Page 56 of The Unexpected

He shrugs, so slight it’s barely motion. “You don’t have to say anything. But you do need to be careful. I’ve seen what happens when people think the rules don’t apply to them. They get hurt. Or worse, they hurt someone else.”

I want to laugh. I want to scream. Instead, I knot my hands in the sheets. “I’m not a kid.”

He nods again. “I know. But you’re also not untouchable.”

I look away, at the shadow my head casts on the wall. It’s larger than life, but misshapen.

He stands, brushes imaginary lint from the lapel of his jacket. “I raised you in a certain world, Stella. You’ve always been accepted in that world. You don’t know what it costs to be shut out of it.” His words are soft, almost sad.

I snap back: “I’m twenty-two. I’m not doing anything illegal. I just want to live before I’m stuck with a mortgage and a family and five billion kids.” I can’t believe the venom in my voice, but once it’s out, there’s no pulling it back.

His face doesn’t change. If anything, he looks a little tired. “You always wanted to go farther than I thought possible,” he says. “Even when you were eight, and you insisted on climbing the highest diving board at the swim club. I told you it was dangerous, that you’d get hurt. You did it anyway.” He rubs his hands together, remembering. “You broke your wrist, but you were smiling through the tears.”

I flush, but I don’t look away. “That’s not the same.”

He cocks his head. “No. It’s not.”

A silence. Then, without warning, he says: “Do you remember the time you were arrested?” He says it softly, like it’s something he’s never told anyone.

I don’t answer. Of course I remember. The night in county jail, the striptease for the prison guard, and then getting out without a scratch.

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “You made it out, and I want to say no harm, no foul, but shit like that is emblematic of how you live, Stella.” His gaze is fixed on the window, the cold blue of the night beyond. “You told me you could handle yourself. That you were in control. But I think you liked the risk. I think you still do.”

I want to argue. I want to tell him he’s wrong. But instead I blurt: “It worked out, didn’t it?”

He turns, and his face is open and kind. “Handling something and it being wise aren’t the same thing, Stells.” The pet name is a knife; he only uses it when I’m being a disappointment.

He walks to the door, pauses with his hand on the knob. “I love you. I’m not trying to run your life. But I hope you’re thinking carefully about your decisions, and the people you let into your life.” His eyes are steady. “Whatever’s going on—and I think something is—I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I stare at him.

“Hunter is your brother. Lachlan is a pastor at Trinity. Is that so bad?”

My dad doesn’t answer, the silence in my ears.

Then he leaves, closing the door with a click so quiet it’s almost reverent.

For a while, I don’t move. What the fuck was that about? Was that a warning of some sort? My hands are pressed flat to the sheets, and I can feel the wet imprint where the candle wax has dripped onto the silk. I stare at the closed door, jaw clenched, and try to decide if I am the problem, or if the world is.

When I finally reach under the pillow and pull out the journal, the pages are warped from my thigh, the ink on my palm still wet. I open to the last entry, and read the last fragment I wrote: “I want to belong to someone, but I want to be free. Is that possible?” Underneath, there’s a blur where I must have wiped at it, the words smudged to blue ghosts.

I hold the journal open in my lap and wait for inspiration, or regret, or anything to fill up the emptiness in my chest. The candles flicker and gutter, the wax now pooled across the marble like spilled milk.

I watch the flame until my eyes blur, and then I close the book and let the blue hour swallow everything because something is way off. My dad, in his own roundabout way, just tried to warn me. But about what? About hooking up with Hunter and Lachlan? Obviously, it’s wrong but I can’t see myself going to jail over it. We’re all consenting adults, so it can’t be that bad.

With a huff, I lie back and close my eyes. Sleep can’t come soon enough because my brain is a maelstrom, and I desperately need peace.

20

THE REVELATION

Stella

The night is too warm for September, but the granite hall shivers with chill—the cold that gathers in the spaces between stone and faith, with nowhere else to go. My father’s arm is tight against mine as we climb the steps to a Trinity fundraiser, his hand adjusting the lapel of his coat, his dress shoes shiny. I’m in a floor-length black dress, the kind that clings and then spills, and my hair’s up, but not all the way: a few golden locks spiral down, framing my face in exactly the way the stylist said would “enhance my cheekbones.” Thomas wears a tux and the same expression he’d use at a board meeting or a funeral—composed, unreadable, already a half-smile at the ready for the first donor or deacon in his path.

Beside me, he slows. The vestibule is packed with the city’s best and least-humble: diamonded women with high, predatory voices, and men with the stillness of predators who never need to hunt. White-gloved staff hand out programs and champagne. There’s a brief scramble for the coat check, and in that moment, my father makes idle conversation.

“Andie was disappointed to miss the fundraiser, but it’s better that she’s home. She’s not feeling great.”