The Unexpected Everything (18 page)

“I was just leaving,” she repeated back, matching my inflection and shooting me a tiny smile. “Talk to you later,” she said as she opened the door. I pulled it back for her and she mouthed,
Oh my god!
to me before turning back to my dad, her face composed and polite. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Walker,” she called.

“And you as well,” my dad said, his voice warm and sincere, like she was just the person he'd hoped to see in his house unexpectedly today. “Please give my best to Mark and Kathie.”

“Will do,” she said, giving him a tiny wave before she
headed out the door, pulling it shut behind her.

I looked at my dad in the sudden silence of the foyer, trying to figure out how I could get him back to his office without letting him know that's what I was trying to do. Or maybe I could drive down the street and meet Clark at the gatehouse to avoid any possibility of overlap. “So—” I started, just as my dad said, “Are you going somewhere?”

“Oh,” I said, then nodded. “Yeah . . . I'm . . . going out to dinner. A friend is picking me up.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Why hadn't I just said I was meeting someone? I didn't have Clark's number, but if I was out by the street early enough, I could have flagged him down from out there.

My dad nodded, and silence fell between us again. I had just taken a breath to say that I'd see him later when he asked, “Which friend?”

“You don't know them,” I said, then heard, from somewhere on the second floor, a clock begin to chime. Was it seven already? I pulled my phone out from my bag and saw that the clock upstairs must have been fast—it was five to. But either way, I needed to wrap this up
now.

“I don't?” my dad asked, folding his arms, and again I cursed myself for not just saying that I was meeting Toby or Bri at the diner.

“I don't think so?” I said, letting the sentence rise in a question as I started to edge toward the door. “I'd better get going.”

“Wait a second,” my dad said, running a hand over the back of his neck. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, like he was an actor in a bad play, speaking words he hadn't
totally memorized. “I, uh . . . Should you be going out with someone I don't know?”

I looked at him for a second, trying to decide if the question was rhetorical, or if he actually wanted an answer. Also, I didn't understand why he was suddenly acting like a father in a sitcom. I hadn't asked my dad for permission to go anywhere in years. He either hadn't been around to ask, or if he happened to be home, he'd nod and wave at me, usually while taking a call, as I yelled that I was going out. This had to feel as weird for him as it did for me. “Look,” I started, just as I saw a slightly dented Jeep signal and then pull slowly into our driveway.

I tried as fast as I could to think of something, then felt my pulse start to pick up when I realized I no longer knew how to get out of this. But the last thing I wanted was for Clark to be here, in my house, talking to my dad. I hadn't realized how much I liked keeping these worlds separate until it appeared they were about to collide. I looked out to the driveway, wondering what my dad would do if I just left, walked out the door and met Clark before he'd even made it halfway to the porch. But before I could do anything, Clark came into view, and I realized my moment to escape had passed and this was inevitable. I wondered, as I watched him walk up the path and then climb the front porch steps, if this was what pilots felt like when they realized they were going to crash but still had to wait for the impact.

My dad frowned as Clark got closer, then looked at me, his jaw falling open like he'd just figured something out. “Andie—are you going on a date?”

“Kind of,” I muttered as I reached to pull open our door.
Our front doors were half glass, and I knew it already looked weird enough that I was standing around waiting for my date—along with my father. My plan had been to pretend to read a magazine in the kitchen, not even coming close to the foyer until I heard the doorbell. You weren't supposed to let your date
know
that you'd been waiting around for them to arrive. You were supposed to be much too busy and interesting for that.

I opened the door, and there was Clark, standing on the porch, hand half-outstretched toward the bell. “Hi,” I said, giving him a quick smile, wishing I had more time to really appreciate the fact that he was wearing a light-blue button-down with his jeans, that his brown hair looked like it had been recently combed, and that he was just so cute it was almost unfair. “Come on in,” I said, hearing how high-pitched and stressed my voice sounded, which I was pretty sure wasn't making the best first-date impression. “My dad's . . .” I let this trail off when I realized there wasn't an easy way to sum this up, and just stepped back to let Clark inside.

