Chapter 5
Sawyer
“Sawyer,” says Bruce at Sunday evening’s rehearsal, “a little birdie told me that Quinn Morgan is home until Christmas and that you are best friends with him.”
“Yeah, Quinn and I go way back.”
“Well, dear boy, as much as I love Mr. Towler’s enthusiasm for the stage, I fear his age is all wrong for Hindley.”
In the corner of the stage, gray-haired Mr. Towler, who’s meant to play twenty-five-year-old Hindley, is fast asleep on a straight back chair. His snores can probably be heard in Anchorage.
“Good point, boss.”
“I approached McKenna to ask if her husband would consider taking over the part, but she assures me that Tanner wouldn’t dream of setting foot on the stage. Do you think Quinn could be persuaded?”
“I’m seeing him after rehearsal tonight,” I tell Bruce. “I’m happy to ask him.”
“Oh, would you?” Bruce claps his hands. “How divine! You’ll have my undying gratitude. And both of you will get a night of free all-you-can-drink beer at the Parsnip! Deal?”
“I think Quinn’ll do it just for the brew,” I say with a chuckle.
Bruce pats my shoulder, then sashays up to the stage, calling for everyone’s attention.
“People! People! Your eyes on me, please! Now, tonight, we’re going to run some of the Heathcliff-Catherine-Edgar scenes, so if you’re not in Act One, Scenes Five and Six, you have an hour to yourself. Sawyer, Ivy and Wyatt, come and join me on the stage.”
I watch Layla, Vera, Mr. Towler, and Mr. Hedgely head to the back of the theater and sit down at a small round table for their ongoing game of poker, envying them just a little. I’m not excited to do the scenes when Catherine shuns Heathcliff for Edgar. I’m afraid they might hit a little close to home for comfort.
“Now, Edgar,” says Bruce to Wyatt, calling us by our character’s names, “in this scene, Heathcliff has returned to town after being away for years. He knocks on the door of your house and asks to see Catherine, whom he grew up with, whom he loved. You don’t like it, but before you can tell him to go, Catherine sees him at the door.” Bruce looks at me. “Heathcliff, you’ve made yourself into a rich man, but you still haven’t learned how to be a gentleman. You want Catherine as much as you ever have, whether she’s married or not. And Catherine, you feel the same about Heathcliff, though you very much enjoy the creature comforts you’ve found as Edgar’s wife.” He gestures to the left side of the stage. “Heathcliff, you’ll start over there. Catherine, go to the opposite side and wait for your queue. Edgar, let’s pretend the door is here.” Bruce steps off the stage and looks up at us: “Scene!”
I pretend to knock on the door.
“Who is there?” asks Wyatt in his Australian accent that somehow gentrifies his character in a way that feels appropriate. He pantomimes opening the door and stares at me. Since I’ve memorized my lines, my hands are free. I pretend to take off my hat and gloves.
“The mistress of this house will know me,” I say. “Fetch Mrs. Linton.”
“ Fetch her ?” demands an incredulous Wyatt. “You dare to order me about in my own house, sir?”
I step past him into the house, bumping his shoulder with mine. “I’ll wait.”
“You forget yourself, sir!” blusters Wyatt. “I’ll have your name or—”
“Heathcliff. My name is Heathcliff.”
“What? The gypsy ploughboy? From Wuthering Heights?
“The same.”
“Edgar, I have been calling you,” says Ivy, stepping onto the stage holding a pretend vase of flowers in her hands. Her body freezes at the sight of me, but her hands relax at the same time, and I swear I can hear the crash of the vase on the stage floor. Her eyes widen. Her voice is a whisper when she murmurs my name. “Heathcliff? Is it you?”
“Catherine!” I growl, crossing the stage with urgency to pull her into my arms. I only draw away to cup her face in my hands, scanning her visage carefully. Her eyes. Her pert nose. Her flushed cheeks. Her rosy lips. I whisper close to her ear. “My love.”
“Heathcliff, you’re here!” she exclaims, tearing herself from my arms and rushing to Edgar. She flings her arms around his neck. “Oh, Edgar! Edgar, darling! Do you see? Heathcliff’s come back! He is here!”
“Don’t strangle me for that!” says Edgar. “He never struck me as a marvelous treasure. There is no need to make a scene, Catherine.”
