Page 17 of The Summer List

I freeze, the bottom of my stomach dropping as the floor seems to tilt underneath me.

“You told my dad I’m here?”

Naomi blinks. “I…yes? I mean, he texted about twenty minutes ago to ask how things were going, and I said all good since you arrived last night, and he—”

I swear.

Loudly.

If he wants me to call my mom, that’s because he’s already called her to ask her what the hell I’m doing here.

I glance around the kitchen and then realize I left my phone up in the bedroom. I swear again before abandoning my bagel and gearing up for a sprint through the house.

“Was I—I mean, did I—I mean, I’m sor—”

“It’s fine.” I hesitate for a moment as I stride past Naomi. Her face has turned pale, and I realize I must look like I’m ready to bite the head off of anyone within a five meter radius.

I screw my mouth up into what’s supposed to pass for a reassuring grin, but it must make me look a few shades closer to homicidal instead. Naomi takes a step back and bumps against the wall behind her.

“It’s just that he…technically didn’t invite me here,” I say, “but it’s fine. You didn’t know.”

“O-oh.” She opens and closes her mouth a couple times like she wants to say more.

Even though I feel weirdly certain that whenever Naomi Waters does decide to speak, it’s worth dropping everything to listen, my feet are itching to bolt for my phone.

“I have to go call her,” I shout over my shoulder as I run.

Up in my guest room, my phone is sitting on top of the haphazard pile of clothes heaped in my open suitcase. I swipe to my notifications and find that not only has Nick risen from the dead to start assailing me with texts again, but my mom has also jammed up my voicemail and gotten started on flooding me with texts too.

I don’t bother reading the messages. She’s just going to yell the same things at me over the phone.

I pull up her number, my thumb hovering over the call button as I stare down at the screen.

She didn’t call me when I told her the restaurant finally moved me up from bussing tables to being an actual waitress. She didn’t call me when I told her Nick and I reached our six month anniversary—my longest relationship milestone ever. She didn’t even call me when I told her I’d almost saved up enough to buy my own car and thought maybe we could check out some secondhand lots together during her next business trip to Montreal.

I squeeze my free hand into a fist, fighting against the stupid burning sensation in the back of my throat, and then I hit the button. I flop onto the bed, reaching for a pillow to keep close by in case I end up needing to smoosh my face into it and scream during this call.

The line clicks halfway through the second ring, and my mom’s high, clear voice starts demanding answers without even a ‘hello’ to ease into things.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing trespassing at your father’s house?”

Something in my jaw clicks, but I force my voice to sound breezy.

“Is it trespassing if he’s given me all his alarm codes?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “You know very well that sneaking in there when he isn’t home without even telling him you’re coming is not an acceptable way to behave.”

“If he’s got a problem with it, why isn’t he the one calling?”

That does make her pause, if only for a second.

This is all playing out exactly as I thought it would if the misfortune of my parents finding out I’m here came to pass: my dad turning all responsibility over to my mom with his usual ‘as long as you ask your mother’ apathy, my mom getting extra fired up after realizing she’d be handling me without backup, and her taking all the frustrations of their failed marriage out on me.

It’s the theme song of my childhood, back for another refrain.

“Because he’s in Italy, Andrea.”

“Which makes it even less of a problem that I’m staying in his house.” I lift a hand to shade my eyes from the beam of mid-morning sun streaming in through the window. “I don’t know why you’re upset.”

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