21. Andrea

CHAPTER 21

Andrea

S he'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.

"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."

He already sounds disappointed, and my grip on the phone tightens when I realize he has every reason to be.

I missed his texts because I've been sleeping off a hangover all day after raiding his wine cellar in the house I snuck into without his permission.

That voice from earlier pings in my head again.

This isn't me.

"Oh, sorry. My phone is, um, dead. I need to charge it."

My voice is so hoarse and groggy it would give the lie away even if it weren't an extremely low effort excuse.

"I see. What time is it there, anyway?"

I drop into the upholstered armchair in front of the desk and rest my head on one of my hands.

"It's, um…" I glance at the screen on the phone dock and wince. "Almost five."

"I see," he says again. "Well, Sandy just wanted to check that you're doing all right with the cats. She misses her little updates from Naomi."

My shoulders tense at the sound of her name, and my chest feels like it's caving in as I imagine her typing cute little messages about the cats' lives for Sandy to keep up with.

"Oh, for sure," I answer. "Yeah, the cats are good. They're, um, eating, and stuff."

"That's good."

The line goes silent.

He clears his throat.

More silence.

"Well, I should probably get going. Sandy is—"

"Dad."

I don't know what makes me say it. I don't know what makes me keep him on the line when I thought I came to terms with him hanging up on my whole life years ago.

The window I'm sitting in front of looks out onto the back deck, right over the barbeque station where I've imagined him cooking with Sandy's sons. I look past it to the spot on the deck where Naomi and I sat while she told me about accidentally burning her brother's eyebrows off, and somehow, that gives me the courage to ask the question I've wanted to ask him my whole life.

"What did you want me to be?"

At first, the only answer I get is the rattling echo of my own breath, and then he asks, "What do you mean?"

"I mean when I was little," I say. "Actually, even before I was little. Even before I was born. Even before I existed at all. What did you want your kid to be like?"

He makes a sound like he's about to say something, but then he stops.

A few more seconds go by before he asks, "Where is this coming from, Andrea?"

I straighten up in the chair, and I can't keep a bit of irritation out of my tone. "You know where it's coming from. You know I've never been…quite what you wanted. You or Mom. At least with her, I know what she wants me to be. I can keep trying, even if it never seems to be good enough, but with you… You just gave up."

My voice is shaking, and I'm speaking way too loud. He tries to cut in, but I keep going. I can't stop. It's like somewhere inside me, a lock has sprung open, and there's a whole army of pent up emotions storming out with guns blazing.

"You didn't even fight for more than a few weekends a year with me," I hurl at him. "You didn't even fight to fix things with mom. It's like we just stopped being worth it to you, or maybe we were never what you wanted in the first place, and I have spent my whole life trying to figure out what it is you do want so I can be it. I've tried so hard I have no idea who I am. I'm so scared I'll end up being someone you and Mom don't want that it's literally impossible for me to even think about who I might actually be."

The phone almost slips out of my hand as it hits me.

That's the reason those fleeting glimpses of my future never last.

That's the reason I spent a whole year trying to find myself and came up with nothing.

I didn't want to find myself. I didn't want to dig up a truth I couldn't bury back inside me if it wasn't what they wanted to see.

Those hints of who I am and what I want didn't get snatched away from me. I pushed them away. I shut my eyes and blocked my ears. I ran and ran and ran.

The answers I've been looking for haven't been hiding from me. They've been fighting to catch up.

"I wanted a daughter."

My dad's voice in my ear makes me jump. For a moment, I forgot I was on a call.

"I would have been happy with whoever you were, but I always wanted a daughter."

I've never heard him sound like this before, gruff and tender all at once, like he's trying not to choke up. A lump swells in my throat as I listen to him.

"When you were born, it was the best day of my life. You were everything I wanted and more. I knew you were special even when you were a little baby. You could not be stopped. You were just like your mother in that way."

His voice cracks, and I almost choke on a sob.

I've never heard him talk about me this way.

"I wasn't a match for her, Andrea. I wasn't enough. I held her back. That's why it never worked between us."

"She thought you were enough," I whisper. "She just needed you to believe it."

He's quiet for so long I start to worry I went too far, but then he sighs.

"I don't know if it would have worked out like that, Andrea, but I do know I should have tried harder to be enough for you ."

I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at it for a moment before I speak.

"Huh? Dad, I've been trying to be enough for you , and it's like no matter what I do, you're just… there , all silent and distant. You're not like that with Sandy's kids. You—"

"I'm not their father."

The rest of my sentence peters out.

"I love those boys," he says after a moment, "but they have a dad, and that's why…that's why I never worried with them the way I have with you. I never wanted us to be distant, Andrea, but I also never wanted to say the wrong thing. I never wanted to make a mistake. I never wanted to let you down like…like I did with…"

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't have to.

My entire world is already flipping on its head.

I keep staring out the window, but my eyes aren't focused on the deck anymore. I can't tell if I want to laugh or cry or scream. I can't tell if I wish I could hug him or if I want to swear at him and push him away.

All those silent, awkward moments. All those times I'd try and get nothing in return.

He let the fear of not showing up perfectly keep him from showing up for me at all.

"Andrea, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"I have to go."

My hands are shaking, and my feet are jittering against the floor. I need to move. I need work all this frantic energy out of my system so I can figure out what the hell any of this even means.

