3. Andrea

CHAPTER 3

Andrea

" I s this where I turn?"

The car lurches to a stop at an intersection. Brayden blinks at me from the driver's seat, waiting for directions.

I do a quick scan of the area and then point towards my window. "Yeah. Go right. I think."

I've only been to this house a handful of times since Dad and Sandy moved in—just a couple awkward Thanksgiving dinners and one very strained week-long visit for my seventeenth birthday. Dad always came to pick me up from the train station in whatever his midlife crisis mobile of the year was, so I have a vague sense of the route to the house, but my memories aren't much help in the pitch dark, when one looming mansion looks much the same as the next.

"Big houses," Brayden says as he swings the car into a turn that's a little too wide for the road.

The engine pops as he accelerates down the street, but after two hours in this junk heap of a car, I don't flinch at the sound anymore.

Beggars can't be choosers, as they say.

"Is your dad, like, rich?" Brayden asks.

We pass by a huge grey brick estate I think I remember my dad pointing out as an embassy, and I figure we must be on the right track to the house.

"Uh…I guess," I answer.

People tend to get weird when they learn my dad is whatever is just underneath a C-level employee at one of the biggest banks in Canada. They get even weirder when they learn my mom is the founder of the biggest Pilates studio chain in the country and was previously the star of a very famous set of workout DVDs that everybody else's mom seemed to own when I was a kid.

You'd think they would have been the perfect power couple.

You'd be wrong.

"Turn here," I tell Brayden when we reach the end of the street. "Please."

We arrive at my dad's street. Brayden brings the car to a halt in front of the house's gate and lets out a low whistle as he hunches over the steering wheel to peer up at all three storeys of the house silhouetted against the dim scattering of stars in the night sky.

I stare up at the sight too, searching for any sign that my dad and Sandy are not in Italy like they're supposed to be. The last time my dad called me under what I'm certain were strict orders from my mom to try talking some sense into me about my life choices, I'm pretty sure he mentioned he was leaving at the start of July. I didn't want to risk texting him tonight to confirm. There's a slight chance he'd suspect something was up and call my mom, and she'd definitely know something was up.

Namely, that I broke up with my boyfriend and ended up alone in Montreal at the age of nineteen, just like she said I would. She'd count it as more proof that I should just come back to Toronto already and start my impending internship at her business early, but that's not something I wanted to deal with today.

Hence, Dad's house.

There are no lights on in the mansion that I can see, just some glinting reflections of the sky in the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows.

I take a deep breath. Whatever happens, I'm here now. I'm not about to crash at whatever sketchy locale Brayden is visiting to do his usual sketchy deeds, even though he's repeatedly offered me a place to stay, so into the house I must go.

I dig my phone out of my purse and scroll through all my saved notes until I find the codes my dad gave me that time I visited for my birthday. Brayden rolls his window down and punches the number I give him into the call-box. The gate makes a click that sounds extra loud in the silent street before swinging open.

"Hardcore," Brayden mutters before inching the car forwards. "This would be a sick location for one of my events."

I don't know if he actually thinks something about the gate is hardcore or if that's just his favourite adjective. He's said it at least six times during this drive.

I've never been able to tell if Brayden is some kind of drug dealer or if he actually organizes heavy metal music events like he tells everyone he does. Either way, he's always driving between Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto. Despite his general sketchiness, he's one of my freshly-ex-boyfriend's nicest friends, and he offered me a free ride to Ottawa even after learning I'd just dumped his buddy.

We come to a stop in front of the garage. Brayden cuts the engine and asks if I want help bringing my stuff in.

I glance over my shoulder at the back seat, which is filled with my guitar, a bulging suitcase, and two trash bags stuffed with all the random objects I managed to grab while stomping through the townhouse as Nick and I screamed at each other a few hours ago.

There was probably a lot more in the house I could have claimed as my own, but after spending almost a year sharing that place with my ex-boyfriend and an ever-changing number of his friends, not much of the stuff was in a state worth saving.

