The Unexpected Everything

by Morgan Matson

  “Okay,” I said, looking around the party, trying to find someone I hadn’t dated, Toby hadn’t already rejected, and wasn’t someone we’d known since elementary school. “Just give me a second.”

  “Alden!” I looked over as the party’s host, Kevin Castillo himself, headed over to us from the dining room, holding up his hand for a high five, which Palmer returned with gusto. “Glad you could make it.”

  Palmer nodded toward the table, where the game seemed to have broken up, at least for the moment. “How’s it going?”

  “Getting killed in there,” he said with a groan. “You guys want to help me out? Bri?” he asked Toby. “Or Toby?” he asked, turning to Bri.

  “Reverse those,” I said as I took another sip of my drink.

  Kevin frowned. “Are you sure?” He pointed at Bri again. “It’s not Toby?”

  “I’m Toby,” Toby said, starting to look annoyed. This was not all that infrequent, despite the fact that Bri was tall and willowy where Toby was short and curvy, and Bri had long, straight black hair and Toby was a redhead who was always trying to flatten out her natural curls, with occasionally disastrous results. When you spend that much time together, you get mixed up, even if you don’t look alike—or act anything alike, for that matter.

  “We could combine our names,” Bri said, turning to Toby and arching an eyebrow. “Tobri. Then we could both answer to it.”

  “This has possibilities,” Toby agreed. “Then you could take history for me and get a great grade and I could take calculus for you, and you wouldn’t have to keep getting thirty-eights on tests.”

  “Swap PE for calculus and you’ve got a deal,” Bri said.

  “And then all the guys at parties would hit on me, too,” Toby said, looking at Kevin Castillo, who turned red. Bri got embarrassed when you pointed it out, but she was undeniably gorgeous, and we’d gotten used to guys hitting on her. “I like it.”

  “It’s a plan.”

  “Done and done.”

  Kevin was looking back and forth between the two, like he was trying to catch up. After a second, he cleared his throat and tried again. “So . . . ,” he said, still looking at Bri. “Want to play . . . Bri?”

  “Tobri,” Toby said, shaking her head as Bri started to laugh. “Weren’t you paying attention?”

  “Alden,” Kevin said, clearly baffled and giving up as he turned to Palmer, “I need your skills.”

  Palmer grinned as she looked at all the cups lined up. Growing up with four older siblings—two of them boys—meant Palmer was great at this kind of stuff. She’d been the one who taught us how to tap a keg, pack a bowl, and play quarters, beirut, and beer pong. She could change a tire and throw a punch and had learned how to drive when she was something like fourteen. “Sure,” she said with a shrug. “Why not?” She headed toward the dining room with Toby and Bri following, turning back to glance at me when it was clear I wasn’t joining them. “Andie?”

  “Not right now,” I said with what I hoped was a casual shrug. “Maybe later.”

  Palmer raised an eyebrow at me, and I knew she knew exactly why I wasn’t joining her. “Sure,” she said, giving me a look that said she still didn’t approve but wasn’t going to say anything else. I had a feeling that if I hadn’t just had the day that I had, Palmer would be giving me a much harder time right about now. “Well, have fun.”

  “Make good choices,” Toby called, in a louder voice than necessary, as I took a step toward the kitchen, pretending I didn’t know them. I had expected Topher would still be there, but the kitchen was empty. I thought for a second about going to look for him, but then decided against it and pushed myself up to sit on the counter. I grabbed a handful of Doritos from an open family-size bag and pulled out my phone. I’d find Topher eventually, or he’d find me—and it seemed like the easiest way to let him do that was to stay in one place. I hadn’t expected to see a new text on my phone, since most of the people I regularly texted were all here, but there were three, all from Peter.

  PETER WRIGHT

  In case any reporters get in touch, you need to say

  “no comment.”

  About ANYTHING. Don’t go on record.

  How’s your dad holding up?

  I blinked at the last one. This was the kind of information that Peter knew, not me. Why would he expect me to know that?

