The Unexpected Everything (54 page)

“I . . .” My dad looked down at me for a moment. “I won't decide to run without talking to you first. Okay?”

I looked back to the bus, which was contradicting everything he was saying. “Right,” I said, nodding and looking away from him, my voice flat. There was no point in arguing if he was just going to leave anyway. “Sure.”

•  •  •

Ten minutes later I sat in my mother's Mustang as the bus made a painfully slow three-point (in this case, more like an eighteen-point) turn before heading back down the road. I realized as it departed that
TOWARD THE FUTURE
was printed on the back of the bus as well, and the very slogan seemed to mock me for ever doubting that this was the choice my dad would make.

I'd gotten into the passenger side out of habit—I'd been years away from driving the last time I was in this car. I shut the door behind me and looked around. I had hoped, in some absurd way, that it would still somehow feel like my mom. That even after five years in storage, her perfume would be lingering or there would be the feeling I always had in this car with my mother—that adventure was somehow just around the corner, that any minute now, exciting things were going to happen.

I sat there for just a moment, looking through the motes of dust in the shafts of sunlight to the empty seat where my mother should have been sitting, the view I'd always had. When that got to be too much, I slid over to the driver's side, pulling the seat forward and placing my hands on the steering wheel for the first time.

I flipped down the visor mirror, expecting the keys to drop down into my lap, because that's where they always seemed to be in the movies. But there was nothing there, and a quick glance around the car didn't show them to me either. I realized as I looked that I actually wasn't sure how the car had gotten here—if it had been driven or towed.

I opened the glove compartment and starting flipping through the papers—mostly what appeared to be sale and insurance documents—and found them toward the back, the car keys on the key chain that I'd gotten her for Mother's Day when I was nine, a bright-purple heart dangling from a chain. I smiled as I held it up now, the silver of the chain catching the light and reflecting it back at me. When I'd bought it from a mall kiosk eight years ago, I had been convinced that there had never been
anything so beautiful. Now, though, I could see just how tacky it was—and how wonderful my mother had been, to carry it around for years after that anyway, just because I had given it to her.

I started to put the papers back inside the glove compartment when I saw my name. I started flipping through them more slowly, and there, almost at the end of the stack, I saw it—a plain white square envelope with my name written across the front of it—in my mother's handwriting.

I just stared at it, holding it with both hands, not wanting to even breathe in case this somehow went away or disappeared. I looked at my name on the front of the envelope, in the handwriting I hadn't seen in so long—the looping
A
, the circle over the
i
. I turned the card over, and what I saw there made me let out a short laugh with a sob mixed into it. Across the back flap she'd drawn the Mustang with a horse in sunglasses sitting in the driver's seat, one elbow out the window.
Lots of horsepower!
she'd written below it, and I laughed, even though I could feel tears prickling the corners of my eyes. The drawing wasn't as sharp as the ones she usually did—the lines were a little unsure and wavy, and I knew just by looking at it that this was one of the ones she'd made toward the end, before even picking up a pencil hurt her hands too much, before she lost all the energy she'd once used for things like drawing mustangs in Mustangs.

I took a deep breath, then slid my hand under the flap and pulled out the note, which had been written on her stationery.
MOLLY WALKER
was printed across the top in raised letters, and I ran my finger over them once before I bit my lip and started to read.

Andie!

Hello, my love. Happy 18th birthday! I so wish that I could be there to celebrate with you.

I have loved this car, and I'm so happy it's yours now. I hope you'll use it for so much more than getting around. This car, like you, is made for extraordinary things.

So have adventures. Go exploring. Drive around at midnight. Feel the wind running through your hair.

Life is so short, my darling. And there's no day like today.

Drive safe. Have fun. I love you so much.

(But of course you knew that already.)

—Mom

PS—I know you already are, but take care of your dad for me. He needs help sometimes, even if he's bad at showing it.

