The Unexpected Everything (26 page)

“Oh,” Clark said, and he sounded much more awake now. “Are you now? On, I mean?”

“No,” I said quickly, now feeling more awake myself. “Are you? On . . . with anyone?”

“No,” Clark said just as quickly, and I felt myself let out a breath. “I was . . . My last girlfriend and I broke up at the end of the semester.”

“Semester?”

“Yeah. She was a freshman at Colorado College, and I was living in Colorado Springs, so we started dating. But when school ended for the year, she said she wanted to explore life's possibilities. That's a direct quote, by the way.”

I made a face, and Clark laughed. “But I thought you said you lived way out in the woods. Near Wisconsin?”

“Wyoming.”

“Right.”

“That's where my parents live,” Clark said. “It . . . I moved out last year and got my own place. It just seemed easier.”

I nodded, even though I had a feeling there was a lot to this story that I wasn't getting. I was about to remark about how strange it was that he lived on his own, when I realized that was what he was doing now. And if he'd followed the usual path, he'd be going to college. So maybe it wasn't that weird. But even so, I could feel a slight envious twinge in my stomach, thinking about this college freshman girl who had been Clark's girlfriend, whoever and wherever she was. “And now you're here.” I yawned hugely again.

“That I am.”

I looked over at him in the moonlight. This should have been strange—sleeping next to a cute guy, with a large dog snoring between us—but for some reason, it really wasn't. Maybe because we were both pretending we weren't really going to sleep. Or maybe I was too tired to feel awkward and had used my embarrassment quotient up with the dog vomit.

“Get some sleep,” Clark said, even though he sounded like he was going to drop off at any moment. “I'll stay up and watch Bert.”

“No, I can,” I said, but even I could hear how unconvincing this was, as my eyelids started to close.

“I've got this,” he said. The quiet of the night took over the room, punctuated only by Bertie's breathing and the occasional snore. “Night, Andie.”

I opened my eyes and looked over at him to see that he was sitting up like he'd said he would be, watching Bert, albeit while covering his mouth as he yawned. “Hey,” I said, and he looked over at me, his expression open, absolutely nothing hiding
behind it. He'd looked that way at the restaurant, too, I realized now. I just hadn't let myself see it.

“Hey,” he said, a question in his voice.

“I just . . . ,” I started. “You asked me before about my mom.” Clark nodded, but I could feel how still he'd gotten otherwise, like he wasn't going to do or say anything to stop me. I took a big, shaky breath and made myself go on. “She died of ovarian cancer five years ago. They thought they got it in time. But they didn't.” The words hung between us for a moment, and there were tears somewhere behind my eyes, and I knew when I closed them again, they would slip out, that I would be too tired to fight to keep them back.

“Thank you for telling me,” Clark said, his voice quiet. Silence fell again, and I was about to let my eyes close, sleep a bit, when he spoke again. “I . . . I actually am not just tinkering with my book,” he said slowly, and I could hear the hesitation in his voice—like maybe he hadn't told all that many people this. He took a breath and let it out. “I can't write anymore. I haven't written a single word in the last three years.”

“I'm sorry,” I said softly, and Clark nodded. A comfortable silence fell between us—like this was just the beginning. Like we'd have a lot more time to talk about this. And with that thought running through my mind, I turned onto my side and let my eyes drift closed.

•  •  •

I jolted awake, looking around the room, momentarily baffled as to where I was. There was faint, early-morning sunlight streaming through the window. After a few seconds I remembered where I was—in the laundry room at Clark's house. I picked up
my phone to see the time, but when the screen remained black, I realized it must have died at some point during the night. It took a moment for me to notice that I was alone—both Clark and the dog were gone.

I scrambled to my feet, my heart racing. If something had happened to Bertie, Clark would have woken me up. I was pretty sure of that. But that didn't stop me from running toward the kitchen, nearly tripping on the bottom of the sweatpants, which were a few inches longer than I was used to. “Clark?” I called, trying to tell myself not to panic, that things were fine.

