Page 5 of Seale the Deal

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.