Everything Unexpected

by Caroline Nolan

  * * * *

  Everything Unexpected

  a novel

  Copyright © 2016 by Caroline Nolan

  Cover design by Okay Creations

  Formatting by JT Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To my husband,

  Because sometimes, the best lovers are best friends first.

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Epilogue – Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise for This Is Love

  FIRST COMES LOVE,

  Then comes marriage.

  Then comes—err

  Wait…

  Five Years Ago

  LOUD THUMPING BEATS of overplayed hip-hop blasts from the floor to ceiling speakers found all throughout the house. Discarded empty red plastic cups scatter the floor while those that are still half full are left to sit on any available space in the room—in between the DVD’s that fill the bookcases, among the workout magazines on the coffee table, and on every inch of the enormous mantle that hangs over the never used fireplace.

  People are in every crevice of this house. Every corner is occupied with drunk college students, laughing, yelling, dancing. Groups of girls are grinding against each other in the middle of the living room, their bodies moving to the overly loud beats of Eminem. And from the corner, a cluster of fraternity brothers holler and whistle at them when they aren’t too busy competing against each other on who can down their beer the fastest. There’s a group sitting on what little furniture still remains in the room, rolling and smoking weed, passing joints around in a circle, the air around them turning thick and foggy. Just walking past them is enough to give me a little high. Up the stairs, I watch a couple pair off, opening and closing bedroom doors, looking for an available room to start their own private party.

  This is the mirror image of any stereotypical college party found in any college movie ever made. Right down to the beautiful girls, football player jocks and every other social circle in between in attendance. Only, unlike the lead character from all those movies, I’m not the brooding college quarterback nor am I the loner who doesn’t belong. I’m not the guy who wishes he could be anywhere else. In truth, I actually enjoy these parties and come for the exact same reason everyone else does.

  To have fun.

  I scan the crowd around me but many are faces I don’t recognize. Though the view isn’t bad. Most of these strange faces belong to beautiful young women with their long hair flowing, tanned skin glowing and lips full of bright smiles.

  Attending a clichéd fraternity party at a Southern Florida University definitely has its perks. Short skirts and low cut shirts—sometimes even a simple bikini top is the preferred school uniform. I’ve been around it my entire life. Being a native of Florida, I’ve become accustomed to seeing half-naked girls everywhere. It’s the reason I can also always tell who the out of state people are. Especially the guys. The ones who came here from Kansas, Ohio, or Michigan. They’re the ones who usually have their mouths open and tongues out, eyes wide and head spinning.

  To be fair and not to single out the guys, the out of state girls are often just as easy to spot. The ones that relish in the notion Mom and Dad are no longer around to see what they’re wearing—or rather, what they’ve left off. The ones who aren’t used to summer weather all year long. The ones who believe the more skin you show, the more local you’ll seem.

  Walking into another room, my eyes fall on a brunette who must really be trying to come off as a pure Floridian. Her pink tank top is cut so short you can see ribs. It has the words Baby Doll written across her chest in sparkly letters. Her exposed hips and stomach twist and turn as she dances, her barely covered chest bouncing slightly under the thin fabric.

  As a twenty-one year old junior, these kind of movements grab my attention. I dare you to try and find a red blooded college guy who wouldn’t look. But I know everything from her outfit to her dance moves are skillfully planned out because when Baby Doll looks my way and catches me staring at those sparkly letters, she doesn’t give me a dirty look. Instead, her lips curl into a flirty smirk, flattered by my attention. So as much as a twenty-one-year-old male’s eyes like to look, twenty-one-year-old females like to be seen.

  “Shane! Over here,” Bryan my best friend yells at me, cocking his head to the side, indicating for me to follow him.

  His loud voice carries over the speakers and breaks the eye contact between Baby Doll and myself. She may not be my type but it doesn’t stop me from silently thanking the University of Miami for accepting imports from all over the country.

  I work my way through the kitchen and the heavy crowd that’s fused itself around the counter and continue to the back room of the house. I still have yet to recognize anyone, but that’s not all that surprising since I no longer attend this school. Nearly two years ago I dropped out of business studies and transferred to another school a few miles up the road. I’m currently majoring in a subject that’s captured my attention ever since my high school art class—photography.

  Not everyone was excited about the change. A ‘fool hearted and reckless choice’ I heard relentlessly. Leaving behind a business degree which guaranteed me stability in the future for the ridiculous pursuit of a hobby that had very little chance of becoming anything more than just that. My father’s words exactly.