I skidded into the kitchen to see Clark leaning against the counter, a small smile on his face, his hair sticking up in the back. “Hey,” I said, and Clark nodded toward the corner of the room.

I turned and saw Bertie—standing up, eating from his food dish. Not with the same gusto that he normally did, but it was clear that at some point during the night he'd gotten through the worst of this. I let out a long breath, one I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

It didn't take long after that for me to gather my things and head out. I knew I could have stayed, but I somehow didn't want to push the moment we'd had together. I wanted to go home and think about the night and try to understand it—which was made more difficult because I hadn't had a night like that before, ever.

“So you'll be okay, right?” I asked ten minutes later, as Clark walked me out to my car. I was still wearing his T-shirt and sweatpants and carrying the bag with my dress in it. I knew I was going to have to face it at some point, but I didn't feel up to it quite yet.

Clark nodded. “I got a text from Maya last night. She's going to come by this afternoon and check on Bert.”

“Oh, good,” I said as I made my way across the driveway barefoot. I was holding my shoes, because even though I knew it didn't matter, I also knew how terrible sweatpants and dressy sandals would look together. “I'm so glad he's out of the woods.”

We stopped in front of my car. Only now, in the morning light, did I see how haphazard my parking job had been—my car was practically at a right angle to the house.

I opened the driver's-side door and tossed in my purse and the bag with my dress in it, then turned back to him. “Well,” I said, then stopped when I realized I didn't have anything to follow this. Clark looked at me, and I looked back at him, suddenly not sure what happened from here.

“Thanks so much for coming over.” Clark took a small step closer to me. “I really don't know what I would have done without you.”

“I was glad to help.” I wasn't even really aware of what I was saying, as I was focused on Clark and the distance between us, which seemed to be incrementally closing.

He reached toward me, brushing my hair back from my forehead gently, letting his touch linger on my cheek for a second. “So,” he said, and I held my breath, feeling my heart pound in my chest. “Do you think you might want to, I don't know . . . try the dinner thing again?”

I felt myself smile, big and dorky and taking over my face. “Yes,” I said without hesitating. There didn't seem to be any point in pretending I had plans or telling him I'd have to get back to him.

Clark smiled back at me. “Pick you up at seven?”

I nodded. “Sounds good.” We looked at each other for a moment, and it was like the very air between us changed. I suddenly remembered all the things we'd talked about, everything I'd told him when my walls were down. As I looked across at Clark in the morning light, I realized I knew him. Not everything, and not perfectly, but I knew who he was. And I'd let him see me.

A part of me was yelling that this wasn't good, that I'd broken all my rules, that I should pull back, circle the wagons, stop this before it went any further. But before I could sort through this or say anything, Clark took a step back toward the house. “I should go check on Bert,” he said. “But I'll see you tonight?”

“See you,” I said, nodding. And then, even though I knew it was ridiculous, I waited to make sure he got back inside before getting in my car and heading for home.

I didn't linger once I made it back, just headed straight up to bed, feeling the fatigue set in with every step I took upstairs. I plugged in my phone and didn't even change out of the T-shirt and sweatpants, just crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head to block out the sunlight, hearing the
beep
that told me my phone had powered back on before I fell into a dreamless sleep.

•  •  •

When I opened my eyes again, the sun was bright and filling my room, and I squinted against it, raising my hand, wishing I'd thought to close the blinds before I went to sleep. I looked at the digital clock on my bedside table and saw that it was noon—I'd slept for hours.

I pushed the covers off me—it was
hot
in my room—and swung my legs down to the ground. I stretched my arms over my head as I grabbed my phone from the charger. I needed a glass of water, and then maybe I'd see what my friends were up to. And I had another date tonight. The thought of it made me smile as I took the steps down to the kitchen two at a time. I didn't know if I could get them all on board for wardrobe prep again, but I also wasn't really sure that I needed it. When someone has seen you wearing their clothes, not to mention first thing in the morning, I was pretty sure you no longer had to try to impress them as much with your sartorial choices.