“I know you didn’t like him,” she says, bubbling with happiness. “Yet, for my sake, you must be friends now.” She takes his sleeve and pulls him toward me. “Edgar, darling, this is my Heathcliff.” She stands back, waiting for us to shake hands. When we don’t, she looks at me, wounded. “Heathcliff…please.”
For her sake and hers alone, I hold out my hand. “Linton.”
“Heathcliff,” says Linton curtly, taking my hand in his for a single unneighborly pump.
“Now that we are friends, shall we have tea in the parlor?” suggests Catherine.
Reeve rushes out onto the stage with a small round table. Aaron follows her, holding three folding chairs, which he sets up for us. We sit down, pantomiming tea.
“I shall think it a dream tomorrow!” Catherine cries, sitting between her husband and me, her childhood friend and former lover. She takes my hands in hers. “I shall not be able to believe that I have seen, and touched, and spoken to you once more. And yet, cruel Heathcliff! You don’t deserve this welcome. To be absent and silent for three years, and never to think of me!”
“A little more than you have thought of me,” I tell her, weaving my fingers through hers without a care for her pale, stupid husband beside her. I stare at her face, and the anger I have carried for her is eclipsed by a deep well of love, yes, of love, and even of gratitude for how happy she is to see me. “My only plan today was to have a glimpse of your face before leaving, but your welcome has put these ideas out of my mind; I’ve fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice, but, my darling, I have struggled only for you!”
“Mr. Heathcliff,” says Linton between clenched teeth. “Your tea.”
I release Catherine’s hands to take the imaginary cup from his hands.
“Edgar,” says Catherine. “You are sulky.”
“I am tired,” he corrects her.
“But Heathcliff is here! We’re celebrating!”
“I think tea should be over now,” says Linton.
We all stand up and Catherine reaches for me again, embracing me warmly. When she leans away, she smiles at me.
“You will come again, Heathcliff? You will not leave the moors without a farewell to me.”
“I have no plans to leave at all.” I glance at Edgar dismissively, then back at my love. “If you are here, Catherine, let me live here too. After all, I am the new master of Wuthering Heights.”
“Scene!” yells Bruce.
“Christ,” exclaims Wyatt, running a hand through his hair. “Does Edgar have to be such a whiny little pussy?”
“I’m afraid so,” says Bruce, hustling up to the stage to discuss Edgar’s character and motivations with Wyatt.
Meanwhile I turn to Ivy. “What do you think?”
“About the scene?” she asks. “It was good.”
“No,” I say. “About Edgar’s character. I mean, Heathcliff busts into his house, and he’s, like, making pass after pass at Edgar’s wife. It’s pretty bad.”
Ivy nods. “But Catherine allows it. She even encourages it.”
“Why is that?”
“The story’s pretty clear,” she says. “By this point she thinks Edgar’s a spoiled child, fancy to the point of weak. Here comes Heathcliff, full of childhood memories and testosterone. And now, he’s rich, too. He’s irresistible to her.”
“I guess.” I think about the Edgar-Catherine-Heathcliff love triangle, which invariably leads my mind to another triangle—one that includes Clark, Ivy and me. There’s a question I’ve been dying to ask Ivy for months, and now is as good a time as any. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why’d you get engaged to him?”
“Catherine to Edgar?”
“No. Ivy to Clark,” I clarify softly.
She’s been looking down at her script, but now she whips up her head to face me. Her eyebrows furrow together as she purses her lips.
“Why are you asking me that?”
“I’m just wondering,” I say. “He cheated on you. He hurt you. How’d he win you back?”
She lifts her chin. “He apologized. He promised to change. He proved to me, over a course of months, that he could be trusted. If someone is truly sorry for something they’ve done, don’t you think they deserve a second chance?”
“ Some people,” I say. “But not cheaters.”
“He said it only happened once, and would never happen again,” she insists.
“And you believed him?” I ask her, nailing her with my eyes. Her green meet my blue in a fierce battle of wills. Her cheeks turn crimson. She holds her script against her chest like a shield and fidgets with her ring, staring back at me.
“Really, Sawyer, it’s none of your business,” she finally whispers.
I’m about to make it my business when—
“Okay!” says Bruce. “Wyatt’s all set. Sawyer and Ivy? Any questions? No? Then, let’s run it again!”
