All We Ever Wanted

  “You have to…for Polly…for yourself. For all the girls who have ever had something like this happen to them.” She pauses, glances away, and then looks back into my eyes. “To us.”

  “Us?” I say. She can mean only one thing. But I ask for her confirmation anyway. “Are you one of those girls, Mrs. Browning?”

  She doesn’t answer me. She just pulls away from the curb, driving in the direction of my house. At some point, though, she begins to talk, telling me a story of when she was a freshman at Vanderbilt. It is a horrible story about a boy raping her. She tells me that she didn’t report it because she was ashamed and blamed herself. She tells me everything that happened afterward, too. How she broke up with her boyfriend the very next day. How she told only one person—her best friend—but made her promise to keep the secret forever. How she eventually moved on from the heartbreak, meeting, dating, and then marrying Finch’s father. How she desperately wanted to make her life seem and look and be perfect. She talks to me about the dreams that she both had and still has. Dreams I share. She talks about love. And she talks about truth. She talks a lot about truth.

  She doesn’t finish until we get to my street, and I don’t speak until her car is in park again. The first thing I say is for her sake, to try to ease her pain.

  “Finch isn’t that bad, Mrs. Browning,” I say.

  She looks unconvinced—and so sad.

  “I mean…what happened to me isn’t anything like what happened to you.”

  “Maybe not,” she says, tearing up again. “But, Lyla, Finch is plenty bad enough.”

  I don’t know what to say to this, because I know she’s right. So I just tell her again how much I appreciate her help tonight. How grateful I am for her.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says, leaning over to hug me. “You’re the one who did everything….I’m so proud of you….”

  “Thank you,” I say, then ask her again if she thinks Polly’s going to be okay.

  “I do,” she says this time. “And Lyla?”

  “Yes?” I look at her, waiting.

  “I also think you may have saved more than one life tonight.”

  When I get home, I hear Finch and Kirk talking and watching television in the family room, sickeningly oblivious to the fact that Polly is fighting for her life. I go straight down the hall to my bedroom and start packing. I grab a small duffel bag, and I put in only essentials: jeans, T-shirts, pajamas, socks, underwear, and toiletries. I then remove my wedding ring, along with all the pieces of jewelry that Kirk has given me, laying them on his nightstand.

  I tell myself to remember this moment later, if and when we are fighting over money. I tell myself that although I will try to get what is fair, I actually don’t want anything from him anymore.

  I glance around the room, thinking back to when we bought this house, how excited I was when we moved in—even happier as I slowly decorated it with furnishings, rugs, and art. The memories make me feel sheepish and shallow, borderline nauseated, until something else dawns on me. I realize I never wanted it to be about accumulating beautiful things or presenting a mere façade of a good life. It was always about creating a home. Something beautiful and real on the inside, too. Something meaningful for the core of our family.

  But it all seems like a lie now. And even the parts that weren’t always a lie now feel tainted. Ruined.

  Just as I’m turning to go, I hear footsteps. I know it’s Finch before his face appears in the doorway. I feel sure that his father has put him up to it; there’s no way he’d come back here unless instructed.

  Sure enough, he glances at my bag and says, “Mom? What’re you doing? Dad says you’re leaving us?”

  I stare back at him, my heart breaking, as I say, “I’m leaving your father…and this house….But I’m not leaving you, Finch. I would never leave you.”

  “Please don’t go, Mom,” he says, his voice nearly as deep as Kirk’s. “Don’t leave Dad. Don’t do this to him. To me.”

  I want to scream at him. I want to shake him and tell him that his actions may have killed a girl. Instead, I walk over to him and take his face in my hands and kiss his forehead, inhaling his sweet, boyish scent. It is the same as it has always been, despite so many other changes.

  “Don’t do this to me,” he says again.

  “Oh, Finch. I’m not doing anything to you. I’m doing this for you.”

  “Polly’s lying, Mom,” he says.

  But unlike all the other times he’s told me this, his statement now rings hollow. It’s as if he’s no longer even trying to be convincing. It occurs to me that maybe Lyla already spoke to him about the photos. Maybe he knows that we somehow have proof.

  Regardless, I shake my head and say, “No. She is not. You are.”

  His lower lip quivers. I wait for more, but there is nothing else.

  “Finch. Please confess,” I plead. “Please do the right thing. Princeton doesn’t matter. People matter….And it’s never too late to say you’re sorry.”

  He nods ever so slightly. I have no idea if I’ve actually reached him on some level, or if he is just giving me what I want.

  Regardless, it’s not a battle I can fight tonight. I’ll start again tomorrow, and will fight as hard and long as it takes. “I’ll see you in the morning,” I say. “I’ll be at school for your hearing.”

  “Okay, Mom,” he says.

  I lean in closer, kiss his cheek, and whisper, “You’ll always be my baby, Finch. And no matter what, I will always love you.”

  He inhales as if he’s about to reply. But he can’t, because he’s now crying. We both are. So I just whisper good night. Then I walk past him and right out the front door of what was once our family home.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN I GET downtown to the Omni Hotel, I discover, from a young girl at the front desk, that my credit card has been declined. She is embarrassed for me—and I want to reassure her that a declined credit card is nothing in the scheme of life. I hand her another, although I suspect what will happen even before that card is also declined.