I had just walked into the kitchen, punching in the unlock code on my phone, when I stopped short. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, his arms folded across his chest. And he looked angrier than I'd ever seen him look before.

“Where the hell,” he asked, his voice low and furious, “have you
been
?”

I blinked at him. “What—what do you mean?” I asked. “I texted you that I had a work emergency—” But my dad was already pushing himself back up from the table, his voice rising.

“I have been waiting all night for you to come home, young lady,” he said, pointing angrily at the clock across the kitchen. “And you stroll on in here at seven a.m. without so much as a word?” I hadn't ever heard my dad's voice like this, ever. This wasn't the controlled anger at his debates and press conferences, when he needed to be upset about an issue only to be able to pivot and speak rationally a moment later. This was real.

“I sent you a text,” I said, even as my heart was pounding hard, feeling the anxious, jittery feeling coursing through me that had always meant
you're in trouble
. I suddenly felt eight years old again, approaching the table where both my parents sat looking down at me, furious, my report card in front of them.

I pulled out my phone, and only then did I see I had eight missed calls from my dad and four voice mails. There were also about twelve texts from him, starting friendly and concerned, then getting worried, then angry. I scrolled up past these, to
the text I'd sent him, ready to show him proof that I'd covered my bases, been responsible. But my stomach plunged as I looked at the screen. There was the text I'd composed—but never sent. I closed my eyes for a second, remembering. I'd written it, but then Bri had texted, and I'd gotten distracted. I'd assumed, this whole time, that it had gone through and that everything here was fine.

“Oh,” I said, my voice small. “So . . . here's the thing.” I looked up at him, and when I saw how mad he still was, looked back down at my phone. “I wrote a text to you. But it never got sent. But you can see it. Look . . .” I held out my phone to him, but he barely glanced at it. “I'm really sorry,” I said, hoping we could move past this. I knew he must have been worried, but it was an honest mistake.

“You think that's an excuse?” he asked, shaking his head. “You think you can come home whenever you want?”

I felt myself frown as I looked up at him. I was sorry that he'd been worried. I'd apologized. It was a mistake. So what was he doing still yelling at me about it? “Look, I said I was sorry. Can we drop it now, please?”

“Drop it?” my dad asked, his face turning steadily redder. “No, Alexandra, we're not going to
drop it
.”

Maybe it was the use of my full name—or the way he was suddenly pretending like he was a regular dad, one who'd earned the right to yell at me about curfews, but whatever it was, I didn't think I could stand there and listen to it any longer. Because the fact was, I was usually coming in around now, after spending the night at a party or at one of my friends' houses.
But he didn't know any of that, because he hadn't been here to see it. I started to take a breath and tell him this, but even thinking about it was like getting close to a powder keg. There was so much in there, that I knew if I said anything else, I would explode. “I don't have to take this,” I said, shaking my head. I needed to leave, get out of there, try and get my heart rate somewhat back to normal. I was on the verge of saying things I couldn't take back, and I needed to leave before I did. I grabbed my bag and keys from where I'd dropped them on the counter and headed for the side door.

“Where are you going?” my dad asked, sounding more confused now than angry, like I'd done something that had deviated from whatever script he'd been following. I didn't answer, just yanked the door open with hands that were shaking and stepped outside into the bright sunlight. My sunglasses were back on the kitchen counter, but I didn't think it would be advisable to go back and grab them. “Andie,” my dad called after me, and I could hear he was back to being mad again—madder than he'd been when I'd come downstairs. “Come back here. I'm your father.”

My lip started to quiver, and I bit it hard as I half ran to my car, trying to keep myself from crying, or yelling, or doing some combination of the two. But mostly I wanted to stop myself from screaming back at him what was reverberating inside my head.
No, you're not. Not for years and years now.
I didn't let myself look back as I started the car, put it in drive, and peeled out faster than I should have. I didn't even signal, just pulled out onto the road, hands gripping the steering wheel, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I'd just made things much, much worse.