We don’t spread the ashes.
The pilot stretches out our departure another fifteen minutes until I’m breathing at a normal rate. The guy seems mildly concerned, but not overly surprised. Maybe I’m not the only person who’s gone through a panic attack on one of his flights. Dom sets us up in the back row of the airplane, so I don’t have to deal with curious looks from the strangers who wonder what’s up with the weird girl who passed out on the glacier.
When we get back to town, Dom asks if I want to head to our cabin.
But I can’t fathom sitting for the rest of the day, clutching my brother as my mind threatens to sink back into a dark place that makes it hard to breathe.
I shake my head.
“Okay.” Dom pulls our rental car into a parking spot on the main street in town. “Let’s walk around.”
My fingers fumble with the door handle, my nerve endings numb. All of me is numb at this point, and not from the cold. Too many feelings overwhelmed me on the glacier that something in my brain short-circuited. I can feel all that turmoil lingering on the periphery, waiting for the protective numbness to dissipate so it can descend again.
I make it out of the car and onto the cracked sidewalk. After declaring we wouldn’t be spreading Josh’s remains on this trip, Dom tucked the final container of ashes back into my backpack, which I now wear on the front of my body, arms wrapped around the bag protectively. Dom appears at my side, and when I make no move to choose a direction, he pries one of my hands free, laces our fingers together, and leads me in a slow meander down the street.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
I shake my head, nauseous at the idea of food.
He doesn’t push, only keeps us moving, but not with any expediency, which is probably odd for a man who always has a goal, destination, or purpose. Probably he’s wondering how he can fix whatever broke inside me up on that glacier.
But there’s no cure. No glue that works on a soul.
After a half hour of directionless wandering, Dom sits me down on a bench, then settles at my side. “Should we take a picture?”
The question registers in my brain on a delay, as if it has to fight its way through the cloud of grief I live in.
“Why?” I ask, my voice monotone. “The letter didn’t say to.” A spark of emotion burns through the grief. Anger. “That fucking letter.”
“What about it?”
“That’s it?” I snap. “That’s all that’s left? Three sentences?” I bark a sharp laugh with zero humor. “Thanks a lot, Josh.”
“Were you hoping he’d say something he didn’t?” Dom asks, his voice careful, as if worried another asthma attack might be on the horizon.
Maybe it is, but I’m more focused on my increasing vehemence than on my breathing.
“No. He didn’t need to say anything in particular. All he needed to do was keep writing!” I shove up from the bench and slam my backpack onto the seat beside Dom, my glare bouncing between the two of them. “Eight letters? That’s all I get. Now they’re read. Now he’s…” I dig my fingers into my hair, tugging at the roots, and making an inarticulate noise of fury.
“Maddie—”
“He’s gone!” I snarl. “He left me! He left me forever!” I pant and rage, pacing on the public street and not caring because no one in this world matters like the man who’s no longer in it. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks again, but instead of bringing relief, they itch on my skin and stuff up my nose. “People have left me before—they leave me all the time—but never like this.” I swipe the wetness from beneath my eyes and storm up to Dom, looming over him and the backpack. “I tell myself that’s part of him.” My finger jabs toward the bag. “But it’s just dust. Those letters were more him than the ashes ever were. And they’re done. And I hate him, Dom. I hate him for leaving me. And I know he didn’t do it on purpose. I know he would have stayed if he could have. I know I’m the worst sister because I hate my brother for dying. But I do. And I don’t think I can forgive him.”
My inhales are painful, my exhales are ragged, and my selfish heart lays in a bloody mess on the concrete at Dom’s feet.
Quiet falls between us as his dark eyes hold mine. Then the man has the audacity to reach out, circle his arms around my waist, and tug me close until I settle on his lap. I curl into a ball, my head tucked under his chin, and I focus on breathing through my anger and devastation. And Dom holds me close, like he doesn’t care that I’m a grenade with the pin pulled, liable to go off and decimate everything in a twenty-foot radius.
No, the ridiculous man presses a kiss against my hair, then speaks to me in a low soothing voice.
“I hate him for leaving, too.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. A hollow “we’re a pair of horrible people” chuckle.
Dom rests his chin on my head and while we wait for my breathing to regulate, he hums angry emo girl songs to me.