***
I can’t get out of that fucking theater fast enough tonight.
Thank God I made plans to see Quinn after rehearsal and drove myself separately to rehearsal. I’m in desperate need of a drink.
He said it would never happen again? Yeah, right.
How could she be so trusting? So gullible? So stupid?
She leaves the theater behind me, walking in the direction of her uncle’s house. Ivy’s headed home to help with her aunt, and I’d lay a hundred dollar bet on the fact that Clark’s in Juneau, cheating on her all over again. It makes me sick. It makes me furious.
I step into the Skagway Brewing Company in an extremely bad mood.
“Sawyer!”
Quinn’s already at the bar, a half-full pint glass in front of him. He jumps down off his stool and grabs me in a hug, lifting me an inch off the ground. Since Quinn is taller and beefier than me, bear hug would probably be more accurate.
“How you doing, man? Damn, it’s good to see you, bro!”
“Quinn, put me the fuck down.”
He chuckles good-naturedly, patting me on the back so hard my teeth rattle.
“Get this man a drink, bartender!” he yells.
“What’re you drinking?” I ask him, gesturing to his glass as I sit down beside him.
He gives me a look. “Whaddaya think?”
“Spruce IPA?”
“Of course! Nothing but the best, man!”
The bartender, a seasonal chick who must be staying for the off-season, places a full beer in front of me and winks. “Anything else you want?”
“Oh, ho ho!” Quinn chortles. “It’s on!”
“No, thanks,” I tell her, taking a gulp of my drink and turning to my friend. “Shut the fuck up, Quinn. You’re such an asshole.”
“Quilty as charged!” He finishes the rest of his pint in one go and slams the glass back on the bar. “You’re in a pisser. What’s eating you, huh?”
I turn on my stool, facing the mostly empty dining room. “Remember I told you I was doing a play over at the FOE?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m the male lead. Guess who the female lead is.”
“I have no clue.”
I give him a hint. “Poison…”
“Ivy!” He turns his own stool around and stares at me with his mouth open. “Ivy Caswell’s in town? In October? Why?”
“Priscilla’s sick. She’s helping out.”
“Oof. Poison Ivy, huh?” He nudges me with his elbow. “That sucks.”
“Sort of.”
“Only ‘sort of?’”
I shake my head, then take another sip of beer. “I’ve always liked her.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says gently. “But last fall after she left? You were a mess, man. She’s poison. At least for you
“What if she wasn’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if she could give me a chance? Us a chance? A real chance?”
“Last I heard, bro, she was wearing some other guy’s ring.”
“A cheater’s ring,” I say bitterly. “He cheated on her. I bet he’s down in Juneau cheating on her all over again.”
“I guess that’s possible,” says Quinn, finishing his beer. “Hey, too bad you don’t know anyone in Juneau. Someone who could—I dunno—follow him around on a Saturday night, you know? Keep an eye on him? Take a picture or two if he sees something incriminating?”
I glance at Quinn, who just worked for five months on a crabbing boat in Juneau.
“You know someone?” I ask him.
“Sure.” Quinn nods. “Like, twenty someones, who I just worked with for a whole summer. They’re like brothers to me.”
I think about this for a second. If Clark’s not cheating on Ivy, maybe I’ll get closure that way—by knowing that he’s changed his ways and will treat her right. That said, if he is cheating…fuck. It’ll hurt her to find out. And it’ll be me who started the chain of events that led to her pain.
“What if one of your buddies finds out he’s cheating? What am I supposed to do? Text her a photo? Then I’m the asshole.”
“Aw, Sawyer,” says Quinn, gesturing for two more beers, his gaze lingering on the bartender’s ass for a beat longer than polite. “You’re already an asshole.”
“Thanks.”
“Ha ha ha!” he chuckles, pounding me on the back again. “Listen, I’ll ask my man Connor to keep an eye out. If he finds out anything bad, I’ll let you know. You can decide what to do then…you know, if the situation arises.”
I have to find out for her. Even if I end up losing her for spying on her cheating asshole of a boyfriend without her permission, at least she’ll know the truth. At least she can back out of her engagement and find someone who will love her the way she deserves to be loved. And even if that’s not me, I’ll figure out a way to live with it. If she has a fighting chance at happiness, it’ll be worth it.
