Chapter 20
Nolan
“It’s the mozza sticks from Roger’s Diner! These are my favorite.” Andi’s eyes are so wide, you’d think she was staring at a pot of glittering gold, not a greasy container of deep-fried cheese sticks.
We’re outside at a picnic table on the stone patio area, off the staff’s entrance.
According to Andi, this is the perfect place to go to be “seen.” She’s not wrong.
It’s sunny out, so some of the other staff are soaking up the weather, loitering in the back chatting, eating their lunch, and doing a terrible job of pretending to mind their own business.
The whispers are more distracting than I’d like to admit.
“I know. You said they were your writing fuel…that night.” I whisper the “writing” part, pushing the box across the table, trying to hide my nerves. This all feels a little grimy, like I’m trying to bribe her with food or something.
She pops a cheese stick in her mouth nearly whole, only to regret it instantly, cover her mouth, and blow the piping hot air from her cheeks.
If she were a cartoon, lines of steam would be floating around her.
I hand her a bottle of water, which she gratefully takes.
“We need a code word. For writing,” she whispers back, eyeing the rest of the staff, who are hovering a little too close for comfort.
“What about…karate?”
This makes her crack a smile and nod. She watches in amazement as I pull out two burgers, one plain with multiple toppings in individual containers to the side. “I didn’t know what toppings you liked, so I got them all just in case.”
“Oh, I like them all,” she assures me, piling them on top of her patty and bun. “Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast this morning.”
“No judgment here,” I assure her. “So you mentioned you were going to do some karate on your days off?”
She nods, her eyes lighting up at the mere mention. “Sure did. Made a lot of progress. My moves are still pretty rusty, though.”
“I’d guess karate is something you have to practice, or you’ll lose the muscle memory.”
“Totally. And the last time I did karate, I was doing it for me and my small number of…students,” she says, using “students” as a stand-in for “readers.” “Suddenly, I’m a black belt. I have thousands and thousands of students. My classes are sold out everywhere.”
I’m tempted to stand and hug her, but her enthusiasm doesn’t match. She looks entirely guilt ridden. “That’s fucking amazing, Andi.”
“I always dreamed of this happening. But now that it has, it feels a bit…wrong. Like a fluke I didn’t deserve. People aren’t taking my classes because they like them and think I’m talented. They’re there for the gossip.”
“Most people aren’t going to dedicate almost six hours of their life doing karate if they aren’t enjoying it. It doesn’t matter how they found your class. It’s that they like it and keep coming back for more, even if they don’t want to admit it.”
“Even if my classes are good, what if my next class doesn’t live up to expectations? What if people think I’m a one-hit wonder?”
“They won’t,” I say confidently. “You have a lot of…enthusiastic students in my mom’s…
karate club. And they think it’s badass.
They’re even taking more of your classes.
” It’s true. The other day, Mom mentioned how excited the ladies were about the book and how some of them had ordered the other two A. A. Zed books.
“Really? They like them?” she asks, hopeful.
“Yes, really. They’d be devastated if you didn’t keep doing karate. And so would I.”
She considers this. “Hopefully I’ll be able to finish this one in the next few months. My goal is by end of fall, though it’ll have to be piecemeal. I don’t get a lot of time off.”
“You don’t get time off, or you don’t ask for it?”
“Both,” she admits, finishing her burger.
“I’ve only asked for a few days off here and there.
I think that’s why Gretchen likes me. Because I basically dedicate myself to her.
I know that probably sounds sad, but I don’t know any different.
I’ve worked since I was fourteen. Between juggling school and a part-time job, I’ve never really had a lot of free time. ”
I relate to that. Sacrificing your life for work. “What was your first job?”
“Unofficially, I babysat and stocked shelves at a corner store down the street. When I was legally old enough for a job, I worked at Tim Hortons pretty much every night and weekend after school,” she recounts.
I lift a hand in a high five. “Hey, Tim Hortons was my first job, too, aside from cutting lawns and shoveling driveways. Hated it. I had this boss who insisted on being called Rage.”
She snorts. “Rage?”
“His real name was Kevin, but he’d get pissed if you called him that. He’d spend the whole shift double-fisting Timbits and throwing them at us if we weren’t working hard enough. Eventually he got fired for refusing to wear a hairnet. And his hair was shoulder-length.”
“Ew. Good to know we both paid our dues.”
“Why did you work so much as a kid?” I ask.
“We went through some hard times, and I never wanted to end up in a similar situation. It was important to me to make my own money.”
My brow flicks up. “Hard times?”
Her expression clouds. “My dad lost his job when I was around eight after hurting his back. One thing led to another and we ended up getting evicted from our house. We actually lived in our car for a couple weeks before my parents could get into social housing.”
I work down a swallow, imagining how hard that must have been. “Shit, Andi. I’m so sorry. That’s really rough.”
“Honestly, at the time, Amanda and I had no idea what was really going on. We were so young. My mom told us we were going on a camping adventure, and we thought it was fun, living in our car. We had school during the day and my parents would take us to the rec center to shower in the evenings. Amanda and I were just excited we could swim in the huge pool.”
I think back to the night we met, how she bought food for Ted and took care of his dog like it was nothing. I knew that kind of generosity stemmed from somewhere meaningful. “When did you finally realize the truth?”
“A few years later, I overheard my mom bring it up to my dad. They were fighting all the time pre-divorce, and my mom had a lot of resentment toward him over our finances and his health issues. She actually comes from a really rich family, who disowned her when she married my dad. He didn’t have money or a stable job.
He was a bit of a free spirit, kind of like my sister.
Stability wasn’t exactly his main priority,” she explains.
