The Unexpected Everything - Morgan Matson Page 0,108
you want. The drawing,” he said quickly, maybe seeing what I was thinking. “Not Stabby Bob.”
I nodded. “That would be good.” I took a breath, wondering if this was the moment to ask him the question that I’d never stopped wondering about—what he had done with my mother’s Mustang. I hadn’t asked, five years ago, when it didn’t come to our new house with us, and I just hoped that he had saved it rather than sold it off to someone. I was getting ready to ask him about the car, when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
TOBY
Toby clearly wanted to know how dinner had gone, but it was easier these days to call or video chat with her rather than text her. But then it buzzed again, and I saw Palmer was texting now too.
PALMER
HOW DID IT GO?
“Let me guess,” my dad said, picking up the cheesecake plate and pushing himself back from the table. “Bri?”
“Toby,” I said, shaking my head. “And Palmer, too.” My phone buzzed again. “And now Bri.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he said, placing the plate, with at least three good cheesecake bites remaining, in front of me. Then he patted my shoulder quickly, just once, before he turned and headed down the hall to his study.
I watched him go, then picked up my fork, settled back in my seat, and wrote back to my friends.
Chapter ELEVEN
I looked down at the dog sitting in front of me, a smallish sandy-colored mix of some kind. This was a one-time walk; his owners usually spent the summers away but were back in town for just a day or two and needed him to get some exercise. The dog looked back up at me, his tail thumping on the ground. “Okay,” I said, smiling at him as I made sure his leash was clipped on tightly. “Ready for this?” I paused when I realized I’d blanked on his name. But in my defense, when I’d gone to pick him up, it had been a pretty chaotic scene. The dog had been running around barking happily, seemingly trying to get himself as underfoot as possible. Classical music was blaring and a girl who looked a year or two younger than me was doing a series of very complicated pirouettes in the kitchen, while a guy who looked like he was probably her brother sat nearby with a thick law textbook, seemingly unfazed by all of this, muttering about torts. It was a girl around my age who’d taken charge, giving me the dog’s leash and instructions for where to walk him.
“Sorry about all this,” she said loudly, trying to be heard over the music, as she gestured behind her. “We usually spend the whole summer at our lake house, but my sister has an audition for a dance company in New York tomorrow, so . . .” She shrugged, and I tried to hide my surprise, since the twirling girl looked like she couldn’t have been more than fifteen. But I’d taken the dog and said I’d be back in about half an hour. Now I knelt down to see if his name was engraved on his tag, but there was just an M, and his owners’ phone number.
“Okay, M,” I said, as I straightened up again, hoping that when I brought him home, I could give a report on how the dog did without having to use his name. “Let’s do this.”
The dog trotted forward, tail wagging, and I started walking him down the long, steep driveway toward the road. As I walked, I pulled out my phone, telling myself I just wanted to listen to some music, pretending that was the real reason right up until the moment I scrolled to my brand-new audiobook section. I’d transferred the discs Clark had given me to my phone two days ago but hadn’t listened to them yet. It seemed like the time had come.
I took a breath and pressed play, and the sonorous voice of a very famous British movie star filled my ears.
“If it had not snowed on the second day of the Aspen moon,” he intoned, and I noticed, not for the first time, how everything sounded better with a British accent. “The life of Tamsin Castleroy would have been quite different. . . .”
I turned up the volume as I walked along with the dog, trying to pay attention so I didn’t miss anything, as I listened to Clark’s story.