“Hi,” Clark said to me, smiling wide, then looking at my father and standing up a little straighter. “Hello, sir,” he said. My dad's eyebrows shot up, and I knew Clark had gained some points in his eyes. First impressions were big with him.

“Dad, this is Clark Goetz-Hoffman,” I said, just as Clark said, “McCallister.”

“What?” I turned to look at him.

“Clark McCallister,” Clark said.

“I thought your last name was Goetz-Hoffman.”

“You two need a minute to confer?” my dad asked, looking between the two of us.

“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head, trying to get my bearings. Maybe his parents were divorced and this was his mother's new name or something.

“Alexander Walker,” my dad said, reaching out and shaking Clark's hand with his politician's handshake—two pumps, lots of eye contact. Then he paused and turned to me. “That's right, isn't it? Walker?”

“Ha ha,” I said, trying to silently tell my dad this was not the time to try to be funny.

“Well, whoever you are, Clark, it's nice to meet you.”

“You as well.” Clark looked at my dad for a beat longer, frowning slightly, before he turned back to me. “You look great,” he said quietly to me.

“Thanks.” I took a step toward the door, which was still open. “So we should go. . . .”

“Just a second,” my dad said, and I noticed his voice had dropped to his authoritative TV-spot timbre. “You two go to school together?”

Clark glanced at me, then turned back to my dad. “No, sir. We . . . uh—don't.”

My dad paused mid-nod. “But you're going into senior year as well?”

“No, um . . .” Clark looked at me again. We hadn't talked about it, but I had assumed that he was going to be an incoming freshman at a college somewhere in the fall, or maybe that he was going into his senior year at a different school from me. “I actually got my GED a few years ago,” Clark said, looking from me to my dad as he spoke. “So I'm, uh, not in school.”

“You're not?” I asked, not able to stop myself.

“I was going to mention it over dinner,” he explained.

“So . . . ,” my dad said, and I could practically feel him trying to regroup. “How do you two know each other, then?”

“Andie walks my dog,” Clark said, giving my dad a smile. My dad looked at me, not even trying to hide the utterly baffled look on his face, and I knew I was paying the price now for all the times I'd thought about telling him about my job and then had just chosen to avoid the subject entirely. “Well, not
my
dog, exactly,” Clark amended after a second. “But the dog who . . . lives in my house.” Now it was my turn to stare at Clark, but before I could say anything, he added, “Well, not
my
house, so to speak—”

“Bertie's not your dog?” I asked, feeling my eyebrows fly up.

“Why are you walking his dog?” my dad asked.

“Andie's a dog walker,” Clark said, then a moment later, and in the silence that followed, he seemed to read the room. “Was that supposed to be a secret?” he asked, leaning closer to me, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It's my summer job,” I said to my dad, crossing and then uncrossing my arms.

“Since when?”

“A week and a half ago.”

“But you have no experience with dogs,” my dad said, still staring at me.

“I got trained,” I said quickly to Clark, “before I started.”

“You do a great job with Bertie,” Clark assured me. “She really does,” he added to my dad.

“Help me understand this,” my dad said, turning back to Clark. It didn't seem like this positive report of my job
performance had cleared anything up for him. “You're not in school. But you'll be going to college, I assume.”

“No, um . . . ,” Clark said, glancing once at me before putting his hands in his pockets, then taking them out again. “I . . . well, I'm a writer. So I've been mostly focusing on that. I'm not sure college fits into my plans at the moment.”

“A writer,” my dad repeated, his voice flat. I was trying very hard not to look quite as thrown by all this as I felt. Clearly, the downside of having a theoretical crush on someone you knew nothing about was the crashing realization that you actually knew nothing about them.

“Yeah,” Clark said with a low, nervous laugh. “I write fantasy novels.”

“Wait,
what
?” I asked. All of this was moving too quickly, and I really felt like it would have been better to find this stuff out while sitting across from Clark in a restaurant somewhere, or while driving there in his car—not in front of my dad.

