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Then I remember all the parts of me that would probably make her turn and run.

I drop my gaze to the deck boards.

“You’re not boring,” she repeats, “and I don’t think you should give up on that list. You were right; you’ll never get another summer like this, and who cares if all the regular teenage milestones seem stupid and cliché? This is your chance to make them your own, and I think you should take it.”

I curl my hands into fists in my lap and ask, “Why?”

She’s quiet for so long I start to think I’m not getting an answer, but just as I’m about to clear my throat and say I should go inside before I get a sunburn, she speaks up.

“Because I think the world needs more of you, Naomi Waters.”

My breath catches, and something in my chests spurts wings that stretch out wide to catch the morning air.

“And because I believe in the sanctity of a bucket list,” she adds as she uncrosses her legs and gets to her feet, “I’ve decided I’m going to stick around until you finish it. I think you three could use an accountability buddy.”

She walks over until she’s standing just a few feet in front of me and plants her hands on her hips. I try not to gulp as I look up at her.

“You’re staying?”

She nods, her eyes sparking like wildfire as she grins. “Toronto can wait. I think destiny called me here to help you get this list completed.”

I still feel like the smarter move here would be crumpling the list up and tossing it in the trash, but I don’t have any other reason to tell her to stay.

At least not any reasons I can say out loud.

“Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you with that.”

“I’d say I’m off to a promising start. Here.”

She grins again and shoves her hand out towards me, holding it in the air between us. I look between her face and her fingertips for so long she chuckles and makes a show out of rolling her eyes.

“Summer list item number five,” she says, reaching forward to tug my hand out of my lap and clasp it with hers. “Make a new friend. Nice to meet you, Naomi. I’m your new friend Andrea King.”

CHAPTER 8

Andrea

The city bus drops me off a few streets over from my dad’s place. I can feel the back of my shirt clinging to my skin by the time I’m punching the code into the house’s gate. I wipe the sweat beading on my forehead away with the back of one hand, the other clutching a small bag from the drugstore.

Nothing like a box of hair dye to celebrate a questionable life decision. It’s been three days since I told Naomi I’m sticking around, and I figured if I really am postponing my trip back to Toronto—and risking the wrath of my mother—I might as well seal the deal with a fresh coat of purple.

The air conditioning hits me like a chilly winter wind as I step inside. I kick my sandals off in the entryway and find Naomi sitting on one of the high stools lining the kitchen island, her laptop open in front of her and a wine glass filled with something fizzy resting on a coaster next to her elbow.

“Wow, is it happy hour already?” I joke, nodding at the glass. “Pretty sure last time I checked, it wasn’t even noon.”

Her cheeks flush pink.

“Oh, um, no, it’s not—I mean, I wouldn’t be drinking at eleven in the morning. I wouldn’t even be drinking at eleven at night. I mean, not unless Shal raided the wine cellar again, and not that she, like, actually raided it. Sandy and your dad said there were a few bottles we could try, and…well, yeah. It’s not alcohol.”

She drops her gaze back to her laptop screen before I have a chance to tell her it’s okay. Part of me wants to claim the stool beside her, sling an arm around her shoulders, and just give her a chance to breathe.

Kind of like I wish someone would do for me sometimes. I might not struggle to talk to people the way Naomi seems to, but I know what it’s like to have the pressure of how you’re supposed to act wrapped so tight around your chest it’s like your lungs are caving in.

Hence me continuing to squat in my dad’s house and dye my hair purple instead of facing that sense of suffocation during every second I spend with my mom.

“It’s, uh, sparkling grape juice,” Naomi says in a squeaky voice. “My mom always told me and my brother that juice tastes better in a fancy glass.”

I smile when her eyes flick up to look at me again, and her lips lift into a sheepish grin.