“Damn. Must have put a lot of strain on the relationship.”
“Yup. She got sick of it all and left him and went back to her family, who introduced her to my stepdad, Dave. When we were in high school, she married him. He’s…
the complete opposite of my dad. Stable, works in finance, has his shit together.
The man even does his own taxes. Eats pizza with a knife and fork. ”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Is he okay?”
“That’s exactly what Amanda said. But he’s good for her, even if they don’t see each other often,” she says with a resigned shrug.
“They don’t?”
“He works a lot, travels. He’s barely home, based on what she tells me. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?”
I tilt my head. “Depends on who you ask.”
Half our lunch hour passes by in a blink by the time we update each other on the past few days since we got back to Ottawa.
We keep it casual, seeing as we’re still under the watchful eyes of the lingering staff members near the door.
With every minute that ticks by, I’m growing more and more aware that I’m deliberately wasting time—not that time feels wasted with her.
“Finally,” she groans, stretching her arms, eyeing the handful of staff as they head inside. We’re finally alone back here.
“Pretending to be my girlfriend is exhausting, huh?” I smile, piling the take-out containers.
“You’re not the problem. It’s being watched that weirds me out. It’s awkward.”
“Are people still being weird with you?” She mentioned in Squamish that the staff were either ignoring her entirely or being a little too friendly, trying to extract information.
“A little. There’s a lot of whispering going on. Though I suspect it’ll die down within a week,” she notes. “Anyway, thank you for bringing me lunch. I’m beyond full,” she says, stretching her arms over her head. “I think you might have to carry me back inside.”
“That’s too bad. We still have to eat this,” I say, taking a plastic container of cheesecake out of the brown bag.
Her eyes widen at the sight. “Hey! I thought I was the one who’s supposed to repay you with cheesecake.”
I fidget with the napkin in my lap, terrified to come out with it. “Well, speaking of. Before we head back inside, I actually did have one small—well, not really small—thing to ask. And please don’t laugh at me.”
She leans in, curious. “And you’re bribing me with cheesecake? And mozza sticks?”
“Yes.”
“Smart. I would do unspeakable things for cheese in any form.” She pops open the container, fork at the ready. When she moans, closing her eyes at the first bite, I smash my knee reflexively against the picnic table. Why am I so nervous?
“My mom,” I say, quickly rubbing my now sore knee. “She’s been on my ass about having a girlfriend.”
She raises a brow. “Really? Why?”
“Partially because she wants me out of her house. And mostly because she thinks I’m lonely. Apparently, I work too much and don’t prioritize my personal life,” I say honestly. “Which is ridiculous, because this gig is really tame compared to my last one.”
“Is that why you took this job? To be home more?” she asks gently through a bite.
In a manner of speaking, yes. But now feels like a bad time to get into the whole thing. Instead, I settle for, “Sort of. Until I get a new posting.”
“Right. A new posting.” I might be imagining it, but I think there’s a tinge of disappointment there. But before I can determine either way, she flourishes a hand in my direction. “Anyway, sorry, back to you. Your mom wants you to have a girlfriend.”
“Yeah. She’s been talking about setting me up with random women and I got frustrated and…well, I told her I had a girlfriend to get her off my back,” I say, horrified by hearing myself say it.
She lets out a low whistle, sitting back on the bench. “Wow, that’s quite the lie.”
“It just kind of came out,” I explain. “One minute, she was interrogating me. The next, I was telling her your name.”
“Let me guess, you need me to make an appearance or two so she knows I’m not a figment of your imagination?” she clarifies, pointing at me with her fork.
“She wants me to bring you to her birthday dinner next week—” I stall out, tempted to explain it isn’t actually her birthday without having to explain the whole diagnosis.
I’ll have to tell her before the dinner, but now doesn’t feel like the right time.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but do you think you could come? ”
“Of course,” she says easily, as though I’ve merely asked her to go for coffee. “Tell me about your mom. I want to be prepared.”
This should be an easy question, but it’s not. “Uh, my mom. She’s…” I stammer, unsure where to start. Because talking about her in any accurate light requires me to tell Andi everything. According to my watch, we have five minutes left of lunch, not all day.
She must sense my unease, because she follows it up with, “Are you close with her? You talk about her a lot, so I figured.”
Here’s where it gets dicey. Women like it when men are close to their moms (up until a certain point).
Penny straight up told me it was a “red flag” that my mom and I didn’t have much of a relationship.
And while I agree in theory that people should be close to their parents, usually that kind of sentiment is expressed only by people who were raised by good parents.
People who don’t know what it’s like to have their mom put herself, her boyfriends, and alcohol first, at the expense of them and their siblings.
“No,” I finally admit shamefully. I brace myself for a similar sentiment along the lines of family is everything, the usual BS I’ve heard over and over from girlfriends past. But Andi just dips her chin in solidarity.
“I’m sorry. I’m not close with my mom anymore, either. After my parents split, she kind of reshifted her focus to my stepdad and his family.” She chews at her bottom lip, avoiding eye contact as she says it. It feels like a heavy admission, something she hasn’t shared with many people.
I fight the temptation to reach out and touch her, comfort her. I remember that feeling, of wondering whether it’s your fault, if you were just not interesting enough, not good enough for them to want to be in your life. I fucking hate that anyone could make her feel like that.
“She’s missing out,” I tell her. And I mean that.
We both sit with that for a few moments, something flickering wordlessly between us.
“Either way, I’d be happy to come to your mom’s birthday dinner. Just tell me when and where,” she says after a while, flashing me a soft, reassuring smile, which lights me up from the inside out.
“Really?”
“Of course. What are fake girlfriends for?”