“Do it,” I say, hoping I’m making the right decision. “Ask Connor to follow him.”
Quinn takes out his phone, opens a text chat, types a few lines, then pockets the phone.
“Done.”
The bartender brings us two more beers, and again, I note Quinn’s interest in her ass.
“You gonna try to hit that later?” I ask him.
He turns to me, his expression serious when he answers my question with a question. “How’s Parker doing?”
“You’re not ogling the bartender’s ass and asking about my sister in the same breath, Quinn. You’re bigger than me, and I might not be able to take you down, but I can still do some damage if you provoke me.”
“Speaking of asses, she’s a pain in the ass, your sister,” he grumbles.
“Tell me about it.”
“She doing good, though?” he asks.
“She’s fine,” I say, though my tone warns him not to ask about my sister again. “Tell me about Juneau. How much did you make this season?”
We talk about fishing and crab boats, big hauls, squalls, and the elusive golden king crabs. Quinn agrees to be in the play after a little cajoling. We drink beer after beer, and we don’t mention Ivy or Parker again.
***
Ivy
I can’t believe he had the temerity to ask me about my engagement to Clark.
“It’s none of his goddamned business!” I mutter, putting my key into the back door of my aunt and uncle’s house and stepping into the kitchen. “What does he know? He doesn’t know anything!”
“Who doesn’t know anything?”
The room is dark, which is why I didn’t notice Jenny sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of ice cream, the dim glow of her phone the only light in the room.
“Jenny! It’s way past your bedtime.”
“Whatever.”
I grab another bowl for myself, take the ice cream out of the freezer, and dig out two scoops. When I sit down across from my cousin, I half expect her to get up in a huff and leave. I’m pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t.
She flips over her phone, leaving us facing each other in the dark.
“Can I ask you something?”
That’s the second time someone’s started a conversation like that tonight, and the first time didn’t go so well. But Jenny hasn’t been opening up to anyone lately, so I feel compelled to let her talk.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Do you think my mom’s going to die?”
“Oh, Jen,” I murmur. A spoon is halfway to my lips, but I lower it back to the bowl with a soft clank . “No. No, I don’t think so.”
“It’s c-cancer,” chokes out my cousin. “That’s a death sentence.”
“Who told you that?”
She glances at her phone. “The internet.”
“Stay off the internet,” I say. “And it’s definitely not a death sentence. Not at all. Your mom’s got good doctors. They’re taking real good care of her. She’s going to beat it.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“You’re right. I can’t.” I take a spoonful of ice cream. “But any of us could die tomorrow, Jen. I could be hit by a bus. You could be eaten by a bear. Your dad could let off one of those monster farts tonight and kill us all in our sleep!”
She giggles in spite of herself, and after so long, it’s music to my ears.
“Your mom’s fighting,” I say gently. “And I promise you—really and truly—I think she’s going to win.”
I’m not just blowing sunshine up my cousin’s ass. My aunt’s cancer was found before it got to her uterus. It was only present in her cervix and in the upper third of her vagina. The entire area of the cancer was less than four centimeters, and they successfully removed all of it. Her chance of beating it and living for another twenty years is high. Add to this prognosis that she’s relatively young and otherwise healthy. We have every reason to stay hopeful.
“Will you do me a favor?” asks Jenny.
“Anything.”
“If it gets worse, and my dad tells you and tells you not to tell me, tell me anyway.” She scans my face, her eyes resting on mine. “I’ll already know something’s wrong, and if no one tells me, it’s ten times scarier. So, just tell me, okay?”
This is a tough promise to make. It means that even if Uncle Alan forbids me to tell the girls, I’ll have already promised Jenny that I would. But my hope for my aunt’s recovery is so solid, I feel comfortable making the promise. I think there’s a very slim chance of my aunt’s cancer worsening. From what I understand, it’s already improving.
“I promise,” I say, reaching my hand, palm up, across the table.
Jenny takes it and squeezes it. “Sorry I’ve been such a bitch.”
I squeeze her hand back, then release it. “You’re almost a teenager. It comes with the territory.”
She flips her phone back over, glances at it, then places it back on the table.
“Can I ask you something else?”
I take another bite of ice cream. “Why stop now?”
“So…how do you know when someone’s in love with you?” she asks me.