I'm all for smashing gender stereotypes, but damn, they made it hard to believe boys can clean anything.

"Thanks, but I can manage," I tell Brayden.

"You sure? I don't mind carrying stuff."

I shake my head. "It's fine. Thanks again for the ride."

He chuckles and gives the dashboard a few pats like it's the neck of a horse. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been someone's getaway car."

I decide it's better not to ask any follow-up questions to that. When I'm standing in front of the garage with my guitar case slung over my back and a garbage bag clutched in each hand, Brayden circles the car around so he can lean out the window to talk to me.

"Good luck, Andrea. You know, I always thought you were a hardcore chick."

I cough to cover up a laugh. "Oh, um, thanks, Brayden. You're, um, hardcore too."

I lift one hand in a devil's horn sign—because how could I not?—and he lets out a whoop of appreciation before doing the same as he speeds down the driveway.

I drop my arm to my side and stand there for a minute, letting the sounds of the night rush in around me. I can hear crickets chirping and the faint gurgle of the pool filter in the backyard. The air smells like wet grass.

That's something that always strikes me about Ottawa: how quiet most of it is, how you can actually hear yourself think without every sentence getting interrupted by wailing sirens and cars clogging up the street outside your door. At my mom's place in Toronto, I always felt like the city was filling up my ears and nose, seeping into my system like a toxic gas.

There's no rumbling traffic here, even though we're not that far from downtown. Dad's neighborhood is like a wealthy little island unto itself, complete with two Oxford-esque private schools within a couple blocks of each other.

I drop one of the garbage bags and then flip up the cover of the garage's keypad before pressing what I hope is the right code. The little light flares green and the door in front of me jerks to life, sliding up with a metallic creak.

The two vehicles currently in use out of my dad's extensive roster sparkle even in the low light. I rearrange my grip on my stuff and then waddle into the garage, edging around the cars to get to the door to the house.

Inside, the entryway is chilly and dark. I set all my things down in a heap and don't bother turning any lights on before I head over to the control panel for the house alarm. I glance at the screen, expecting some kind of countdown informing me I have approximately eight point five seconds to enter the correct code before a full SWAT team parachutes down onto the roof, but as far as I can tell, the alarm isn't on at all.

A shard of ice shoots up my spine.

There's no way they wouldn't have set the alarm before leaving. My dad is obsessed with the alarm system.

I back away from the panel like a SWAT team really has caught me in the middle of a crime. I glance around the room, searching for some evidence to tell me whether or not anyone's home.

There's nothing out of order, not even a stray pair of shoes or a forgotten takeout coffee cup. I kick my own shoes off and then pad into the kitchen in my socks for maximum stealth. The stove light is on, casting an amber glow across the countertops, but I figure that's a normal thing to leave on when you're on vacation. The counters are clear, and there are no dishes in the sink.

No signs of life.

My shoulders relax at the same time my stomach growls. Besides the cardboard-flavored panini I got at a highway rest stop, I haven't eaten all day. I should probably scope out the house more first, but my stomach rumbles like it can sense my proximity to snacks.

A beam of bright fluorescent light streaks the kitchen when I pull both sides of the double-door fridge open. There's more than I expected inside, considering they're supposed to be gone for most of the summer. As I peruse the shelves stuffed with condiment jars, yoghurt, eggs, and some bags of veggies, I wonder if they've got a housekeeper coming in who keeps food here.

The hunger pangs in my stomach are getting too intense for me to put much thought into that. I spot a half-finished wheel of brie way down at the back of the bottom shelf and can't resist the call of my favourite cheese.

I drop to my knees so I can shuffle a few packages around to get at the brie. I've just stretched my arm out towards it when a noise from the other side of the kitchen makes me freeze.

That noise could only be described as a pitter-patter. It continues coming closer as I stay glued to the floor, too shocked to even pull my arm out of the fridge.

