Chapter 16
Nolan
Mom has been texting me nonstop since I left. Mostly, she has questions about where I left certain things, like her slippers. Otherwise, it’s pictures of flowers in the garden, her tea, her and Theresa on a walk, a squirrel in the yard. She also uses excessive emojis, which drives me nuts.
As a kid, I would have died for her attention. Any measly scrap of attention. Emma and I lived for those rare five-minute phone conversations. When all you know are weeks, sometimes months, of silence for most of your life, the sudden bombardment of messages feels like overkill.
It sounds terrible, but every time Mom’s name appears on my phone, I’m overcome with anxiety. I never know if it’s bad news or not, just like I never knew whether she was calling to tell Emma and me she’d be back in a few days, or she didn’t know how long she’d be gone. Usually it was the latter.
I still remember her cheerful voice telling us, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” like that could ever resonate with a ten-year-old.
Mom likes to refer to those years as her “struggling musician” days, not bothering to acknowledge the months, even years, at a time when she’d leave Emma and me to be shuffled from family member to family member or family friend.
She was always off with random boyfriends who she thought would help her “make it” in the music industry so she wouldn’t have to keep singing shitty ’80s covers in grimy bars.
And every time she’d turn back up (out of the blue), we’d be living somewhere new.
I can’t actually remember more than six consecutive months that she’d stuck around after I was five years old.
I react to her photos with a casual thumbs-up, admittedly grateful she’s getting exercise and spending time in nature.
It was the number one recommendation from the doctors to keep her physically and mentally active.
Then, I toss my phone onto the desk chair and stare up at the popcorn ceiling, trying to cleanse my mind.
“Are you okay in there?” I call toward the bathroom door. Andi has been in there for nearly half an hour since we got back from the restaurant. And while I know from growing up with Em that a skin care routine can take time, this seems a little excessive.
“Uh, yeah. All good,” she croaks from behind the door. She doesn’t sound great. Maybe she’s a little lightheaded from the elevation. Or worse, uncomfortable with me.
“You sure? Look, if you don’t want to share a room, I can head down to the lobby right now and book a separate room on my own card. Gretchen won’t have to know.”
A pause. “No. It’s not that. I promise.”
“Okay. Then what is it?”
“I didn’t realize we’d be sharing a room, obviously. So I only packed one pair of pajamas.”
“Well, at least you packed some. All I have is boxers,” I offer as a consolation.
Another pause. “Okay, but the pajamas I brought are hideous.”
“Andi, I’m not going to judge you on your pajamas. And I bet you they aren’t even ugly.”
“They are.”
“Well, I don’t care if they are. It’s not like you need to impress me,” I remind her. It feels weird to say that, but it’s true. The woman would look good in a brown paper bag. I consider saying that, but it feels like an overstep for our very, very new friendship.
Her sigh is audible from behind the door. “Can you turn the lights out and close your eyes?”
“Fine.” I sit up and turn the lamp off. “Lights are off. Eyes are closed. It’s safe to come out.”
A couple seconds pass before she opens the door.
I can hear her footsteps shuffling to the bed, and I crack my eyes open, just a little, catching a blur of red before she dive-bombs under the covers.
Her pajamas aren’t nearly as bad as she claims. They’re an old, oversized T-shirt with a logo I couldn’t make out, with an old pair of sweatshorts.
She looks like the Michelin Man, wrapped in that puffy white duvet.
It’s pretty adorable, actually. “They aren’t ugly, by the way. ”
She gasps and tosses a pillow down at me. “You were supposed to close your eyes!”
“I know. I’m sorry. You made such a big deal about them being hideous, I had to see for myself.”
“What if I’d been entirely naked?”
“I’ve basically already seen you naked, so…” I say honestly. The words hang between us in a thick, lingering silence. Shit. She isn’t responding. Not that I blame her. I promised I wouldn’t bring up that night. Why am I the way I am? The panic sets in and I scramble to fix it.
“Not that it really counts. I don’t remember it—you.
Your body. Naked.” I press my pillow to my face to stop more words from coming out of my mouth.
It’s a total lie, of course. I’ve thought about her so much over the years, the image of her in front of me, topless on the dresser, is permanently tattooed onto my brain, stored with my oldest formative memories.
I’ve never wanted to punch myself in the face more.
“Right,” she says, tone laced with what sounds like relief. “It was a long time ago.”