  ME

  Not sure—I’m not home.

  I knew from experience what his response to this would be, so I started typing fast.

  ME

  Just out getting a snack with my girlfriends.

  If you want to know how he’s doing, ask him.

  I looked down at the phone for a moment longer, waiting to see if he was going to respond. It made sense that Peter was concerned about my dad—it was his job to be concerned. But if he wanted to know anything about my dad’s mental or emotional state, I was the last person he should be talking to.

  “Hey there.” I looked up and saw that Topher was across from me, leaning against the kitchen island. I wondered how long he’d been there—Toby had once helpfully informed me that I had a “super-weird reading face.”

  “Hey,” I said, locking my screen and setting my phone down, matching the blasé-ness of his tone. We’d established our boundaries three years ago, when this had started, and we’d never had a problem sticking to them. We kept it casual, which let us be in each other’s lives without things getting tense or strained. Which I appreciated, since he was the only person who truly understood what my life was like. His mom was in the Senate, and over the last three years she and my dad had given the media one of their favorite narratives—the senator and the congressman, on opposite sides of the aisle but living in neighboring towns, against all odds and Washington politics, forging a friendship. They often rode together on the train back and forth to D.C., and despite the media’s tendency to spin, I knew my dad genuinely liked Claire Fitzpatrick. When both she and my dad were home at the same time—which wasn’t often—she and her husband would come to dinner or we’d go to their house, and Topher and I almost always found a moment to escape, usually around the time when the subsidies talk started.

  “What’s up?” I asked as I took a sip of my drink, not letting myself break eye contact with him. Topher—short for Christopher—was handsome in a way I had never gotten used to, not even after three years. It was the kind of handsome—tall, tan, blond, gray-eyed—that you saw in ads for expensive watches and luxury sweaters. There was a kind of polish and control to him that I had recognized immediately.

  “Not much,” he said, taking a drink from his Sprite bottle, then setting it down and looking at me, his voice getting a little softer. “How are you holding up?”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “I’m fine,” I said. His expression didn’t change much, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. “Really,” I said firmly. “I’m leaving town for the summer at the end of the week anyway, so it’s not like I’ll be here dealing with it.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Topher said, nodding. “That pre-med thing, right?”

  I nodded, knowing better than to attach any meaning to the fact that Topher had remembered this. After all, it was what we’d both been taught to do. Hang on to dates and details, remember that colleague’s daughter’s name and where she’s going to college. Make sure you know that important donor loves orchids, and if you bring them up, she’ll be beyond pleased, and talk to you about them all night. Collect these facts about these people you don’t really know, and let them think you do. “You got it.”

  “So this will probably be the last time we see each other for a while,” he said, his voice dropping slightly lower.

  “Maybe so,” I said, not letting myself look away, starting to smile.

  Topher arched an eyebrow at me, and I saw a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He pushed himself off the island and crossed to me. He leaned over, casually, every move just so, like he was in no hurry. His lips were right near my ear, but he didn’t speak at firs
t, just let out a breath against my skin that made me shiver. “In that case,” he finally said, speaking low, even though we were the only ones in the kitchen. He took a lock of my hair and curled it around his finger before he let it drop. “Want to get out of here?”

  Topher went first; he seemed to have a sixth sense for when empty rooms were available at parties, and I had an amazing ability to walk into just the wrong room at just the wrong time. He’d told me to meet him in the basement, and now I needed to wait long enough that nobody would see us disappearing together. Topher had established his ground rules early on—we couldn’t tell anyone (I’d decided my friends were an exception to this, since I trusted them completely)—and we’d do whatever we could to make sure nobody would find out. I’d established some of my own—nothing but kissing, and everything we did or talked about stayed between us. I also found that I could be honest with him in a way I never was with my other boyfriends. I knew that whatever I told him, he would keep to himself. Our situation was what I’d once heard Peter describe as “mutually assured destruction.” We knew too much about each other, and we both had too much to lose for either one of us to say anything.

