Chapter 1 Wrenley
Wrenley
And so, the ninety days begin.
Through some miracle, the government believed that Ruger and I were a real couple and granted me the visa.
Which meant that after months of paperwork, interviews, and lying convincingly enough to federal officials that I briefly considered ditching fashion for acting, I boarded a flight from Vancouver to Anchorage with two suitcases and what was rapidly becoming a deeply questionable life plan.
Unfortunately, the first official step of my immigration journey appears to be getting forgotten in an airport. Not a metaphor. Literally. I stand near baggage claim in the Anchorage airport, watching one lonely suitcase make lap after lap around the carousel like it’s training for a marathon.
The first time I came through this airport, I found it nicer than I expected.
This time is no different. Big open walkways, huge windows letting in weak grey September light, and people dressed in light puffer jackets that feel like complete overkill for September to a Vancouver girl whose ideal fall outfit involves a cute pea coat and fashion boots.
There are mounted animal displays, gift shops selling smoked salmon and ulu knives, and at least three people off my plane grabbed bags that I have to assume contained rifles, reminding me that I’m very much not in big-city Canada anymore.
It’s not like I don’t know that people come to Alaska for a chance to hunt and reconnect with the land, but personally, if I’m willingly standing in the wilderness, something has gone catastrophically wrong.
I tap my foot as I continue to wait for Remi and check my phone again.
No missed calls. No unread texts.
Okay. Cool, cool, cool.
Remi is running late. I try to call her, but it goes straight to her voicemail.
I start to wonder if this place has Uber and decent hotels, just as I hear my name echo off the walls.
Wrenley!
The petite blonde, aka my best friend, Remington Seale, weaves through the crowd near baggage claim.
Remi! Relief crashes through me so fast I nearly forget I was mentally preparing to die alone beside carousel four.
I hurry toward her, and the second we collide, she wraps her arms around me hard enough to compress my lungs. And since I’ve now spent enough time with her to know that this is likely one of the few hugs I’ll get from her, I let myself enjoy it.
She’s only a few inches shorter than me at five one to my five four.
Her bangs tickle my nose as she presses her cheek against my chest. It feels so good to hug her again.
Even the first time we met, it didn’t feel like hugging a stranger.
Every trip after that just made her feel more and more like a sister.
I’m so sorry I’m late, Remi says as we pull apart. There was a rollover accident on the highway, and traffic was at a full stop while they cleaned it up.
You couldn’t text me?
I tried once, but there was no service. She waves a dismissive hand. Once traffic started moving, I just wanted to get here, and I kind of forgot.
I sigh. Well, you’re here now, I guess.
And thank God, she says. How was your flight?
Good for the most part. The turbulence coming into Anchorage was awful, I say, shuddering at the memory. At one point, I genuinely thought we were about to fall directly into the ocean.
That’s just Alaska telling you that you’re now at the mercy of Mother Nature’s whims.
Great, I say sarcastically. Good to know winter isn’t the only thing that’s going to kick my ass.
Remi laughs softly and points to the two bright yellow pieces of luggage behind me. Those your suitcases? she asks.
I look over my shoulder. Yeah.
And the one on the carousel?
I shake my head. That’s been my entertainment while waiting for you.
Remi hisses a breath. Again, sorry.
We each take a suitcase, and Remi continues to ask questions.
You got an American phone plan, right?
Yep.
Perfect, she says. After all the money we spent, we can’t afford international roaming charges.
I smile a little at her use of the word we because despite how insane this entire situation is, I haven’t been navigating it alone.
I burned through most of my savings months ago between immigration paperwork, moving expenses, and surviving unemployment. Since then, I’ve been picking up odd mending jobs for cash while trying to rebuild even the tiniest financial cushion.
Meanwhile, Remi’s career has exploded. She got a six-figure multi-book deal and has even had a couple of production studios reaching out.
And because of that success, she quietly absorbed more of the cost of this plan than either of us originally intended.
Which I appreciate but also worry about.
Friends and money have a way of complicating even the strongest relationships, and every once in a while, I catch myself wondering whether there’s a limit to how long gratitude can exist before it starts curdling into guilt.
We exit the airport, and cold air immediately slaps me across the face. I was expecting cute-chunky-knit-sweater-and-pumpkin-spice cold based on my Google research. But no. This is sharp, aggressive, why-is-there-this-much-wind-in-September cold.