"Andrea…"

His voice breaks again. I screw my face up as I press the phone tighter against my ear.

"I know, Dad. I know you're sorry. I just…I just need to think."

I end the call before I talk myself out of it, and in the next second, I'm bolting for the front door. I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers and lock the door behind me before I take off sprinting down the driveway.

I manage to run a few blocks before I have to slow my pace. My lungs burn and the muscles in my legs ache, but I make myself continue at a jog.

This is what I need.

I need oxygen. I need quiet. I need space. I need the thud of my feet on the ground to be the only sound around me as I listen for that voice again, the one that said, ‘This isn't me.'

I know it has more to tell me, and for the first time in my life, I think I might actually be ready to listen.

I jog past giant house after giant house until my empty stomach demands I slow down to a walk. Still, I keep moving, not caring what I look like traipsing through the fanciest neighborhood in Ottawa in a pair of pajama shorts and a hoodie with my hair an absolute mess.

After another couple blocks, I reach one of the private schools in the area. The wide green lawn out front is dotted with maple trees and a few benches. I turn off the sidewalk to head for the closest bench, but I end up sprawling out on the soft grass under one of the trees instead.

I close my eyes with my face turned up to the evening sun, and a hundred memories wash over me.

My dad turning his back in the window of our old house in Ottawa when my mom and I drove away for the last time.

The strain in his voice whenever he said ‘I love you too' on our phone calls, and all the moments of hesitation when I wondered if he'd say it at all.

The first time I had dinner with him, Sandy, and her sons and realized it was the first time I'd heard my dad laugh— really laugh—in as long as I could remember.

I play every single moment like a movie in my head, rewinding and re-watching and rewinding again, looking for proof that what he said on the phone today is true.

I don't know how long I lay there. By the time I sit up, the grass has pressed imprints into the backs of my legs, and the sky has started to turn orange as the sun sinks lower and lower.

I wonder if Naomi is watching the sunset too.

I wonder if I've made her feel the exact same way my dad has.

She didn't want me to be perfect. All she wanted was for me to try. All she wanted was for me to believe I was enough, but I wouldn't do it.

I was an absolute idiot. As I push myself up to my feet and shake the pins and needles out of my legs, I realize I can't leave this city without telling her that.

I don't even care if it's too late. I just can't do the same thing my dad did.

I can't spend my whole life being afraid.

Not anymore.

I ignore the protests from my stomach and run back to the house as fast as my legs will carry me. When I turn onto my dad's street, I see there are way more cars parked along the sidewalk than when I left. I can hear the thumping bass of music blasting outside one of the houses.

Another car pulls up and swerves into an empty spot as I jog down the street. A few seconds later, a guy with a purple Mohawk and a girl in an oversized, ripped up t-shirt serving as a bikini cover-up get out and start walking up the sidewalk.

I can't stop myself from staring. I might be one to talk considering my own outfit, but these people don't exactly seem like the type to be attending whatever garden party is going down.

They turn down a driveway, and it takes me a couple second to realize it's my dad's driveway.

"What the hell?" I mutter before I run after them.

I get close enough to see the gate is open and the whole driveway is filled with more cars. People in bathing suits swarm past the vehicles, most of them lugging crates of beer and liquor bottles. The purple Mohawk is one of the tamer hairstyles I spot. Everyone here looks like they could have walked out of the crowd at a punk rock concert.

And then it hits me.

I know where my phone is.

I also know I did something way stupider than call Naomi last night.

I fly up the driveway, weaving through the chaos to get to the front door. Everyone else is heading for the backyard, and the slightest bit of relief dulls the panic taking over my body when I remember the whole house is locked—or at least it should be, unless I also screwed that up while I was drunk.

I punch in the code for the keypad on the front door and zoom into the kitchen without bothering to take my shoes off. The backyard is already packed with people filling up the deck and the pool. The blaring heavy metal music is so loud I can hear every lyric even inside the house.

I run straight for the fridge and fling the double doors open, praying to whoever's listening that my phone still works after a night of being shoved behind Naomi's pickle jars. I have no idea why I decided on that as a hiding place.

"Oh, thank god!" I gasp when the screen turns on after a couple tries.

I swipe through my texts to make sure I'm remembering things right, and all my fears are confirmed.

Brayden, Nick's sketchy friend who drove me to Ottawa at the start of the summer, texted me to ask if I knew anyone in my dad's neighborhood who wanted to host a pool party for one of the heavy metal event things he's always organizing.

Drunk Andrea decided a truly momentous way to end a truly disastrous summer would be to volunteer my dad's backyard for the cause. I even texted Brayden the code for the gate.

I flinch when I hear a glass break out in the backyard, followed by a chorus of cheering, but I can't look away from my phone.

A text from my mom just came in.

I open up our conversation and see things are even worse than I thought. I have no memory of messaging her last night, but the record shows she decided to pick me up tonight instead of tomorrow because our flight is so early and it would be easier for me to sleep at the hotel.

Her most recent text says she's fifteen minutes away.

Sweat coats the back of my neck as my nausea comes back full force. I drop my phone onto the counter and glance at the backyard just in time to see somebody stumble into one of my dad's sculptures and send it sliding off its pedestal to shatter against the pool deck.

I drop my head over the sink and start puking.