All We Ever Wanted

  “Hey!” he says with what I can tell is forced cheer. “Where’ve you been?”

  “I thought Finch told you?” I say. “I went to Bristol.”

  “Yeah, he told me….What gives?”

  “What gives?” I say.

  “I mean, why did you go home?” he asks, as I see Finch’s Mercedes appear in my rearview mirror. He drives past me, then up to the front gate, and makes a right turn toward home.

  “To see my parents. And Julie,” I say.

  “Okay. Well, why didn’t you call me?” he asks.

  “I was just really busy….I needed to get away….Kirk, we have to talk.”

  “All right,” he says. “How about dinner tonight? Just the two of us?”

  “No. Now. I actually need you to come home right now. Finch and I are on our way. Walter just asked him to leave school for the day.”

  “What? Why? What’s going on?” he says.

  I finally have his full attention—and not some patronizing portion of it. “I’ll see you at home, Kirk. I’m not doing this over the phone.”

  * * *

  —

  SOMEHOW KIRK BEATS me home from his office. Dammit, I say under my breath. I pull into my usual spot in front, then run inside before they have time to get their stories straight. Clearly, they are doing exactly that when I walk into Kirk’s office. In midsentence, Finch suddenly stops talking, as they both stare up at me.

  “Did I interrupt something?” I say, feeling as sick as I did when I read the email exchange with Bob Tate.

  “No,” Kirk says. “Of course not.” He walks toward me, as if to hug me, and says, “Nice to see you, too.”

  I take a step back and say, “Kirk, I need you to tell me the truth. For once.”

  He blinks, chuckles, then says, “What are you talking about now?”

  “You tell me,” I say, then turn my gaze to Finch. “Or our son can tell me.”

  “Mom—” Finch begins to say. “I told you the truth.”

  “No, Finch,” I say as loudly as I can without actually yelling. “You did not.”

  Finch glances furtively at Kirk, who paces back over toward the fireplace and leans on the paneled wall.

  “Kirk,” I say. “Do you have anything you want to tell me? Maybe something about those concert tickets?”

  “Honey, please—” Kirk says. Because of course he’ll never just confess. Not unless he knows for a fact that he’s been busted; maybe not even then. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Bob Tate…and the four tickets to see Luke Bryan that Beau allegedly paid for?”

  Kirk and Finch exchange a fleeting look that causes something inside me to snap. “Stop lying to me! Both of you!” I yell, fighting back tears of desperation and anger. I stare at Kirk, then Finch, then back at Kirk. Only one of them looks the slightest bit contrite, and it isn’t the man I married.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Finch says, running his hands through his hair. “I just wanted to—”

  “What you wanted,” I say. “See? That’s just it. It’s always about what you and your father want.”

  Finch closes his mouth, then bites his lip. “I’m sorry,” he says again, this time in a whisper.

  I cut my eyes to Kirk and say, “How could you do this? To him? To me? To our family?”

  “Do what?” he has the audacity to ask me. “Let him go to a concert with a girl he likes?”

  I swallow and shake my head. “No. How can you teach him to be this kind of person?”

  “Mom,” Finch interjects with a note of desperation that makes him seem a good three years younger than he is. It gives me a pang in my chest that physically hurts.

  I raise my brow, waiting.

  “I promise you, Mom,” he continues to plead. “I swear to you. I’m not lying about the picture and Polly. I didn’t take the picture. She did.”

  “So let me get this straight,” I say, staring at my son. “You were lying the night of the party, and on the Monday after the party in Mr. Quarterman’s office, and the day of the concert when you said Beau got the tickets. But…you aren’t lying now?”

  Finch nods and says, “Yeah, Mom. That’s correct.”

  “So what changed?” I say, desperately wanting to believe him.

  “Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking….And…and, Mom, I was trying to do the right thing all along,” he stammers. “I only wanted those tickets so I could show Lyla how I feel about her. And Dad knew that. That’s why he let me go.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Kirk nodding, his son having just made a solid closing argument. I feel both of them staring at me, awaiting my reply.

  “Well,” I say. “Do you know that your father tried to bribe Mr. Volpe?”

  “Nina,” Kirk says. “That’s enough.”

  I shake my head. “No, Kirk! He should know this,” I say, looking at Finch again. “Did you know your father gave Tom Volpe fifteen thousand dollars so that he’d make this Honor Council hearing go away?”

  Finch hesitates, just long enough to give himself away. He already knows. He was in on that, too.

  “Never mind,” I say, amazed that my disgust could still be growing. “Although, while we’re on the topic, Kirk…Tom gave back your money.”

  “That guy’s a loser,” Kirk replies under his breath.

  “No, Kirk. Tom Volpe is far from a loser. He’s a good person. And a great father raising a wonderful young woman, who, for some reason, really likes our son!”

  “For some reason?” Kirk says. “Wow, Nina. That’s real nice.”

  I take a deep breath. “Can we speak privately for a moment?” I ask Kirk.

  He nods, then follows me to our bedroom, surprising me with the first thing out of his mouth. “Look, Nina. I’m really sorry—”

  “What are you sorry for, Kirk? The bribe? The lies about the concert? Or being unfaithful to me?”

