The Unexpected Everything(11)
“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.