The Unexpected Everything - Morgan Matson Page 0,167
garage door opener, smiling at me again. “Ready to do this?”
We walked back up the driveway, the asphalt warm under my bare feet. I looked back toward the bus for just a second, my dad’s huge face giving a confident but trustworthy smile to the street. Despite whatever Peter had said, campaign buses didn’t show up by accident—not unless there was a campaign that would require them. “Dad—” I started, right as the garage door opened and I found myself looking at a yellow ’65 Mustang.
“Surprise!” my dad said, making a little flourish with his arms, smiling big as he looked from me to the car.
“Is that . . . ?” I asked, taking a step closer to it. “Is it Mom’s?” It looked just like it, but I couldn’t be sure. “Didn’t you say you didn’t know where it was?”
“I said that, yes,” my dad said, grinning now, and I could see that he was incredibly pleased with himself. “I didn’t want to give the surprise away. It’s been in a storage facility upstate. Your mother asked me to give it to you when you turned eighteen, but when you started asking about it, I thought maybe now was the moment.”
“This is great,” I said a beat too late. “Really great,” I repeated, trying to bring some enthusiasm into my voice. “Thank you.”
“I’ve made sure that it’s ready to be driven,” he said, walking toward the car, running his hand along the side of it. “It got fully overhauled, detailed, everything. And I’ll have to teach you how to drive stick, but after that, you should be good to go.” He looked at me and his smile faltered a little.
“Awesome,” I said, making myself smile, knowing I wasn’t reacting the way he wanted me to. I felt terrible about it but wasn’t sure I would be able to fake it. Because there was a bus with his face on it at the bottom of the driveway, reminding me of everything that was going to happen and how little I could do about it. When was he planning to teach me how to drive a stick shift if he was going to be not only working, but campaigning in the fall’s election? I looked at the car, pretty sure that it was going to sit there, undriven, for a very long time.
“Sorry,” my dad said, his excited energy ebbing away as he ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Maybe . . . this was probably the wrong day. But when they called and said it was ready, I just wanted you to have it.”
“No, it’s great,” I said, feeling even worse than I had a moment ago. “Really, Dad. Thank you.”
“Well,” my dad said, after an awkward silence had fallen, “I hope you like it, Andie.”
He turned to head inside, but before he’d reached the door, I blurted out, “You’re running again, aren’t you.” It didn’t sound like a question because it wasn’t one. All the proof I needed was sitting at the bottom of the driveway.
My dad turned back to me. “I told you, I haven’t decided anything.”
“You can at least tell me the truth.” I said, shaking my head, realizing that I should not be getting mad at him right after he’d given me a present, but knowing that it was happening anyway.
My dad raised his eyebrows. “I am,” he said. “I’m still weighing my options.”
“It’s just . . . this summer, having you around, it’s been really . . .”
“Alex!” Peter was standing on the bottom step of the bus, tapping at his watch in a hugely exaggerated manner, like we were involved in a game of long-distance charades. “We have to get going. Walt can’t make traffic miracles happen!” Peter stepped back inside the bus, and I looked back at my dad.
“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