Page 80 of The Summer List

“So who is me?” I ask them, my voice loud enough to bounce off the tiled walls.

They blink a couple times and then go back to eating.

I groan again and hunch forward, propping my elbows on the island so I can rest my chin in my hands and glare out at the backyard. The sun is glinting on the glassy surface of the pool. I glance at the clock on the microwave for the first time, and a fresh jolt of shame hits when I see it’s past one in the afternoon. I must have stayed up way later than I thought.

The back of my neck tingles when I realize there’s a good chunk of last night I can’t account for at all.

“I need to see my phone,” I announce to the cats before I sprint back to my bedroom as fast as my headache will allow.

If I was drunk enough to be yelling at the TV, I might have been drunk enough to do something truly stupid.

Like call Naomi.

My phone isn’t where I usually keep it on the bedside table. I check under the bed and then strip all the blankets off to be sure.

There’s no sign of it.

I swear and do a scan of the whole bedroom before racing down to the basement where I was watching TV last night. My stomach churns in protest of all the physical activity, and I have to pause at the foot of the stairs to catch my breath.

I cringe as I look over at the wine bottles, chip bags, and plate of chicken bones littering the table I pulled up in front of the huge couch. The TV is still on, playing some hospital drama loud enough to make my head throb even harder.

I find the remote sitting on one of the couch cushions and shut the screen off. I notice one wine bottle is completely empty, while the other is missing about a glass. I thank Smart Andrea for stopping me at some point, but that’s still way too much wine for one person.

This isn’t me.

The phrase rings out again, loud enough that I drop into a seat on the couch and press both my hands to my forehead.

“That’s not an answer,” I say to whatever part of me has decided that phrase is supposed to be helpful. “I don’t need to know who I’m not. I need to know who I am.”

That sounds like way too much of a riddle for someone who drank over a bottle of wine last night. I flop onto my side, waiting for my head to stop spinning.

Being on the couch brings another memory to the surface.

I remember lying like this at some point last night while holding my phone in front of my face. I was trying to call Naomi, but the letters on the screen were too tiny to focus on. I decided calling her was a bad idea, and I decided to hide my phone to help my resolve.

I remember thinking I had the perfect place. I just have no idea where that is.

“Damn it,” I mutter as I close my eyes and try to sink into Drunk Andrea’s thought process.

I’ve only come up with a few ideas before Hungover Andrea’s thoughts take over.

Hungover Andrea is still very tired. Hungover Andrea doesn’t want to deal with any of this, and Hungover Andrea thinks the couch is very soft.

I wake up to the sound of a phone ringing. My first drowsy thought is that it’s my missing cell phone, but then I remember I always keep my phone on silent.

The unfamiliar ringtone blares again and again, and I realize the sound is coming from the house phone. I get to my feet, and even though my parched throat is begging for several glasses of water, the nap has at least turned my headache from a throbbing nightmare to a dull ache.

There’s no house phone downstairs, so I follow the sound all the way to the closest source, which is up in one of the sitting rooms, or whatever they call the additional rooms full of couches and chairs that aren’t the main living room. There’s a small desk set up in front of the window with a landline phone on top. The screen on the receiver shows my dad’s name.

I pick up the phone. “Hi, Dad.”

“Oh. Andrea. Hello.”

A few seconds of silence follow, and I can’t even blame the hangover for the awkwardness.

I never know what to say to him. I never know what he wants to hear.

“Are you all right? Sandy couldn’t get you on your cell, and then you didn’t answer my texts.”

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