A yowling meow fills the kitchen as Sandy's felines from hell slink underneath the fridge door and barrel right into me, head-butting my legs and pawing at my thighs to demand immediate petting.

I can't move. My brain is whirring like I'm working my way through a math equation that doesn't make sense.

Sandy would never leave her precious hairless monstrosities alone. She'd either try to sneak them into Italy or send them to some elite cat boarding institute for the summer. They keep brushing their saggy bodies against my legs and mewling for attention as I struggle to process what's going on.

I've just come to the conclusion that someone has to be in the house when I hear a gasp from the other side of the room.

Everything clicks into place: the food, the cats, the disarmed alarm system. I don't know how I was stupid enough not to consider them hiring a live-in cat sitter.

A cat sitter who probably thinks I'm a murderer making a pit stop for a midnight snack.

I clear my throat and brace for an extremely awkward conversation. I pull my arm out from where it's gotten covered in goose bumps in the fridge and push myself up to my feet. I'm about to swing the doors shut when a high-pitched yelp interrupts me.

"DON'T MOVE!" a woman's voice orders.

At least, I assume she's a fully-grown woman. Her voice is thin and shrill enough to be a child's, but maybe that's just the terror.

"I'm—"

"I SAID DON'T MOVE!" the voice interrupts, insistent enough despite its squeakiness that I actually stop moving. "I'M ARMED AND I'M CALLING THE POLICE!"

Armed?

A hard lump forms in my stomach as my pulse picks up speed. I need to get an explanation out before we involve the emergency services.

"I'm Peter's daughter," I blurt, the fridge door still keeping me concealed.

I wonder if the door is thick enough to stop a bullet.

"YOU—wait, what?"

The shift in the woman's tone is so abrupt I almost burst out laughing. I can practically see her doing a double-take in my head, even though I still have no idea what she looks like.

"I'm his daughter," I repeat, my voice shaking with what I realize is shock. "That's how I got in the house. I'm…visiting. I didn't know they had a cat sitter. You're the cat sitter, right?"

I glance down at where one of the cats has now lain itself across my feet to start purring. The other one slips back under the fridge door and takes off towards the woman.

"Oh. Oh . They didn't tell me you were coming."

I can't help smirking. "Yeah, it was, um, a last minute thing."

"Oh. I see."

Her voice has turned so quiet and reedy I start to worry she might be about to faint.

"Oh my god, I almost attacked you," she says in a horrified whisper.

"Yeah, uh, about that. You think I could close the fridge without provoking your wrath?"

She lets out a squeak I interpret as a yes. I take a slow step back from the fridge and then swing the doors shut.

My eyes are still stunned from the glare of the fridge light, and I have to blink a few times before I can see her in the near-darkness. Once I get my first good look, I can't help it.

I grip the fridge handle for support as I laugh so hard my knees go weak.

She doesn't have a gun. She has an ornamental table lamp clutched in one hand and what I'm pretty sure is a miniature version of the Venus de Milo in the other.

She blinks at me with huge, round eyes while I laugh, which just makes me crack up even harder.

I only realize just how much tension has built up in my body over the course of this insane day when I feel it seeping out of me as I laugh and laugh and laugh. I'm not even laughing at her anymore. I'm not even laughing at anything funny .

I'm laughing because I'm nineteen and everything I own in the entire world is sitting in two garbage bags on the floor of my dad's house. I'm laughing because five hours ago, I had a boyfriend, and now I don't. I'm laughing because I thought I loved him, but it only took a few seconds of looking at him— really looking at him—to realize I never did.

I just wanted to believe I'd finally found something that mattered to me.

"Sorry," I choke out when I can speak again. "Weird day. Also, what were you gonna do with those? Venus de Milo me to death? Strangle me with a lamp cord?"

A rogue snort explodes out of me at the thought. The girl's eyebrows pinch together like I've offended her.

"They were the closest blunt objects to my bed."