  “What kind of career do you expect to have with an art degree? You’ll be taking children’s school pictures if you’re lucky!” he told me, clearly frustrated.

  My mother, on the other hand, was much more accepting. But that’s Charlotte Carlisle for you. She believes in following one’s passion. After all, she had done so with my father years ago when he started his own company. She stood by me and my choice. She came to my defense and assured me my schooling would continue to be paid for. She went up to bat for me against my father, arguing I was
young and now was the time for me to explore all my options. She made the case that there would always be time for me to find my way back into business if ever that needed to happen and if that’s what I wanted. She’s really one of the only people I know who can stand up to my father like that.

  My father is one of the most influential men in the city. People both admire and fear him in the business world. But at home, he is powerless against my mother. Never have I witnessed it as much as the day he wrote my first tuition check to my new school. Payment made to the order of Miami International University of Art and Design. He may have conceded in some respect, but his anger was very clear. His pen stabbing at the paper, the tip pressing down so hard it nearly tore the check as he signed his name.

  My art school is quite small, nowhere near the size of the one this fraternity belongs to. The University Bryan still belongs to. Bryan and I met first year, both in the same business program, both living in the same shitty apartment complex near campus. Even before I switched schools, my parents thought I should live at home, but I insisted on having the true college experience. I told them I’d even pay the rent if it meant I could be on my own. Unfortunately, that crappy apartment was all I could afford. It was a definite downgrade from the Coral Gables neighborhood I grew up in.

  There is no highly emotional story or one indicative moment that explains how our friendship started. It just did. We partnered up for a group project, then started hitting the gym together, which led to hanging out outside the gym, week nights, weekends. That simple.

  When I told him I was dropping out of business and transferring to an art school, he was undoubtedly surprised. I received great grades in our classes and like everyone, I think he saw my hobby of taking pictures as just that. A hobby. Realizing we’d no longer be in the same classes or have the same schedules bummed us both out more than we thought it would. So I suggested we leave the building we lived in and find a place somewhere in the middle of both campuses. A bigger place. A better place. Roommates instead of neighbors.

  “Best of both worlds,” he said. “I can work the chicks over on this end and you can work the artsy types over there. After, we’ll trade.”

  I made it very clear to him we would never, ever trade. Ever.

  Even though I’m at a different school, I still come with Bryan to these parties. It amazes me that no matter how many frat parties I go to, most of the people here are unrecognizable to me. Different faces at every one, the school’s population never ceasing to bring in new partygoers. Bryan is pretty good at introducing me to people he’s met over the last two years and I never have problems meeting people on my own, but tonight feels different. Like maybe someone is supposed to come meet me for a change.

  Walking down another crowded hallway, I squeeze my way through the line for the bathroom, past a couple who have decided to openly grope each other, not caring about the audience they’ve started to gather. As I turn the corner, a small feminine body crashes into mine, her drink spilling down her bare legs and onto her dark sandals.

  “Fuck,” she growls, bending over to wipe her legs with her hand.

  “Sorry, crowded area,” I say, apologizing even though she is just as much at fault.

  “My sandals are ruined!”

  I swallow back the urge to tell her they aren’t, in fact, ruined, and only lightly splattered with clear liquid from her cup. But I put her dramatic comment behind me and search for a napkin. I find a relatively unused one under an empty cup and bend down, offering it to her. Her eyes shift and land on my face. They widen slightly and she breathes in an air of surprise. I press my lips together in order to hide my smirk, knowing her earlier anger at me bumping into her has suddenly altered into something much more pleasant.

  “It’d be a shame to have ruined those legs for the rest of the night,” I say, winking.

  Forgotten is the offered napkin in my hand as we both rise up, now standing straight. Her eyes take a quick scan of my six foot two frame before landing once more on my face. Not to sound too cocky, but I know I’m a pretty decent looking guy. Good bone structure, straight teeth, warm mocha skin, but it’s my eyes that seal the deal. They’re a surprise. Unexpected with my skin tone. Blue-green against warm coffee. The wonderful outcome from my father’s blackness and the blonde fairness of my mother. The contrast stands out and captivates people. Especially girls.

  “No, it’ll be fine. Just a small spill,” her voice stutters, shoulders fidgeting.

  See? Every time.

  My grin expands and I slowly make a show of looking down her body. “Are you sure?” I ask, nodding towards her legs.

  Without realizing it, she crosses one leg over the other and presses them together.

  “Yeah,” she starts but it almost sounds like a question. She shakes her head a little. “Yeah. I’m sure,” she repeats, now smiling. “I’m Shannon.” She leans one shoulder against the wall, extending a hand out to me.