“Wow! You’ve been doing some heavy-duty thinking lately, huh?”
She shrugs. “I guess.”
“Does this have anything to do with Travis Clearwater?”
“Maybe,” she says, misery thick in her voice.
I glance at her phone. “Did he say something to you? Something that upset you?”
“Nope. He hasn’t texted me all weekend.”
“Oh.”
“I’m thinking that maybe he’s not in love with me anymore.”
“Oh, muffin. I bet that hurts.”
She shrugs again, and I have the feeling that she’s shrugging because if she speaks, she might cry.
“Twelve is awfully young to be in love,” I say, though, as I do, I flashback to a memory of twelve-year-old Sawyer offering me a fistful of wildflowers one day on the walk home from camp. I’d tripped over my flip-flops and skinned my knee. He’d picked me the bouquet in an effort to get me to stop crying.
“No, it’s not,” says Jenny. “It felt real. It feels real.”
That’s because you’ve never seen me act. I’ve always been real with you.
“And you’re engaged to Clark,” points out my cousin, glancing at my ring, “so you must be in love, or you wouldn’t have said yes. You must know exactly how it feels. How did you know that Clark loved you? How did you know you loved him?”
I can’t explain it, but my memories of Sawyer picking wildflowers for me feels more like love than any feelings I have when Jenny says Clark’s name.
I take a deep breath, unsettled by this realization.
“Umm…well, I could envision my life with him,” I say. “We have similar goals. We went to college together. He makes me feel…um…proud and safe. Mostly. And my father’s very pleased with the match. He has big plans for us.”
My eyes have adjusted to the dim light in the kitchen now. The ambient light from a porch lamp outside the kitchen door cast my cousin’s face in a soft glow. She stares at me, her expression increasingly puzzled.
“That doesn’t sound like love,” she says, her brows deeply furrowed.
No , I think to myself, it doesn’t.
“It’s not all fairytales and rainbows,” I say. “You have to be practical when you decide to build a life with someone.”
“But you do love Clark, right?”
I take another bite of ice cream to fill the silence, my cousin’s simple question turning around in my head as the frozen cream melts on my tongue.
Do I love Clark?
A lump rises up in my throat as I recall my father’s face when I told him about Clark’s and my breakup the summer between junior and senior years.
He’s the best you’ll ever do! he’d yelled at me. Don’t be stupid, Ivy! Get things back on track!
I’d left Sawyer behind in Skagway, returned to UAF, and finally agreed to see Clark. He’d apologized profusely for cheating on me with Mandee, promised it would never, ever happen again, and begged me for a second chance.
Do I love Clark?
I’d given him that second chance, and to my knowledge, he hadn’t betrayed me since. My father was thrilled we were back together—scratch that. Everyone was thrilled. My father. Clark’s family. Our friends. Underclassmen who didn’t know us, but looked up to us. The campus newspaper that called us “The Couple of the Year.” Everyone was thrilled that Ivy Caswell and Clark Rupert were reunited. And when you’re met with that much approval, you can get a little carried away by it. It casts your feelings, whatever they may be, in a rosier glow than they might deserve.
Do I love Clark?
“Ivy,” says Jenny. “It’s a simple question. I don’t think it should take this long to answer.”
I stand up, taking the empty bowls to the sink and running water into them.
“Of course I do,” I say, though I can’t bring myself to turn around to look my cousin in the eyes.
“That’s good,” says Jenny, standing up and pushing her chair back under the table. “I’m going to bed now. Don’t forget your promise about my mom.”
“I won’t,” I say, staring at my reflection in the dark window over the sink.
“’Night, Ivy.”
“’Night. Jen,” I say. “Sleep tight.”
I stand at the sink until I hear my cousin open and close the door to the bedroom she’s sharing with her sister. Silence descends over the house, and a sharp, sick feeling in my stomach makes me wonder if the ice cream was spoiled.
***
On Monday night, I make dinner, wash the dishes, and finish folding the laundry before leaving my aunt, uncle, and cousins watching a movie, and walk over to the Skagway Public Library where a new book club discussion is beginning tonight.
