Page 12 of The Summer List

I take a deep breath. Whatever happens, I’m here now. I’m not about to crash at whatever sketchy locale Brayden is visiting to do his usual sketchy deeds, even though he’s repeatedly offered me a place to stay, so into the house I must go.

I dig my phone out of my purse and scroll through all my saved notes until I find the codes my dad gave me that time I visited for my birthday. Brayden rolls his window down and punches the number I give him into the call-box. The gate makes a click that sounds extra loud in the silent street before swinging open.

“Hardcore,” Brayden mutters before inching the car forwards. “This would be a sick location for one of my events.”

I don’t know if he actually thinks something about the gate is hardcore or if that’s just his favourite adjective. He’s said it at least six times during this drive.

I’ve never been able to tell if Brayden is some kind of drug dealer or if he actually organizes heavy metal music events like he tells everyone he does. Either way, he’s always driving between Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto. Despite his general sketchiness, he’s one of my freshly-ex-boyfriend’s nicest friends, and he offered me a free ride to Ottawa even after learning I’d just dumped his buddy.

We come to a stop in front of the garage. Brayden cuts the engine and asks if I want help bringing my stuff in.

I glance over my shoulder at the back seat, which is filled with my guitar, a bulging suitcase, and two trash bags stuffed with all the random objects I managed to grab while stomping through the townhouse as Nick and I screamed at each other a few hours ago.

There was probably a lot more in the house I could have claimed as my own, but after spending almost a year sharing that place with my ex-boyfriend and an ever-changing number of his friends, not much of the stuff was in a state worth saving.

I’m all for smashing gender stereotypes, but damn, they made it hard to believe boys can clean anything.

“Thanks, but I can manage,” I tell Brayden.

“You sure? I don’t mind carrying stuff.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. Thanks again for the ride.”

He chuckles and gives the dashboard a few pats like it’s the neck of a horse. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been someone’s getaway car.”

I decide it’s better not to ask any follow-up questions to that. When I’m standing in front of the garage with my guitar case slung over my back and a garbage bag clutched in each hand, Brayden circles the car around so he can lean out the window to talk to me.

“Good luck, Andrea. You know, I always thought you were a hardcore chick.”

I cough to cover up a laugh. “Oh, um, thanks, Brayden. You’re, um, hardcore too.”

I lift one hand in a devil’s horn sign—because how could I not?—and he lets out a whoop of appreciation before doing the same as he speeds down the driveway.

I drop my arm to my side and stand there for a minute, letting the sounds of the night rush in around me. I can hear crickets chirping and the faint gurgle of the pool filter in the backyard. The air smells like wet grass.

That’s something that always strikes me about Ottawa: how quiet most of it is, how you can actually hear yourself think without every sentence getting interrupted by wailing sirens and cars clogging up the street outside your door. At my mom’s place in Toronto, I always felt like the city was filling up my ears and nose, seeping into my system like a toxic gas.

There’s no rumbling traffic here, even though we’re not that far from downtown. Dad’s neighborhood is like a wealthy little island unto itself, complete with two Oxford-esque private schools within a couple blocks of each other.

I drop one of the garbage bags and then flip up the cover of the garage’s keypad before pressing what I hope is the right code. The little light flares green and the door in front of me jerks to life, sliding up with a metallic creak.

The two vehicles currently in use out of my dad’s extensive roster sparkle even in the low light. I rearrange my grip on my stuff and then waddle into the garage, edging around the cars to get to the door to the house.

Inside, the entryway is chilly and dark. I set all my things down in a heap and don’t bother turning any lights on before I head over to the control panel for the house alarm. I glance at the screen, expecting some kind of countdown informing me I have approximately eight point five seconds to enter the correct code before a full SWAT team parachutes down onto the roof, but as far as I can tell, the alarm isn’t on at all.

A shard of ice shoots up my spine.

There’s no way they wouldn’t have set the alarm before leaving. My dad is obsessed with the alarm system.

I back away from the panel like a SWAT team really has caught me in the middle of a crime. I glance around the room, searching for some evidence to tell me whether or not anyone’s home.

There’s nothing out of order, not even a stray pair of shoes or a forgotten takeout coffee cup. I kick my own shoes off and then pad into the kitchen in my socks for maximum stealth. The stove light is on, casting an amber glow across the countertops, but I figure that’s a normal thing to leave on when you’re on vacation. The counters are clear, and there are no dishes in the sink.

No signs of life.

My shoulders relax at the same time my stomach growls. Besides the cardboard-flavored panini I got at a highway rest stop, I haven’t eaten all day. I should probably scope out the house more first, but my stomach rumbles like it can sense my proximity to snacks.

A beam of bright fluorescent light streaks the kitchen when I pull both sides of the double-door fridge open. There’s more than I expected inside, considering they’re supposed to be gone for most of the summer. As I peruse the shelves stuffed with condiment jars, yoghurt, eggs, and some bags of veggies, I wonder if they’ve got a housekeeper coming in who keeps food here.

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