“Another thing I was going to mention later,” Clark said with another quick smile. I could see, though, that his cheeks were starting to get pink.

“Fantasy novels?” my dad repeated, his voice skeptical.

“Yeah,” Clark said with a shrug, his cheeks still flushed. “I mean, I've only written two so far, but . . .”

“And this is what you do,” my dad said, still sounding unimpressed. “Rather than going to college.”

“Well,” Clark said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “It is kind of a full-time job, especially after
A Murder of Crows
was published. . . .”

“Wait . . .” My dad stared at Clark like he was trying to
understand what was happening. “I've heard of that. Wasn't it a bestseller? Wasn't it a
movie
?”

Clark nodded. “Two,” he said, then cleared his throat. “It was supposed to be a trilogy, but I'm a little bit behind on my newest book.” I suddenly flashed back to the old man waiting on line in the library with his thick paperback, complaining about the author who hadn't finished his series. What had that writer's name been? Wasn't it something McCallister?

I blinked at him, trying to figure this out. I had assumed Clark was my age, or close to it, though I was now starting to question everything. Because people who were my age, or close to it, didn't write bestselling fantasy books. They didn't have movies based on their books with huge movie stars in them. How was this even possible?

“I published the first one when I was fourteen,” Clark said, clearly reading the confusion on both our faces. He gave an embarrassed shrug. “Homeschooled kids have a lot of time on their hands.”

“Well,” my dad said. He looked as overwhelmed as I currently felt. “I should let you two get going. Andie, be home by . . .” He trailed off, looking at me blankly.

I stared back at him, silently panicking as I weighed my options as quickly as possible. I normally never had a curfew. But if I said something like midnight or one, what if Clark thought I expected to spend all that time with him? I didn't know how to tell him that I had plans after our dinner without being really insulting. But then again, what if the date went really well and I wanted to stay out with him until late?

“Just don't stay out too late,” my dad finally said, maybe,
amazingly, understanding some of my thought process.

I nodded, feeling relief start to course through me. “Will do.” I looked at Clark, more than ready to stop standing in this foyer. “Ready to go?” Clark nodded harder than people normally do, letting me believe that he was probably feeling the same way. “See you later,” I said to my dad as I took a step toward the door.

“Oh,” my dad said, like he just remembered something. “I meant to tell you not to answer any calls from numbers you don't know. Peter thinks one of the interns might have ‘misplaced' our cell numbers, and reporters might be calling for quotes.”

Now it was Clark's turn to look nonplussed. “Reporters?” he asked. He looked at my dad and snapped his fingers. “You're . . . I saw you on CNN,” he said. “I thought you looked familiar! Senator—”

“Congressman Walker,” my dad interrupted. Then he added, “At least, I used to be.”

I could see it in Clark's face, the dawning realization of just
why
my dad looked familiar and why he'd been on CNN in the first place. “Oh, right,” he said, his voice quiet. “Sorry—I didn't . . .” He looked at me, and I looked down at my sandals. “I didn't realize,” he said quietly, now looking more embarrassed than ever.

“I was going to mention it later,” I muttered.

“I'm sorry, but have you two met before?” My dad looked between us and then let out a big belly laugh.

Clark and I glanced at each other, and I felt my face get hot. It was bad enough for both of us to probably be thinking that without my dad coming out and saying it.

“Well, you two have fun,” my dad said, starting to head back toward his study, a laugh still lingering in his voice.

I turned to Clark when he was gone. “Should we go?”

“Let's,” Clark said immediately.

•  •  •

Twenty minutes later I set my menu aside and looked across the table at Clark at the Boxcar Cantina. It was a Mexican place in town that Tom loved, and so Palmer was always insisting we go there after his opening nights and for his birthday. It was small, and a little bit dark, with candles in brightly colored glass holders on all the tables and a roving mariachi band Palmer always tipped extra so they'd play mariachi “Happy Birthday” for Tom. It had been Clark's pick—he'd asked as we drove over if it was okay with me—and when we'd arrived, I'd been surprised and impressed when he gave his name to the hostess, who walked us to a table, holding our laminated menus.