It never really occurred to me that Skagway had so much going on in the off-season. I think I assumed that Skagwegians rolled up the sidewalks on October first and spent the next six months hibernating in their individual homes by the fireside. I didn’t know that there were plays and book groups, open restaurants and bars, movies shown regularly around town, and myriad other community activities. Skagway’s not as bustling as Fairbanks or Juneau, of course, but it’s a lot more alive than I ever gave it credit for.
I open the door of the not-so-small library and step inside, grateful for the blast of warm air in the vestibule. The library was renovated about ten years ago to include soaring ceilings and exposed rafters, but it also boasts wonderful nooks and crannies where you can get lost in a book for hours. It’s my favorite building in town.
“Ivy Caswell!”
“Hi, Ms. Anderson.”
Melody Jane Anderson has been greeting folks at the library for as long as I can remember and knows every Skagway resident by name.
“Call me Melody Jane. I heard you were back in town to help your aunt. You’re a good niece, and that’s a fact.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Can I help you find anything?”
“I thought I’d come for the book group,” I say, holding up my copy of Love in the Time of Cholera.
“Oh, yep. Sure. Glass conference room over that way. You’ll see the crowd.”
I say thanks to Melody Jane and make my way over to the meeting room. “Crowd” was not a lie…there must be twenty people seated in chairs and milling around a coffee urn in the back. And— oh, shit. Among those caffeinating? Harper, Tanner, McKenna, Parker, Reeve, and Sawyer Stewart.
The gang’s all here I think, wondering if I should turn around and head home. I promised myself that I wouldn’t seek out other opportunities to see Sawyer. It’s not a good idea. The more time I spend with him, the weaker I feel. I’m about to turn around and sneak home when—
“Ivy!” McKenna has seen me, and beelines for the meeting room door, grinning at me and waving me inside. “Come and join us! We’re getting coffee before the discussion starts!”
Doesn’t she know I’m persona non grata among the Stewarts?
She ushers me over to the group, where I stand there awkwardly, facing Sawyer’s family. Harper, Parker, and Reeve stand off to the side, while Tanner, no doubt taking his cue from his wife, musters a smile for me.
“Hey, Ivy,” he says. “Heard you were back in town. Want a coffee?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Until now, I haven’t looked at Sawyer, but now I slide my eyes to his face to find him staring at me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Tanner hands me a cup of coffee, and I take it gratefully.
“I like this book,” I say, feeling stupid.
“I just read it,” says Sawyer. “I don’t know if I liked it or not.”
Love in the Time of Cholera is a complicated book. Technically a love story, it’s sad and heart-breaking and asks difficult questions about lost love, wasted time and what it means to be faithful. I was looking forward to discussing it, but now? Surrounded by Stewarts? I really wish I could go home.
As though sensing my desire to bolt, Sawyer places his hand under my elbow, leading me to a seat at the end of the last row.
“Let’s get seats,” he says, stepping over me to take the second seat in. His siblings file in from the opposite side, filling the chairs from beside him to the end of the aisle. It’s not lost on me that he’s placed himself between me and them.
I place my coffee cup on the floor and unzip my jacket, grateful when he holds it for me so I can shrug out of it.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable at rehearsal last night.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. It’s good to have you back in Skagway, Ivy. I missed you whenever you left. I told you that.”
His expression is intense, his gaze steadfast, and suddenly it’s too much. I can’t keep looking at him, or I’m afraid I’ll lean forward and kiss him.
I look down at the cover of the book on my lap and find myself remembering my favorite line: Amputees suffer pains, cramps, itches in the leg that is no longer there. That is how she felt without him, feeling his presence where he no longer was .
But to my dismay, it’s not Clark’s face I see in my mind as my heart murmurs these words to me. I twist my engagement ring around on my finger. It feels too heavy, like a tiny iron cuff, shackling me to a life that I’m less and less certain that I want.
Melody Jane’s assistant, Wendy, approaches the podium at the front of the room and welcomes all of us to the first discussion of Love in the Time of Cholera.
“Let me take you out for a drink afterward,” whispers Sawyer, his lips close to my ear.
If I love Clark, I should say no.
If I care for Clark and want the life I’ve envisioned with him, I should say no.
Regardless of how much my aunt and uncle need me to stay, if I intend to honor my engagement, I should leave for Juneau tomorrow and never step foot in Skagway again.
Instead, I turn to Sawyer Stewart, scanning his handsome face tenderly, and whisper:
“Okay.”