  My smile stays put as I take her hand, softly shaking it. “Shane.”

  “You go to school here?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head once. I don’t offer up any more information.

  She opens her mouth slightly, the corners of her lips dropping a bit, thrown by my uninformative answer. She squints her eyes a touch, causing her brows to furrow. I watch as she tries to think of something else to say when Bryan appears back around the corner.

  “Shane,” he waves me over, “I found them.”

  His eyes dart between me and Shannon and he cocks one eyebrow up, silently asking if he should leave me here with her. If I want him to leave me here with her.

  Subtlety, almost unseen except to him, I shake my head. Although she’s cute, her earlier attitude has already turned me off from wanting to get to know her better. Bryan nods and waits for me to say goodbye.

  “Looks like some friends are waiting for me,” I say, cocking my head in his direction.

  “Oh, okay. Maybe I’ll see you around?” she asks, hope clearly laced in her words.

  I smile but once again, say nothing more.

  I step around her and make my way over to where Bryan is waiting. He turns to me. “No bang?”

  “Nah.”

  He looks back to where I left Shannon. “She’s cute. Maybe I should go back there—”

  I laugh. “Trust me,” I say, pushing him forward. “She’d be too much for you to deal with. We’ll find you another,” I promise him.

  He shrugs and we continue to walk to the back of the house where the game room is located. It’s big enough for both a ping pong and pool table, a couple of arcade machines and my personal favorite, a foosball table. A small group of our friends have hunkered around a makeshift bar, sitting in mismatched bar stools and free pouring drinks. Most of these guys I became friends with during my first and only year I attended this college. Some of them still are. I’ve made a couple of friends at my own school but they’re not exactly the frat party type. They’re more the tortured, sensitive soul artist type. Keeping their weekends quiet and reflective. I, on the other hand, happen to like having drinks and getting laid on a Saturday night. And the simple truth is, girls at a frat party are more likely to be looking for the same thing than those who go to poetry readings at a coffee shop. Not judging, just observing.

  “Surprise, surprise. You all managed to find the sausage factory area of the party,” Bryan says, pulling up a bar chair.

  “Surprised you even bothered to find us,” Steve, an acquaintance of ours says. “With all these girls who don’t know any better standing between us?”

  The guys laugh because we all know Bryan only ever has one thing on his mind when going out here. Finding someone to join him at his own personal after-party.

  “Don’t you worry, my friend,” Bryan smirks, filling a cup with vodka and whatever mix happens to be right in front of him. “There’s plenty of time to find that special someone for tonight.”

  “Poor girl,” Steve says, laughing into his cup.


  Bryan fills another cup and hands it over to me. I take a sip, yielding my head back at how strong he’s made it.

  After a few minutes of Steve and Bryan flailing insults at one another, Eddy comes over and sits next to me. Bryan introduced us in second year. After I left, Bryan said he needed someone to partner up with in some of his general classes and Eddy looked the smartest. Glasses, shaggy hair in desperate need of a cut, button down shirt tucked in. I have no idea why Eddy agreed to partner up with Bryan. The two could not have been more different, in both personality and work ethic. Bryan was big and loud. Eddy, skinny and quiet. Bryan spoke before he thought. Eddy calculated every word before it was uttered. Bryan waited until the weekend before a project was due while Eddy always had most of it already completed. But as the semester progressed, Eddy came around more and more and edged out of his shell a bit. He’s actually a pretty funny guy once you get to know him. And when the semester ended, I figured we’d see less of him as he and Bryan no longer had any classes together. It kind of saddened me a little. I had grown used to him being around, hearing his anecdotes about anything and everything. And he was also so fascinated with the work I was doing in art school, always asking about the meaning behind every shot I took. But when the new semester started, he just kept coming around. At some point, he wasn’t just Bryan’s old lab partner anymore; he was our awkward, nerdy friend.

  “I read a fascinating article yesterday that says the Arts are a dying breed within our nation’s economy,” he says, pushing his thick rimmed glasses into place. “Does that make you want to reconsider going back to a business degree?”

  Not even a frat party with half-naked girls dancing can keep Eddy from talking economics and business.

  “Eddy,” Bryan interrupts, his head falling back. “We’re at a fucking party.”

  Eddy’s eyes squint, as if not understanding what our location has to do with anything. I feel a little bad for the guy. He just can’t help it. He’s just so…academic. But being the good friend I am, I indulge him.