It’s quiet again for a few beats, and I lie there, staring into the dark, debating whether to just flop onto my other side and go to sleep.
We both have a packed day ahead of us. But after so many years of wishing for one more moment with this woman, just to talk, it feels ridiculous not to take advantage of any time I get with her. There’s so much more I want to know.
“Hey, so I was thinking, if we’re going to be a believable couple, we should know some basics about each other. In case people ask questions,” I add pathetically.
“Good thinking.”
“Ask me anything. Question for question?”
We go back and forth, getting the basics out of the way, like our ages (she’s twenty-eight, I’m thirty-one), coffee orders (black for me, vanilla latte for her).
She’s from Toronto (though her mom now lives in Oakville), while I’m from all over the general Ottawa area.
She loves it here, whereas I’ve been desperate to leave since I was a kid.
“Favorite music?” she asks.
“I’ll listen to anything, except country,” I note.
“Do you like Nickelback?”
“It disturbs me that the lead singer is named Chad, but yes, I’m a fan,” I reply without hesitation.
Her eyes cut to me. “Shut up.”
I shoot upward from my makeshift bed. “Do not tell me you’re a hater.”
“They’re just not my thing.”
“I bet you know all their songs,” I wager.
“I do know that one…Never made it as a wise man,” she sings, entirely off-key, before snickering to herself.
I smack the edge of the mattress, vindicated. “See? Admit it. ‘How You Remind Me’ is a banger.”
“Okay. Fine. It’s a banger. But don’t tell anyone I said that.” The mattress shakes above with her giggle and it’s fucking adorable.
“Wouldn’t dream of damaging that hard street cred of yours,” I assure. “Favorite candy?”
“Oh, definitely licorice allsorts,” she says with far too much enthusiasm.
I let out a rather violent cough. “Wait, what? Those old people candies?”
“Excuse you! They’re amazing, colorful, and cute. You never know what you’re getting with each handful.”
“Either death, depression, or decay, but with sprinkles. Do you wash them down with a glass of prune juice?”
Her gaze rivets down to me as she tosses her hair to one side, exposing her bare neck. “Wow, Nolan Crosby. You are a savage.”
“Sorry, this has me questioning who you are, what you stand for, and what I got myself into.”
That teases a snort out of her. “Well, now is your opportunity to find out more. Ask me anything.”
“What do you do for fun?” I ask.
“Work,” she says, which sounds familiar. “When I’m not at work, I’m at home recovering with snacks and a blanket.”
“No hobbies?”
“Well, I used to write as my hobby. And after Ted took Lars back, I did some volunteering at a farm outside the city that takes in rescue dogs that are at risk of being euthanized at the shelter—dogs like Lars. They’ve got a bunch of other animals, too, like goats and pigs.
But I haven’t been back in a month or so. Things have gotten really busy.”
Picturing her swarmed by a cluster of needy rescue animals tugs at my heart more than it should. Maybe even more so than my memory of her feeding Lars cheese slices in her living room. “Rescue dogs? That sounds like a lot of fun. What did you do there?”
“Mostly just walk them, pet them, play with them. It was pretty relaxed.”
The thought of going there makes me smile. I could use some time with dogs. “Maybe we can go sometime.”
“Sure. I’d like that.”
I turn to face Andi on her bed. “Why do you work so much? Passion?”
“Passion originally. That’s why I got into politics.
I studied political science in school. When I was in my master’s program, Eric came to speak at my school when he was first elected as the leader of the DPP.
He talked about the importance of voting and all that stuff people roll their eyes about.
The world had kind of gone to shit; at least that’s how it felt.
And the way he spoke about unity and fighting for what’s right for the average person, I don’t know what it was, but he wasn’t like all the other politicians talking out of their ass just to get some votes.
He was genuine. Someone who really believed in helping people, especially marginalized people.
I wanted to be part of that. Part of change, all that idealistic stuff you think you can do when you’re twenty years old,” she explains, her hopeful tone transitioning to jaded toward the end.
“I don’t think it’s idealistic. Eric has made a massive impact. You can see it by how popular he is.”
“True. Anyway, my goal was to be on the communications team doing things like messaging, drafting talking points, writing speeches and press releases. But when that didn’t work out, I took the job with Gretchen.
When you met me, I’d just started a week or so before.
Things hadn’t gotten crazy yet, so I was still really into writing. ”
“You’re not writing anymore?” I ask.