And I love him so much I think it’s a mortal wound.
I love him so much, and I try to distract myself by cataloging everything about our surroundings just to keep from thinking about my inescapable infatuation with Dominic Perry.
In the process of reading the signs above each storefront, I pause on one in particular. Something about it sparks a memory, but I don’t know why.
North Pole Paper & Pictures
I mouth the name, trying to place where I might have heard it before. But my mind brings nothing to the surface.
And yet the sign feels familiar.
That’s when my eyes land on the logo.
“The compass,” I mutter, staring at the four-pointed star with a smaller burst behind it and a fancy N resting above the top point.
“What was that?” Dom asks.
I lift my head to meet his eyes, then point to the store across the street. “Do you recognize that compass logo?”
Dom’s thick brows dip, then rise slowly as he comes to the same realization I did. He slips his hand between us to tug Josh’s last letter from his coat pocket. With his arms around me, Dom slips the piece of paper from the envelope and unfolds it.
At the top of the parchment is a stylized compass, just like the one across the street.
“What the hell?” Dom mutters.
“Josh, you fucking scavenger hunt–loving asshole.” Annoyance and anticipation collide in my chest as my heart rate picks up. “It’s a clue.” I slip off Dom’s lap, snatch up my backpack, and barely take a moment to check for oncoming traffic before jogging across the street, closely shadowed by my brother’s best friend.
When we enter the shop, a small bell rings and a middle-aged white man with rosy cheeks and thinning hair smiles at us from behind a counter. “Welcome to the North Pole. We have any office supplies you might need as well as a varied selection of cameras if you’re on a trip and looking to memorialize the moments.” The guy gives the spiel with no pause for breath, as if he says the speech as often as he slips on a pair of his favorite shoes. “My name is Harold. How can I help you?”
Not sure what to ask, I stare around the shop, searching for a sign of my brother or another clue he might have left me.
“Do you sell this stationery?” Dom approaches Harold and shows the man Josh’s letter.
“You bet. It’s our signature stock.” He gestures to a shelf at the end of the closest aisle, and I see a stack of blank sheets, all sporting the same compass as Josh’s letters.
How did he get it if he’s never been here?
Thinking along the same lines as me, Dom asks a follow-up question. “Do you know a Josh Sanderson?”
I switch my attention to Harold in time to see the shop owner’s eyes light up with true excitement. “Of course I knew Josh. He took all these.”
The man points to the walls, and I realize almost every inch has a framed photo of some beautiful wildlife image.
Probably all taken in this state.
“Josh Sanderson took these photographs?” I speak the words slowly, my mind struggling to catch up with this shift in my reality.
Harold grins and gives a deep nod. Then the expression flickers, a trace of sadness chasing over his features.
“Oh. You must be…”
“Maddie Sanderson. His sister.”
Harold’s eyes soften. “Ah. I see. Well, he did tell me you’d come.”
“I don’t know why. None of his letters told me to.”
“He said you’d figure it out. Especially with Broken Spines across the street.”
“Broken…” I trail off as I glance out the window and realize the bench Dom and I paused on sits outside a bookshop.
“I have something for you.”
My head whips back to Harold. “You do?”
He nods, big grin back in place. “Kept it in the safe in the back. You wait right here.”
Harold shouldn’t be concerned about me running off. Any correspondence from my brother could keep me waiting in a single spot for centuries.
The shop owner reappears holding a ziplock bag. Through the gallon-sized plastic, I see something amazing.
Puzzle pieces.
“Josh mailed this to me a few years back. Said if you ever made your way into my shop, I should give it to you.” He walks up to me and offers the bag, which I accept gingerly. Then he ushers us toward the door. “There’s a coffee shop a block down to the right. They’ve got big tables and tasty drinks. You go put that together and see what your brother left for you. Make sure you stop back in before you leave town. I’ll give you a ream of stationery on the house.”
In a daze, I let myself be directed. Ten minutes later, Dom and I have claimed a booth in the back of the shop Harold suggested. After thoroughly cleaning and drying the worn wooden surface, we spread out the pieces and get to work.
When the image turns into something recognizable, my hands pause, and my mouth falls open in disbelief.
Then my eyes seek out Dom’s.
“Did you know?”