Page 90 of The Summer List

My head is spinning. I can’t get enough oxygen. This is exactly how I used to feel in Toronto, right before I’d sneak out of the house to go do something stupid with my friends just so I could feel the pressure lift from my lungs for a couple hours.

“Are you going to answer me, Andrea?”

Her voice is louder now but still edged with icy control despite the rage I can feel rolling off her.

“Are you even going to look at me?”

I clench my fists so hard my hands ache, but I still can’t make myself look up. I can’t face knowing what she sees when she looks at me.

She sighs like she didn’t expect any different and then starts digging through her purse.

“I’m calling the cops to come deal with this disaster. If doesn’t take all evening to get the yard in order, I’ll see if my assistant can switch our flight to tonight. We’ll talk more about this at home.”

I can’t leave tonight.

I can’t leave without seeing Naomi, without telling her the truth, even if it’s too late for the truth to change anything.

Even if the truth isn’t enough.

For a moment, she’s all I can see: the flash of that bright blue dress, a hint of a smile on her face as tucks her hair behind her ears.

I have to see her again, even if it’s only just once.

My mom is already punching in a phone number when I find enough willpower to lift my chin and say, “No.”

She freezes. “Excuse me?”

“I can’t leave tonight.”

Her gaze flicks over my face, her forehead creasing into an expression I can’t read before she smoothes it out and sighs again.

“Andrea, you can’t let just one more night turn into just one more year again. I know this isn’t who you are, and if you just come back to Toronto, you’ll—”

“So who am I?”

My voice is clearer now, and even though my hands are still shaking, I can meet her eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks as she lowers her phone.

“You said this isn’t who I am, and I just…I just want to know who it is you think I am, because I’m starting to see that maybe…maybe that’s not me. Maybe that’s never been me.”

She flinches and takes a step back. I clench my jaw to hold back the urge to apologize, to tell her I’m wrong, to promise I’ll try harder next time.

Trying harder never made anything better for either of us.

“Andrea.” There’s the slightest tremor to her voice as she says my name, but she hardens her tone right after. “I don’t know what made you lose sight of yourself as a teenager, but I never lost sight of you. When you were little, it was always your dream to—”

“Exactly,” I cut in. “I was little.”

Her eyes flare at the interruption, but I widen my stance and refuse to back down.

I can breathe easier now. More air rushes into the room with every word I say, giving me the fuel I need to go on.

“And maybe what happened to me when I became a teenager was growing up. I’m not a little kid anymore, Mom. I have my own ideas and experiences. I’m my own person, and I tried so hard to squish that person into a box you built for me when I was small that I didn’t have any room to grow into myself.”

I see the hurt flooding her eyes, but I don’t stop. If I stop now, I might never start again.

“I was suffocating, and all those times I acted out during high school were because I didn’t know how else to breathe. I didn’t run away to Montreal to party and waste my life. I went there because I needed to get out of that box and just be me for a minute.”

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