Oh my God! I gasp. Why do my nipples feel like they’re about to fall off?
Wind’s coming down from the north, Remi says. In the fall, it makes everything feel colder.
I make an actual noise as the wind barrels through my thin layers. I’m regretting every fashion-based decision I made before boarding my flight, especially the holes in my jeans.
I also think my lungs are mildly confused by how clean and fresh the air smells.
Vancouver has nature too, obviously. Stanley Park alone is bigger than some towns.
But city nature just doesn’t smell like this.
It’s hard to describe the difference. Nature feels like part of the package here instead of an add-on feature.
And until the first time I came here, I didn’t realize how much I’d like that.
We stop at Remi’s large grey truck, and she pushes down the handle on the suitcase she’s wheeling. So, I guess Kay is sending the rest of your stuff? She lifts the suitcase into the truck bed before holding out a hand for the second one.
I collapse the handle. Nope. This is it.
Remi blinks. This is your entire life?
Well, Captain Skinny-Dick took everything in the breakup, I remind her.
True.
Plus, you know me. I don’t own many clothes.
Mostly because I refuse to participate in modern fast fashion beyond the occasional moment of weakness and/or need when I can’t find something thrifted.
Remi has already suffered through approximately six hundred lectures on synthetic fabrics, ethical labour practices, and why polyester shouldn’t be anywhere near a human vagina.
Unfortunately, none of those lectures stopped her from ordering suspiciously cheap clothing from Shein at two in the morning.
Remi stares at the suitcases again. How did you fit your whole life in there? Including winter gear?
I still have my coat from way back when I first came here, I say.
The Lululemon one we had to keep insulating with seventeen additional layers?
I also thrifted this amazing wool coat before I left, I continue, ignoring her negativity entirely. It’s a mid-length pure wool coat in this deep, gorgeous green.
Remi’s face immediately tightens in a way that tells me she hates this coat too.
It needs a little mending work, I admit. And I have to take it in through the waist, but structurally, it’s in amazing condition. I have some leftover fur from a past project that I can use to really increase the warmth factor. Honestly, people throw away unbelievable pieces.
But where exactly are you wearing this coat?
Around town.
Remi blinks. Okay, so we have a wool coat that can’t reasonably be used for hiking or snowmobiling or doing anything other than being a Dickens character wandering the tundra, and another coat that we spent four days trying to keep you alive in.
Wool is one of the warmest natural fibres, I argue. It’s water-resistant, temperature regulating, breathable, and people survived entire centuries in climates worse than this wearing it.
Cool, Remi says. You know what they also did historically? Died younger.
Morbid.
Look, there’s a reason modern technology invented parkas, Remi says, finally grabbing my suitcase. We need to get you one before winter arrives. She slams the tailgate shut.
I think when you see my wool coat plan in action, you’ll feel different, I say smugly.
I think when you experience negative twenty-two blowing off the water, you’ll feel differently.
My eyes widen. In Fahrenheit or Celsius?
Fahrenheit.
I pull out my phone to convert it.
That’s negative thirty Celsius, I whisper.
Remi shrugs. Yeah, but it usually doesn’t get that bad until January.
I stare at her. But the internet said you average minus five to fifteen.
Averages don’t account for cold snaps.
Then maybe that’s what happened when I visited, I say quickly, suddenly desperate to believe I can survive this place. I distinctly remember exposed skin feeling both frozen and on fire.
Remi scrunches her face while thinking. I think the coldest it got during your trip was maybe fourteen degrees?
I type that number in my phone.
That’s only negative ten Celsius!
She shrugs. At the time, I thought I was being kind bringing you up when things started to warm up.
I stare at her in horror. What have I done?
Remi smiles. Oh, come on. It’ll be fine. Now, get in the truck.
I head toward the passenger door, dragging my feet a little. I know this is temporary, but now I’m feeling a little worried about how I’m going to get through a full Alaskan winter. And there’s no way around it.
As I put my seat belt across my chest, my stomach growls.
Remi chuckles. Hungry?
My cheeks flush. Nervous flyer, I remind her. I didn’t eat before leaving for fear of using the barf bag.
We’ll stop somewhere along the way, she says. I could go for an iced chai latte.
Sounds good to me.