  When we both started dating people, these ground rules grew to include that we never did anything when either of us was with someone. Which meant we could go months without seeing each other. But it had become something that I’d gotten pretty reliant on.

  I looked down at my phone again and realized that it was now safe for me to join him. I crossed through the living room and headed toward the basement, making sure to lock the door behind me.

  Sometimes, making out with Topher was like quenching a thirst, and sometimes it just made me thirstier. Thankfully, tonight it was the first one. After we’d been kissing for a while, the intensity faded and our kisses grew slower and more lingering. I broke away and rested my head on his chest, and he smoothed my hair down absently with one hand.

  I looked up from the couch where we were lying. This seemed to be more like a converted garage than a basement, with the couch and TV jockeying for space with workbenches and tools. Someone in Kevin Castillo’s family was clearly really into cars—there were three in the basement/garage and two more covered with tarps, tools stacked neatly next to them. I looked at the one nearest to us—a red vintage Mustang, and felt a sharp pang, the way I always did when I saw one. My mother’s had been yellow, a ’65 convertible that had been her pride and joy. But I hadn’t seen it in years—I assumed that it had gone wherever all her things had gone, either sold or to storage somewhere. All I did know was that when I moved into the new house, there was no trace of my mother in it.

  I turned my back on the Mustang and ran my hand over the fabric of the couch. “This was surprisingly comfortable,” I said, and heard Topher give a short laugh.

  “Well, it’s no laundry room.” I pushed myself up slightly to look at him, and he smiled as he pulled a lock of my hair forward, winding it around his finger. “I was thinking about that night a few days ago, actually.”

  “Were you?”

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Just about how lucky we were.” This made me sit up a little straighter, and I looked him in the eye, starting to get nervous, worried that he was suddenly changing the rules on me. “Lucky because we didn’t get caught,” he clarified, and I felt myself relax.

  “We really were.” It was three years ago, but I could remember so clearly what it had been like—the thrill of my first real party, then the flashing lights streaking in through the window and my utter panic when I realized that not only was I in trouble, but I might have wrecked my father’s career. I was desperately searching for an exit in the chaos, and then, out of nowhere, was Topher Fitzpatrick, taking my hand in his. I didn’t know him—we went to different schools, and I’d said only about five words to him the year before, at an event at the governor’s mansion. But I saw in his eyes the exact same thing I was feeling—the paralyzing fear that comes with knowing just how high the stakes really are. He leaned closer to me to be heard above the noise of people running, panicking, bottles and glasses breaking as everyone tried to get out, and fast.

  “Want to get out of here?” he’d asked. I nodded, and he held my hand tighter as we ran through the house. He stopped in front of a door that I would have run past and pushed it open. It was a laundry room, a tiny space with a folding table, a stacked washer and dryer, and barely enough room to turn around. Topher pulled me inside, and we shut the door behind us and stood in the dark and waited.

  We weren’t discovered right away, and after a few minutes of both of us panicking that cops were about to fling open the door at any moment, we both relaxed a little and found our way to the folding table. We sat side by side next to a stack of fluffy, neatly folded towels, moonlight streaming through the tiny window above the dryer and the smell of fabric softener all around us. And when the panic that I was about to ruin everything had started to subside, I let myself appreciate this situation for the first time—that I was sitting very close to a cute gray-eyed boy in the moonlight.

  We started talking, about school, about our parents, about the counter-spin we’d have ready in case we were discovered—that when we’d realized there was underage drinking happening, we’d removed ourselves from the situation immediately—until I realized that enough time had passed that we could probably go out safely. I turned to Topher to tell him this and saw that he was sitting closer to me than I’d realized and was looking at me thoughtfully, like he was studying my face. My heart started pounding hard, but I made myself keep looking into his eyes as he brushed a stray lock of hair from my forehead and then wound it around his finger once before tucking it behind my ear. And then, moving so slowly, he leaned over and gave me my very first kiss.

