Chapter 18
Nolan
No chemistry.
Those words have haunted me since we got back to Ottawa. I’ve never thought of myself as having a fragile ego, but damn. That stung.
Sure, our first kiss years ago wasn’t the smoothest. But that second one in Squamish was light-years better, on my end at least. I don’t know if it was her swollen lips, or the little breathy noise she made when I pulled her flush to me, or the way she tasted, sweet like the lemon tea she was drinking earlier.
In any case, it’s a good thing our bosses were there, because I’d have been tempted to keep it going as long as she’d let me.
Regardless, whatever I think about our chemistry (or alleged lack thereof) means nothing, because Andi thought it was shit and I just have to fucking deal.
It reminds me of when I was in fifth grade.
I had an embarrassingly pathetic crush on this girl at school, Jolene Smith.
Like every grade school boy does when they like someone, I chased her around the playground, teased her, did anything I could to get her attention without actually being nice, to no avail.
At the encouragement of Em on Valentine’s Day, I gave her a handwritten card asking her to be my valentine. She handed it back immediately.
“I already have a valentine,” she told me in an ultraserious tone.
“Joe Jonas.” Joe fucking Jonas from the Jonas Brothers.
Her celebrity crush. It was traumatizing, to say the least. I spent the whole weekend sulking on my grandma’s couch, playing video games and speaking to no one.
And I’ve hated Joe and his thick, sweeping bangs ever since.
This feels ten times worse. I’ve been moping around over Andi and our no chemistry since I got home last night, which is just sad.
Being around Andi is effortless. I don’t feel like I have to put on a show, or worry she’ll take my dry humor the wrong way.
Sure, she’s shy, a little reserved, but I appreciate it, because she doesn’t talk for the sake of talking.
She speaks with intention, not just to fill the dead air.
Contrary to my first impression of her, she doesn’t take herself too seriously, at least not with me.
In Squamish, she let her hair down, let her goofy side come out.
And fuck. That smile. Not the fake, tight-lipped one when she’s trying to appease someone.
The genuine one that unfurls slowly when something amuses her, or when she’s talking about her writing.
It’s the way it spills across her whole face.
The way her eyes crinkle a little in the corners.
The way it reaches her eyes, illuminating them like little goblets of sunshine in a way that makes my resting pulse go haywire.
God. I really need to get a grip. I already have my hands full with Mom, making sure she has everything she needs until September. I don’t need more complications in my life. And the last thing I want to do is start something I can’t finish.
Speaking of Mom, the distinct smell of grease wafts through the crack under my bedroom door. It smells like…bacon? I toss on a T-shirt and jeans and pad into the kitchen to make sure everything is okay.
Sure enough, Mom is at the stove flipping sizzling bacon strips in a skillet, while stirring eggs in another and singing a Madonna song.
Alarm is my first instinct. Mom shouldn’t be making food over a hot stove, especially not food with boiling grease.
Theresa and Em hid most of the unsafe cooking ingredients and tools out of reach in the upper cabinets, all of which are open.
I make a mental note to add childproof locks.
I go to clear my throat and ask how she got up there, but the moment my toe passes over the ceramic tile, she turns and offers a coy smile, like she senses my presence. “I knew you couldn’t pass up bacon.”
She’s right. Emma and I always begged for bacon like we saw families eat on TV. One night for dinner, when Mom was feeling particularly good, she fried up some bacon and potatoes. We talked about it for months, hoping she’d surprise us with them again. She never did.
This is my time to say something, to remind her how dangerous it is to cook something like this, but one look at her face and I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I park myself at the table, entirely dumbfounded.
She’s practically vibrating with excitement when she serves me my plate.
I can’t help but wonder whether she remembers that one dinner or if whether she just made bacon because it’s a normal breakfast food.
Either way, she seems to be having a good morning.
She’s even dressed in a pair of pleather leggings and a faded leopard print T-shirt, a relic of the past.
“Wow. Thanks, Mom,” I say, a little taken aback. Last night when I got back from Squamish, she was confused, thinking I was back from tour. In fact, she was mad at me for coming home “without prior notice.” “How’d you get into the cupboards up there anyways?” I ask.
“The chair. Not sure why you keep insisting on rearranging my stuff. But it was driving me crazy, having all my things out of place.”
“Remember, if you want anything, all you have to do is ask me or Theresa.”