I set the paper down in my lap and wiped under my eyes, not trying to get myself to stop crying, just trying to dry my face off a little. I looked down at the note, still a little unable to believe it had happened—that my mom had left something behind for me after all.

I read it through again, still crying, when one line jumped out at me—
no day like today
. And I knew, just like that, what I had to do.

I had to find Clark and tell him how I felt—how I
really
felt—and see if he might want to give it another chance. Even if he said no, at least I would have tried. At least I would have tried to be as honest as I could be. Because right now I was just running away when things got too real.

I carefully put her note back in its envelope, folded over the
flap, and placed it back in the glove compartment, closing it and then resting my hand there for a moment. Then I got out of the car and ran full speed into the house.

•  •  •

Fifteen minutes later I glanced at my reflection in my bedroom mirror and decided it was the best I could do under the circumstances. I hadn't wanted to take much time, but even I knew that when you are going to tell someone that you love them and want them back, it's probably best not to do it in the T-shirt you've slept in, especially if you've stolen it from them. I'd thrown on a skirt and a white T-shirt after rejecting almost everything else in my closet, since nothing seemed right for this—even though I had never done this before and had no idea what one actually wore for it. But I could feel my heart pounding as I ran a brush through my hair and slicked on some lip gloss. I needed to do this now, soon, before I lost my nerve, before I actually started to think about what I was going to do.

I stepped into my flip-flops, then took the stairs two at a time. I had a very strong feeling this was a have-in-person conversation, and even though I knew I probably should, I didn't want to call first, didn't want him to be able to tell me not to talk to him anymore. I wanted to see him—to talk with him face-to-face. To tell him how much I missed him.

I launched myself out the front door and hurried to my car. I'd just tossed my bag in the front passenger seat when I saw someone walking up the driveway.

I lifted my hand to cut the glare, then let it fall it when I saw it was Palmer.

I stood by my car, not really sure what to do. My heart was
hammering as I raised a hand in a wave. I half expected that at any moment Palmer would change her mind, but she kept coming toward me until we were only a few feet apart.

“Hi,” Palmer said. She gave me a nervous smile, then stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jean shorts. “Sorry for just showing up like this.”

“No, it's fine,” I said, smiling back at her, hoping she hadn't come over here to tell me that she'd decided we could never be friends again. “You know you can always come by.” Palmer nodded and took a breath. But before she could speak, I jumped in. “I really, really messed up,” I said. “I'm so sorry.”

“I know it was coming from a good place,” Palmer said, shaking her head. “But—”

“I know,” I said. “I was trying to control everything, because the thought of not having you guys . . .” I let out a shaky breath. “But I shouldn't have interfered like that.”

Palmer nodded. “I know you were trying to help, in your own, very not helpful way,” she said, and I smiled. “But I overreacted. And I'm sorry, Andie.”

We just looked at each other for a moment, and then Palmer reached out to hug me, and I hugged her back, tight, neither of us moving for a few moments. When we broke apart, it felt like I'd just put down a really heavy burden I'd been carrying for too long, like something had finally been set right.

“What's happening with them?” I asked when we stepped apart, hoping somehow that would have worked everything out.

Palmer shook her head, and those hopes were dashed. “Bri's trying,” she said, shaking her head. “She's apologized over and over again, but Toby won't listen. I've barely seen her.” She
looked over at my car and seemed to notice the keys in my hand for the first time. “Wait, are you leaving?”

“No,” I said, then hesitated. “Well, kind of. I was going to go talk to Clark. . . .”

“Clark,” Palmer said, her eyes widening. “Really? I was sorry to hear about you guys. . . .”

“Well—” I started, taking a deep breath, “Here's the thing. I need to go tell him that I love him.”

“Andie!” Palmer looked at me like she wasn't exactly sure who I was.

A
beep
sounded from my bag on the passenger seat, and we both looked over at it, just as another one sounded. “Just a second,” I said, leaning in and pulling it out. “It's Topher,” I said, looking at the screen, turning it so I could read it in the glare.