  We’d ended up making out against the stack of towels until the party’s host—sounding very annoyed—started banging on all the doors in the hallway, telling people that the party was over and to either help him clean up or get the hell out.

  “So,” Topher said, as I pushed myself off the table and tried to smooth my hair down. My lips felt puffy and I had a giddy, racing energy coursing through me. I’d just been kissed. I couldn’t wait to tell my friends. I wondered if I looked any different. I turned to him and saw he looked slightly nervous, like he was bracing himself for something. “This—I mean . . . this doesn’t have to mean anything, you know?”

  I blinked, realizing that he was scared I would want to turn this into something—like I would expect him to be my boyfriend or something now. “No,” I said immediately. “Of course not.” I’d never had a real boyfriend, but I’d been watching Palmer and Tom for a month now, and even the idea of that kind of dependency on someone made me feel claustrophobic. “It was fun, though.”

  Something washed over Topher’s face when I said that, like he’d just seen something that he recognized—relief mixed with the happiness of an unexpected discovery. “It was,” he said, giving me a smile, “so much better than being arrested.”

  And now, three years later, here we still were. I played with the buttons on his shirt, thinking about it. “I kind of think maybe we should have refolded the towels.”

  Topher laughed. “You know, I think it warped me. For months I couldn’t smell fabric softener without getting flashbacks.”

  “So what are you doing this summer?” I asked, when I realized I didn’t know, and after the silence between us was starting to stretch on.

  “Interning,” he said with a long sigh. “At my dad’s office. Fun times.”

  “Oh,” I said, a little surprised. Topher’s dad was a litigator, and while there was nothing wrong with doing an internship with your parent, we both knew it wasn’t the best thing for your résumé.

  “I know,” he said as he ran his hands over my shoulders, smoothing down the fabric of my sleeves. “But I was too late for the good stuff. I didn’t start applying until last month, and by then everything was gone. Internships, summer programs—even the volunteering
slots had giant wait-lists.” He leaned away slightly, like he was trying to get a better look at me. “You took care of this back in March, didn’t you?”

  I gave him a tiny shrug. “February,” I said, holding back what I really wanted to say, which was that Topher should have known better. You had to get this stuff locked down early. The good jobs and internships and summer programs, the ones that looked impressive on your applications, the ones that mattered—they went fast. “But I’m sure your dad’s office will be good,” I said, looking up at him, feeling beyond grateful, once again, that I was heading to Johns Hopkins and that this summer would be the furthest thing from a questionable gap on my résumé.

  “I’ll let you know,” he said, tracing the outline of my lips with his thumb for a moment.

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked, propping myself up on my elbow. “Are you going to write me a postcard or something?”

  Topher smiled at this. “Every day,” he said, matching my tone.

  I laughed at that and pushed myself off the couch. I left first this time, returning to the party and hoping that nobody could tell anything had happened, that I didn’t look different at all.

  • • •

  Three hours later, I yawned as I headed up the driveway to my house, Palmer waving to me out the window of the minivan. Bri had asked me if I wanted to sleep over at her place—Toby was, of course—but I’d said no, mostly because Bri’s evil, ancient cat, Miss Cupcakes, seemed to have some kind of feline vendetta against me.

  I let myself in and walked across the foyer, turning off lights while running through my checklist in my head. I’d get ready for bed, go over my packing list for Young Scholars one more time, then—I heard a creak of the floorboards behind me and whirled around, my heart hammering.

  There was nobody right behind me, but in the long hallway that led down to my dad’s study, I saw my father standing in the study’s doorway, peering out at me. “Andie?”

  I let out a shaky breath and took a step closer to him, squinting in the darkness. The only light was coming from the room behind him, stretching out a long thin line against the floor. “Hi,” I called, holding one hand up in an awkward wave and then immediately dropping it again. Now, in hindsight, it seemed ridiculous that I was that startled to hear someone else in the house. But I’d honestly forgotten he was here.