I expect this to start an argument, but she just nods like a child, purses her lips, and watches me with interest as I clear my plate. “So I’ve been wondering.”
Oh no. Do I even want to know? Probably not.
She catches the alarm in my expression, but presses on. “Whether you’d thought about settling down before you go off gallivanting around the world again.”
“No,” I say through a mouthful.
She remains unconvinced. “You don’t want to give yourself some time to find a nice hometown girl?
There’s a woman in my book club. I think her name is Sari, or Sarah.
Anyway, the important thing is she has a daughter.
” She takes a couple moments to debate whether Sari or Sarah’s daughter is thirty-five or forty-five, but I gather she’s single and works as a preschool teacher, which Mom points out means she’s good with children.
“I told her about you and how you’re newly single and lonely—”
Despite all she’s going through, obsessing over my dating life is something that’s remained pretty constant in her mind. “Mom, I appreciate your concern for my relationship status, but I’m good. And I’m not lonely, for the record.”
She brushes my words away with her fork, the sunlight from the kitchen window drenching half her face. “You are lonely. All alone in the world.” Jesus. She needs to work on her delivery.
“Ouch, Mom. That’s harsh.”
“Life is harsh, honey. You know, the doctor told me Alzheimer’s is genetic. Do you really want to die alone with no one around? No wife or children?”
What’s the point in having a wife and children if I’m barely going to be in their lives like she was? I’m tempted to ask that, but I refrain. “Well, no—”
“You must miss the intimacy.”
“Mom!” A violent shudder snakes down my spine, taking me out emotionally and physically. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the death of Nolan Crosby.
She doesn’t register the abject horror on my face. Either that, or she doesn’t care. It’s probably the latter. “I know you don’t feel comfortable bringing women back here, but our bedrooms are on opposite ends of the house—”
“Can we please stop talking about this?” I beg, pushing my plate forward to shield my head in my hands.
She leans forward and peels one of my hands away to maintain direct eye contact.
“Sweetheart, there’s no shame in getting help to find the right person.
Someone you want to settle down with.” The very thought of “settling down” makes me itchy.
I’ve never been settled anywhere in my entire life.
I don’t even know what that would feel like.
“Well, actually, I met someone.” It seemed like a good idea to say it, for a fraction of a second. Just a white lie to get her off my back. But when she shifts forward, her eyes round and big like saucers, the regret crashes through me like a car accident.
“You met someone?” she practically yells.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her so excited on my account.
There were plenty of times she’d get riled up when she’d get a date, or when she’d get a lead to perform at some random bar.
But never did she express that sort of excitement when it came to me and Em.
Until now, I didn’t know she was truly capable of caring about anyone but herself.
I shift uncomfortably, grateful she’s moved on from talking about intimacy. “Yup.”
“Who is she? When do I get to meet her?”
I back away a little. “Soon. It’s, um, new.” Why do words keep coming out of my mouth?
“New? How new?”
“Like…a week ago? But if it gets serious, I will absolutely introduce you.”
“What’s her name?” she asks, not missing a beat.
“Um, Andi,” I say through a glug of tea, wishing I could swallow my lie down with it.
“Andi,” she repeats with emphasis on both syllables. “Interesting. Short for Andrea?”
I have no idea, but I assume so. So I just nod.
“Classic and timeless,” she says in a singsong voice. “Sounds like a girl with a good head on her shoulders.” And it occurs to me now that when I was a kid, she used to comment on names, give her honest first impression. That’s where I must have picked up the habit.
The next few minutes are filled mostly with her firing off questions. Where is she from? What’s she like? Pretty much everything short of What’s her blood type and medical history?, though I wouldn’t put it past her if I sat here long enough.
“You know, my birthday is next week. January twentieth,” she says.
“Uh—” I’m about to remind her that her birthday is in August, not January, but then I remember what all the Alzheimer’s experts say. When someone mistakes facts, it’s best not to confuse them more, especially if it’s inconsequential. “I’ll have to see. She’s really busy with work and—”
“I want this birthday to be special. You’ll bring Andi,” she insists, standing to take my plate.
My first instinct is to be annoyed by it all, but I also see how giddy and energetic she is over the prospect. Despite myself, it feels good to see her in good spirits, even if it’ll be short-lived. And even better that I’ve had a part in it.