  “Unfaithful?!” Kirk says, way overacting with the most shocked, indignant look I’ve ever seen from him. “Why would you say that? What’s gotten into you lately? You’re not acting like yourself at all.”

  “I know,” I say. “I haven’t been acting like myself for several years now. Not since I let you turn me into some Belle Meade trophy wife.”

  “Trophy wife?” he scoffs. “We’ve been together since college. What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Kirk. I’m an accessory. That’s how you see me. Our whole life is so…phony and fake. I’m done with it.”

  “Done with what, exactly?” he shouts back at me. “Our beautiful homes? Our trips? Our lifestyle?”

  “Yes. All of the above. But mostly? I’m done with you, Kirk. With your fucked-up priorities. Your lies. Your ego and bullshit. The example you’ve set for our son—”

  “Our son? You mean how he’s a really good kid who just got accepted to Princeton? That kind of example?”

  “Oh, God. Enough of the good kid routine. Please, Kirk. Good kids don’t scheme against their mothers. Good kids don’t lie right in the faces of their headmasters.”

  “He did that to cover for Polly. It was…chivalrous.”

  “I don’t think so, Kirk,” I say, my doubts finally crystallizing. “I’m not saying Finch took the picture. But there is more to the story than he’s telling us. At least more than he’s telling me. And…and I just can’t be on board with this dynamic any longer….I want a divorce.”

  As Kirk stares at me, mouth agape, it occurs to me that there is actually one thing he could say to change my heart, at least a little. He could tell me that I’m right—or at least that he’s sorry. Genuinely, this time.

  Instead, he looks right through me and says, “I think you’re making a really big mistake. But if this is what you truly want…then I won’
t try to stop you.”

  I shake my head and feel tears start to pour down my face. “You know what, Kirk? Teddy…at age nineteen, protested more than this when I broke up with him in college.”

  Kirk rolls his eyes and says, “Well. I’m sure you could still get him back if you wanted to.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Because he really loved me….But I don’t want Teddy back. I just want myself back. And my son…if it’s not too late.”

  * * *

  —

  TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, I’ve crossed the river, and am driving through the bungalow-lined streets of what used to be Nashville’s streetcar suburb. I didn’t memorize the Volpes’ address from our last visit, but I remember how to get there—down Ordway and a left on Avondale. When I arrive, I pull past their house and park on the other side of the street. As I’m about to get out of the car, Melanie calls me. Before I can think better of it, I answer.

  “Finally!” she says, sounding frantic but relieved. “What the heck is going on?”

  “What do you mean?” I say, wondering what exactly she’s referring to, and how much she knows.

  “I mean with Polly? I heard that she was the one who took the photo, after all! And then she called Lyla a slut! And vandalized her porch!”

  “Where did you hear that?” I ask, marveling once again at how quickly gossip spreads.

  “Beau. He just texted from school. Said he heard y’all just had a meeting with Walter? And that Polly and her parents and Tom Volpe were there, too?”

  I tell her she is correct.

  “Beau also told me that Walter’s questioning kids today. Bringing them in one by one. It sounds like he’s on a rampage. A total witch hunt. I’m panicked that he’s going to suspend more of them for drinking.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe he’s just trying to get to the bottom of what happened. It’s coming down to a he said, she said.”

  “Yeah. But it’s clear Polly had a motive. Jealousy, pure and simple.”

  “I don’t know, Mel,” I say, as I survey the scene of the crime—at least one of the crimes. The Volpes’ house is set on a rather steep hill, two flights of concrete steps leading up from the street to the front porch, a small grassy landing in between. There is no cover whatsoever, and it would take nerves of steel to climb all those steps and vandalize an exposed porch so close to the street. “I just can’t see Polly doing this.”

  Melanie sighs, clearly annoyed. “The picture or the porch?”

  “Either. I wasn’t at the party. And I wasn’t home last night,” I say. “I was in Bristol with my parents.”

  “But wasn’t Kirk home?” she asks. “Wouldn’t he know if Finch left your house?”

  “You would think. But maybe Finch sneaked out. Or maybe Kirk just…looked the other way. He’s not exactly reliable these days,” I say.

  I then ask her if she knew that the boys went to the Luke Bryan concert with Lyla and her friend.

  She hesitates, then says yes, she did. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But Kirk told me not to mention it…because you’d say no…and I thought it was a sweet gesture. I’m sorry.”

  I almost tell her that I can’t believe she lied to me, but I actually can. I’m suddenly as done with her as I am with Kirk, thinking that Julie would never in a million years conspire with anyone against me. And certainly not with Kirk.

  “Nina?” Melanie asks, as I see Tom and Lyla pull up to the curb on the other side of the street. “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah,” I say, watching as father and daughter get out of their car and walk up to the front door, neither of them noticing me.

  “Honey. We’re just trying to save you from yourself….Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she continues, which is almost always a precursor to an insult, “but you’re so…irrational these days. I mean why would Finch vandalize her property when he’s already going to the Honor Council?”

  “I don’t know. To frame Polly?” I say, desperately hoping that that’s not the case.