Palmer raised a disapproving eyebrow at me. “Topher?”

“No,” I said immediately, then realized this wasn't entirely correct. “Well, kind of. A little, but never again.” Palmer frowned, and I realized just how much there was to catch her up on. “I'll tell you later.”

“What's he want now?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

I stared at the texts, trying to make sense of them. “I'm not sure.”

TOPHER

Hey, don't let your dad do the campaign thing today

Heard my mom saying something

Think it's a bad idea.

I looked at Palmer, who was reading over my shoulder. “Okay, what is wrong with him?” she asked, shaking her head. “He can't be bothered to give you like a smidge more information?”

“I'll call him,” I said, pulling up his contact info, wondering why this was happening
now
. I was supposed to be halfway to Clark's by now, practicing what I was going to say to him, gathering all the courage I could muster. I wasn't supposed to be trying to decode Topher's texts. But I had a not-so-great feeling as I waited for his phone to ring. Topher almost never told me things like this, mentioned things that could impact either of our parents.

“Hey,” he said, picking up on the fourth ring.

“Hey,” I said, pulling my phone back from my ear to look at the texts once more. “I got your texts.”

“I figured,” he said. “Hang on.” There was a small pause, and then I noticed that things had gotten much quieter on Topher's end—like he'd just stepped inside, or gotten into his car, or something.

“What's he saying?” Palmer whispered, poking my arm.

“Nothing yet,” I whispered back to her.

“Sorry,” Topher said, his voice much clearer now. “Look, I shouldn't even be doing this. But I heard my mom saying something last night . . . something about how the governor is just using your dad as a prop.”

“A prop?” I repeated, feeling myself frown. “What do you mean?”

“I guess people have been saying he's not aggressive enough. So when your dad's onstage, he's basically going to point to him as an example of everything that's wrong with politics.”

“To his face?” I asked, feeling sick. I couldn't even think
about what this would do to Peter's plan. If this happened before my dad's announcement, his press conference, the whole narrative Peter was crafting wouldn't work. Which was maybe what the governor was counting on.

“I think so,” Topher finally said after a silence. “From what I could hear, at least.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding, trying to figure out what to do with this information. “I'm going to call my dad.” I looked over at Palmer, who mouthed
What?
at me.

“Probably a good idea,” Topher said. Silence fell between us for a moment, and I thought back to how we'd left it, how awkward it had been—and then realized that he had texted me anyway.

“Thank you,” I said, hoping he would know that I meant it.

“Sure,” Topher said, then, “I'll see you, Andie.”

“What's going on?” Palmer asked, when I'd hung up. “Is your dad okay?”

“I don't think so.” I looked down at my phone once more. “Topher said this thing he's doing today—this rally—might not actually be so good.”

“Wait, so he's running again?”

“Apparently,” I said as I pulled up my dad's number and called it. It didn't even ring, just went right to voice mail, and I suddenly remembered a campaign tic of my dad's—he turned his phone off every time he was going to be interacting with voters. He always said he didn't want to be tempted to take a call, or look at a text, or do anything that might be read as not giving them his undivided attention. “His phone's off,” I said, scrolling through my contacts again. “I'll just call Peter.”

But Peter's number went right to a recording that told me the number was no longer in service. I lowered my phone, realizing that Peter must have gotten a new phone during my dad's leave of absence.

“No good?” Palmer asked, as I lowered my phone and bit my lip.

“No,” I said, looking at the time. I didn't even know where this event was in New York, but it must have been close-ish. If it was starting in less than two hours, it couldn't have been up in Albany or anything. I tried to do the driving math and realized that there was no way I'd be able to go stop my dad and then get back home to see Clark before he left for his bookstore event. Because it was looking like I'd have to go up there—I wasn't going to let my dad just get attacked like that. And there didn't seem to be any other way of contacting him. I let out a breath and turned to Palmer. “Up for a road trip?”