continued.
“No,” Aly lied. “I just moved in. Nothing’s switched over yet.”
My life deserves to be separate from him. This is his problem, his fault.
“What’s your mother’s contact information?”
“My mother’s dead.”
“Funny. What’s your mother’s address?” The man’s condescending pitch altered his former monotone.
“Saint Anne’s Cemetery, row three, plot twenty-eight. Threehundred South Adirondack Road. Kingsley, New York.” Her hair slid between her fingers as she rested her head in her palm. “If you manage to reach her, let me know.”
“Right,” he coughed, tugging on his collar. “ Your license is registered to the state of New York. You should have it transferred to Alaska within sixty days.”
“I'll have to do that, then,” Aly sighed.
“Have a good day, Miss,” the woman offered. There was an apology behind her words. Her steel gray glare now focused on her partner.
“Have a good day yourself, Officer.” Smirking, she watched them retreat to their cars like kicked puppies. The questions in her head weren't worth prolonging the experience.
Or the flaming clouds of awkward.
Ignoring the scrutiny at her bumper, Aly shifted into drive and pulled onto the road. She could almost see the center of Ashland, the red and blue rooftops of the shack-style buildings a blur around the corner.
She couldn’t get away fast enough.
~
Aly peered through the dark windows of Yazzie's. Sunlight splashed across the tables, failing to reveal any inhabitants. She debated whether or not to knock as a flash of motion exhaled from the kitchen.
Noah was engrossed in conversation. She could tell he was comfortable. His was posture loose, a laid-back smile on his face. The voices were too muffled to distinguish, but the hearty sound of their laughter traveled through the glass.
His coworker stepped into view, an apron tied around her torso. A vintage diner name tag was pinned to the lapel of a white polo, uncovered by the stretched out neckline of a cerulean sweatshirt, its sleeves rolled to the crevices of her elbows.
Her dark hair was smoothed into a pony tail, exposing a pretty face swollen with receding baby fat. As she started an industrial coffee maker, a flash of capris and beaded flip flops danced beneath the raised counter. Her eyes, dark and round, met Aly’s with curiosity, a small smile curving into one blushing cheek. Noah was easily six feet tall, and the girl was a good head shorter. She shared his milky tan and dark eyelashes. It wasn’t difficult to see the resemblance.
The infamous Sarah.
Aly found Noah’s wholesomeness charming. The trait seemed more childlike in his sister. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her as a toddler. Oddly petite compared to the other thickset locals, Sarah still looked like she could get swept into the sea.
Recalling her nightmare, Aly suppressed a shiver. A smile brightened her face as Noah waved. He sprinted for the door like he had the time before, as though he couldn’t bear to keep her waiting. It didn’t look like Yazzie’s had opened yet. He wasn’t dressed for work, his plain tee and dark jeans replaced with a red hoodie and shorts.
“Am I driving?” Aly twirled the keys on her index finger. Noah grinned, shaking his head and motioned for her to follow as he rounded the building.
Dirt clung to Yazzie’s chipping paint, the rain causing it to gather in lines like the inner layers of rock. The elevated foundation’s vibrant mural presented rivers of fish.
When Noah noticed her scrutiny, he explained, “It’s based off of this bus in Ketchikan. Tony spent a few nights at a motel there, and saw it driving through a lot. He said it was painted for a festival because they’re the salmon capital of the world or something. Sarah wanted to see, so we let him try and recreate it with chalk. MaryAgnes – my mom, she fell in love with it because Lee co-owns a sister fishery. Eventually Tony came back and made it permanent.”
Aly watched him as he spoke. His eyes flashed at Lee’s name but crinkled with fondness at his sister and mother’s. Running his hands through his hair, he motioned to the painted waves. His movements were rhythmic, his voice expressive.
Absorbed in his story, he lured her into each sentence. Free from the eyes of his friends or the prey of stress, he seemed genuine and animated. His attention was compulsive. Feeling silly beneath his gaze, she forced herself to look away.
“What are the symbols for?” Curiously, she eyed the bold swirls.
“It’s the life cycle of a salmon. They travel to mate and spawn, then return