  Melanie continues to tell me how unstable I sound, how worried she is about me, how nothing is more important than “our boys.”

  I can’t hear another word of it. I tell her that I have to go. And that, for the record, I can think of a few things that are just as important—maybe more.

  “Like what?”

  “Like honesty and truth and character?” I say.

  “Oh my God, Nina,” she says. “It’s like you think you’re better than all of us.”

  “Better than who?” I say, really wanting to know.

  “Your husband. And all of your friends. At least I thought we were your friends.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I really thought so, too.”

  Afew minutes after we get home from visiting Dad’s friend Bonnie (who I never even knew existed before today), Mrs. Browning shows up at our house. Dad’s back in his bedroom, so I answer the door, feeling reassured to know that he actually has friends.

  “Hi, Lyla,” she says, looking and sounding frazzled. She’s wearing almost no makeup and workout clothes, her hair in a messy ponytail.

  “Hi, Mrs. Browning,” I say. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Yes, please. I’d really like to talk to you and your dad,” she says, just as he appears in the hallway behind me.

  I brace myself for a tense exchange, but Bonnie’s calming effect seems to have lingered because he just says hello and asks her to come in. Then we all walk into the living room. The two of them sit on the sofa, and I take Dad’s chair.

  Mrs. Browning speaks first, staring down at her hands. “I’m so sorry about everything that’s happening.” She looks up at my dad, then turns her gaze to me.

  “It’s okay,” I say, betting that Dad will correct me, and announce that it’s not okay.

  But he doesn’t, saying only “Thank you, Nina.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Mrs. Browning takes a deep breath, then says, “May I ask you something, Lyla?”

  I nod, staring back at her.

  “Who do you think took that photo of you? Finch? Or Polly?”

  I hesitate, not because I have any doubts whatsoever, but because I know she or my dad will probably ask for my reasons next, and it’s really hard to put everything into words.

  “Go ahead, Lyla. Tell her what you think,” Dad says.

  “I think Polly took it,” I blurt out. “And I think she wrote that word on our porch, too….I think she’s done everything out of jealousy…because she knew she was losing Finch. And now she’s lost him. For good.”

  My cheeks burn as I say the last part, picturing what Finch and I did in his basement, and knowing Polly has very good reason to be jealous. I don’t dare look over at Dad, for fear that he’ll be able to figure that last part out.

  “But weren’t they still dating on the night of the party?” Mrs. Browning asks, looking so worried and confused. “When the photo was taken?”

  “Technically, I guess,” I say with a shrug, acknowledging to myself that maybe Finch’s version of the story doesn’t completely add up. But then I remember the way he looked at me when I was standing in Beau’s kitchen. And it all makes sense again.

  Dad and Mrs. Browning wait for me to say more, but when I don’t, they look at each other instead. It’s almost as if they’re having a conversation with their eyes. Not the kind that Finch and I have had—more of a we’re-in-this-bullshit-together type gaze. I take the opportunity to stand and slip out of the room, feeling immense relief when neither of them tries to stop me.

  A few seconds later, I’m alone again. I close my door, find my phone, and climb into my bed. All I want to do is talk to Finch. I feel certain that he has a positive update, too, and that we are only hours away from his name being cleared. One step closer to being together—if we aren
’t already.

  But I quickly discover that Finch has not called or even texted. Instead I see a text from Polly. My heart sinks. The last thing I want to do is read her attacks. But you can’t just ignore a message from your enemy. So I open it and read.

  Dear Lyla, I am so sorry that I called you a slut. It was a really ugly thing to say, and I actually don’t think that about you. I’ve just been really upset and confused about so much. But I did NOT take that picture of you. It was Finch and Beau. And I have proof. I also have something else really big to tell you. Will you please call me? Please, Lyla. I’m desperate and scared and begging you. From the bottom of my broken heart, Polly

  I finish reading, telling myself that she’s full of shit. Just trying to cover her ass and pin everything back on Finch because that’s how bitter and jealous she is. The very definition of a hater. I tell myself to delete the text and erase every word from my memory.

  But I can’t and don’t. Because deep down, I’m feeling pretty scared, too.

  * * *

  —

  THE AFTERNOON CRAWLS by as I read Polly’s text over and over and over, believing her a bit more each time. What makes me feel so much worse is that Finch doesn’t call or text. I end up falling asleep, with my ringer on high just in case.

  Around six o’clock, I awaken to another text message from Polly. This one is a photo. I brace myself as I click on it, waiting for it to download, somehow knowing that it’s going to be bad.

  But it turns out to be much, much worse than anything I could have imagined. Because it’s another photo of me on Beau’s bed. A close-up of my face with a semi-hard penis resting on the bridge of my nose, pointing toward my mouth, almost touching my lips. At first I think it must be Photoshopped in—it’s just so shocking and horrible and disgusting. But after staring at it a few seconds, I can tell that it’s not. It’s real. A real penis touching my face. I can’t say for sure who it belongs to, but I think I may recognize it, along with the hand holding it.

  My heart shatters as another ellipses appears, followed by a plea. Please, please call me.