Page 79 of The Summer List

I’m crying too hard to answer now. The tears are so thick I can’t even see her properly. When she steps forward and reaches for my arm, I jerk away.

If I let her hold me, I won’t be able to tell her to stop.

I hear her hiss of pain, and another piece of my heart cracks. She hovers in front of me for a couple seconds, and then she steps over to pull the door open. The second it swings shut behind her, my knees give out, and I slide down to crouch on the cold, hard pavement.

CHAPTER 21

Andrea

She’s gone.

It’s the first thing I think when I open my eyes to squint at the strip of daylight pouring in through the gap between the curtains.

It’s the same first thought I’ve had every time I’ve woken up this week.

Naomi went to Shal and Priya’s place instead of my dad’s house back on the night of the open mic. The next day, she texted to say it would be best if she stayed at her parents’ house until I left for Toronto. I tried to tell her I’d find my own place so she wouldn’t have to leave because of me, but she’d already gotten in touch with Sandy to say she had a family issue and needed to be home for a few days while I took care of the cats for her.

A thump on the mattress makes me sit bolt upright in bed. Bijoux blinks at me from the end of the comforter and then prowls his way up to my lap before head-butting my hand. I scratch his saggy skin as I lift my other hand to press against the sharp twinge in my temple that grows into a throbbing ache in a matter of seconds.

My stomach churns, and the rest of the symptoms of a raging hangover set in as my body wakes up: clammy skin, dry mouth, and a desperate craving for water.

I remember I raided the wine cellar last night at the exact same moment I remember why I raided the wine cellar: today is my last day in Ottawa.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll get on a plane to Toronto. I’ll move back into my mom’s house. I’ll never see Naomi again.

I sprint to the bathroom and drop to my knees on the cold tiles in front of the toilet as the image of her walking back into the bar without me that night clouds my vision.

I could have told her to stop. I could have told her to wait. I could have told her I might be falling in love with her too and that the rest doesn’t matter, but I’d be lying.

I can’t move to Ottawa just because I might love her. I can’t build a whole life around being with her. She needs someone who has their own life too, and I’m not any closer to that than I was a year ago.

I dry heave a few times, sweat coating my skin even as the cold floor makes me shiver, but I don’t end up puking. I push myself to my feet a few minutes later and then shove my head under the sink faucet to gulp down some water.

The hydration helps, although my reflection in the mirror is so horrifying I almost feel like I need to get drunk all over again just to erase the sight from my mind. My hair is a mass of tangles wild enough to be housing a few woodland animals. My face is puffy, and there are deep purple half moons under both my eyes.

“Ugh,” I say to my reflection before grabbing my toothbrush.

Both the cats turn up at the bathroom door to start meowing and twining themselves around my legs. I realize I have no idea what time it is, but judging by how bright the sun is shining outside, the cats’ breakfast is long overdue.

I stumble my way back to my bedroom and throw a hoodie on over my pajama shorts and tank top before heading down to the kitchen. Fractured memories of what happened after I uncorked the first wine bottle start to take shape as I hold my breath through the whole disgusting process of putting the cats’ slop in their bowls.

I think I watched TV for a while. I remember shouting insults at some classic romcom, but I can’t picture which movie it was. The dishes in the kitchen sink prove my suspicion that I heated up some frozen chicken wings, although my memory gets so hazy at that point I’m surprised I didn’t wake up to the sound of the smoke alarm or any oven burns on my arms.

I walk over to the island after setting the food bowls down and fold over until my cheek is resting against the cool marble. The temperature helps keep a wave of cat food-induced nausea at bay.

I squeeze my eyes shut as shame adds itself to the list of things making me feel like I’m going to puke. I’m supposed to start the rest of my life tomorrow, and I decided the best way to handle that was getting stupidly drunk.

This isn’t me.

I straighten up like the smoke alarm really has started blaring as those words echo so loud inside my head I could swear someone else yelled them into the kitchen.

I glance around like a stranger really is going to jump out from one of the cupboards, but the only sounds I hear are the hum of the air conditioning and the munching noises of the cats eating their breakfast.

“This isn’t me,” I murmur, like I’m giving the phrase a test drive.

I wait to feel some kind of shift inside me, but nothing changes. No flame is lit. No sparks go off. No divine messenger appears in the kitchen.

I smack my hands against the island and groan loud enough to make the cats look over.

---