That doesn't help me stop laughing. Of course my dad would have a mini Venus de Milo in one of his guest rooms. He and Sandy decided amateur art collecting ‘with a focus on sculpture' was going to be their new thing a few years ago. The whole house is full of kitschy reproductions and weird, absurdly expensive originals their art advisor convinces them they should invest in.

"How come you didn't call the cops right away?" I ask. "Wait, did you call the cops already? Do we need to, like, deal with that?"

She shakes her head. "I thought it was probably just the cats making noise. I only brought these as…precautions."

She raises both objects a few inches higher and then glances back and forth between them like she's only just realized how ridiculous she looks.

"I must have scared the hell out of you." I release the fridge handle so I can lean against the edge of the island instead. "You come down here expecting to break up a cat fight, and you find me crouched in front of the fridge like that scene in Jennifer's Body ."

Her eyes get all gigantic again as she stares at me.

"Never seen it?" I ask.

Those same creases form between her eyebrows like I've insulted her again. "It's my favourite movie ever."

"No way." I laugh again, but this time it's more out of surprise. "It's my favourite movie too."

For a moment, the air in the room seems to shift, or maybe it just gets thicker, clouded with something I only manage to catch a taste of before it slips away.

I take a few seconds to actually look at her. Even when she's not gawking at me in horror, she has some of the biggest, roundest eyes I've ever seen. It's too dark for me to be sure of their colour, but I can tell they're some shade of blue or green. She has thin, dark blonde hair that falls just past her shoulders, but her blonde eyebrows are light enough to make her eyes look like they take up even more of her face than they already do.

She's wearing a matching pajama set, the pale purple t-shirt and cotton shorts dotted with a pattern I have to squint at for a moment before I realize what I'm seeing.

"Are those…pickles?"

She drops her gaze to where I'm pointing at her shirt and then blushes so hard I can see a trace of pink on her cheeks even in the dim lighting.

"Oh, um, yeah."

I prop my elbow on top of the island and rest my chin in my hand. "Interesting choice."

"I like pickles," she blurts.

I snort again. Her cheeks flush even darker as I let out a suggestive-sounding, " Ohhhh ."

"Not like that ," she squeaks, avoiding my eyes. "Definitely not like that. I'm a lesbian."

I blink. That was way more information than I was expecting.

For some reason, hearing her say that makes my heart pound a little louder in my ears. I've known I'm bisexual for a couple years now, but there weren't a lot of queer women to hang out with at my high school or among Nick's circle of friends. I don't think I've ever heard anyone say ‘I'm a lesbian' in real life.

"I mean, I—I don't know why I just said that," she stammers, staring down at the floor tiles like she wants to singe an escape hatch into them with her eyes. "I mean, I am a lesbian, but it's not like you needed to know that. I mean, it's fine that you know that. Most people who know me know that. Not that you know me. I'm babbling. I should stop. I—"

"Hey."

Her sentences are starting to run together so fast she sounds like a glitching android about to combust. I push off the island and walk over until I'm standing right in front of her.

Her jaw clamps shut. She's breathing hard enough that her nostrils flare, her chest heaving under her pickle shirt.

It is pretty cute that she has a pickle shirt.

"May I?" I ask, pointing at the ‘blunt objects' in her hands.

She holds them out to me without saying a word, those big eyes of hers flaring wider, and I set them down on the nearest counter. I come back over and stick out my hand.

"How about a proper introduction? I'm Andrea King."

For a moment, I think all she's going to do is keep staring. Then her hand wraps around mine, her grip limp and tentative for a second before tightening into a surprisingly firm handshake.

"Your hand is cold," she murmurs.

I glance down at where our palms are pressed together, her skin warm against mine.

"From being held hostage in the fridge," I answer, my voice lower now too.

She winces. "I am so sorry. I—"

"Make it up to me," I interrupt. "Tell me your name."

"Right, right. Yeah." Her eyes lock with mine, and we're close enough now that I can tell her irises are the same deep blue as a swimming pool on a hot summer day. "It's Naomi. Naomi Waters."