback from his family and even more afraid that he’d end up hating me for it.

This entire conundrum makes me feel tired at work the next day. I’m leaning my elbows on a glass case filled with 14k gold charms—whale tails, bear paws, and totem poles—feeling sorry for myself, when my boss returns to the showroom after grabbing lunch with her husband.

“Hello, Isabella!” she says, swinging open the front door, which jingles merrily.

“Hey, Freya.”

“Brought back some cookies from Lucy’s.”

My mouth waters. “Oooo. What kind today?”

“She had chocolate chip, white chocolate raspberry, flourless cocoa, and vanilla sandwich with lime cream.” She opens the pink box and holds it out to me. “You choose first.”

I take one of the flourless cocoa cookies, bite into it, and sigh with delight. “What does she do to them to make them this good?”

“Bakes ’em with love, I’d guess.”

I finish the cookie, telling myself one is enough even though my mood demands a whole box.

“Wanted to talk to you about something,” says Freya, taking a bite of a white chocolate raspberry cookie. She clears her throat, like she has a speech prepared. “You’re the best worker I’ve ever had, Isabella. Mature. Confident. Punctual. Trustworthy. Not to mention, you’ve got a way with folks. I swear, you could sell water to a well.”

“Thanks for that, Freya,” I tell her, wiping the crumbs from my lips. “I like it here.”

“Well, I’m real glad to hear that,” she says, looking relieved. “Now, I know you’re headed back to the Lower 48 at the end of August, and that’s all well and good, but I have a proposition for you. What would you say about working here from Memorial Day to Labor Daynextsummer? Pay bump, of course, because you’d be the manager, not just a cashier. I’d hire someone to help you, so you wouldn’t be alone. Full disclosure, I’d plan to leave you on your own for a month or so. For years, Johan’s been trying to convince me to go back to Copenhagen forSankthansaften, the Danish midsummer festivities. I’ve always said no because summer was our busiest time here in Skagway. But with you here…I think I’d finally feel like my shop was in good hands.”

I’m incredibly flattered by Freya’s offer, and tell her so.

“So…what do you say?” she asks, her blue eyes probing and hopeful. A breeze enters the shop from the open front door, and her wiry gray hair escapes its bun in tendrils.

“Can I think about it?” I ask.

“Surely,” she says. “Ain’t got no one else to ask.”

A wave of tourists steps into the shop, and we work together to make sure they don’t leave empty-handed.

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