  It is all so absurd—so classically Kirk—that I find myself laughing. This is why Julie told me to have my ducks in a row. Because she knew he was capable of this petty bullshit. I consider stepping aside to call her, but then remember that I still have fifteen thousand dollars in my purse. So I check in using some of those bills, then take the elevator to the eighteenth floor. I use the plastic key to unlock my door and walk into the room, looking out over the city where I’ve lived my entire adult life.

  I feel as alone and devastated as I’ve ever been, including that horrible night at Vanderbilt.

  But in some other ways, I’ve never felt stronger or more certain of my path. I take a shower, then put on my pajamas and get in bed. My curtains are still open, and as I stare out at the lights of Nashville, my phone rings.

  It’s Tom.

  Feeling tremendous relief, I answer, saying hello.

  Without saying hello back, he simply tells me that Polly’s going to be okay. “She’s staying at the hospital overnight, but she’s stable.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I say. “How do you know?”

  “Lyla tracked down her parents.”

  Of course she did, I think, amazed by her once again. “Can I talk to her? Is she still awake?”

  “No. She just fell asleep,” Tom says. “Pretty rough day.”

  “I know,” I say, thinking back to standing with my mother in my parents’ kitchen early this morning. How that now seems like a lifetime ago.

  “Want to hear the craziest part?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, adjusting my head on the pillow, listening.

  “So right after you and Lyla left…guess who just happened to…show up?”

  “Who?”

  “Lyla’s mother.” Tom lets out a wry l
augh. “She just sailed into town for a surprise visit.”

  I laugh back, in spite of everything. “She sounds as awful as Kirk.”

  “Worse,” he says. “At least Kirk stuck around.”

  I swallow, as it occurs to me that maybe I’m no better than his ex, checking out when the going gets tough. But I tell myself I’m not giving up—I’m just taking a stand. There is a difference. I then return my focus to Lyla and say, “I just want you to know…how truly incredible your daughter was tonight. So, so brave.”

  “Yes. She’s pretty great,” he says. “And so are you, Nina….Lyla told me everything. About Finch. About the photos. And about how much you’re supporting her.”

  I start to well up as I tell him how sorry I am.

  “I know you are,” he says. “But for what it’s worth?…I think there’s still hope for Finch.”

  Tears stream down my face as I ask him why he thinks this. I wait for his response, telling myself I will trust my friend—along with whatever answer he gives me.

  “Because…” Tom finally says, his voice soft in my ear. “Because you’re his mother.”

  Since graduating from high school nearly a decade ago, I rarely return to Nashville. Dad usually comes to visit me instead. I’m not really sure why, but I think it has more to do with how hectic my life has been—first at college, then at law school, now in the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office—than with any lack of fondness for my hometown. I can also say with complete confidence that it has nothing to do with Finch Browning or the events of my sophomore year. That is ancient history.

  Of course Finch still crosses my mind now and then—flashbacks to his basement, and Polly’s attempted suicide, and especially the day Mr. Q called Dad and me into his office and broke the news that Finch had gotten off. Completely. With tears in his eyes, Mr. Q told us that the Honor Council, composed of eight students and eight faculty members, had concluded there “wasn’t enough proof.” It was outrageous, of course. What proof did they need beyond a photo of Finch’s dick on my face? But I guess they weren’t willing to go down the penis-forensics road after Finch introduced his Photoshop defense.

  Maybe if Polly’s parents had let her return to Windsor, or send me the rest of the photos, things would have turned out differently. Then again, maybe not. Maybe the cards were that stacked in Finch’s favor (or, as Dad believed, Mr. Browning really pulled off the Belle Meade bribery scheme of the century).

  For several months, Dad and I contemplated bringing real legal action—or at least writing a letter to Princeton. But ultimately, I just wanted to move on, and with Bonnie’s help, I was somehow able to convince Dad that Finch’s fate really had very little to do with me. Karma would sort him out. Or not, as the case may be. Either way, I had my own life to live.

  Along those lines, I also persuaded Dad to let me stay at Windsor. It was the right decision for so many reasons. For one, I was genuinely happy there. Grace and I remained close friends (I was recently a bridesmaid in her wedding), while branching out and extending our duo to include a few other strong, like-minded girls. For another, I became superfocused academically, finishing second in our class and getting into Stanford. Dad says I deserve the credit for that—not Windsor—but the education I got, along with a glowing recommendation from my headmaster, certainly didn’t hurt. Besides, it was good training for real life. A reminder that no matter where you are, you can find a silver lining—along with good people like Mr. Q and Nina.

  I actually still keep in touch with Mr. Q, who is now retired, our email-based friendship mostly consisting of an exchange of New Yorker cartoons and articles about the dire state of the world. We both remain hopeful, though, and I think some of that hopefulness I learned from him during those dark days at Windsor.

  Against the odds, Dad and I stayed close to Nina, too. After her divorce was finalized, she and Dad even started a boutique design business together—he did his carpentry thing and she decorated and helped Dad be more commercial. The coolest part of their gig was their custom tree houses, like the one in Bonnie’s backyard. Most of their clients were pretty well off, and included a few celebrities, but my favorite project was a gift to the children staying at an abused women’s shelter in Nina’s hometown of Bristol. It wasn’t the fanciest, but I knew from the photographs I’d seen that it had brought the most joy.

  Their work—and especially that joy—was good therapy for both of them during their empty-nest days. I know Dad missed me a lot, and Nina probably missed Finch even more, because he barely spoke to his mother during his years at Princeton. I’m not sure if it was punishment for siding with me, or for leaving his father—but things got worse before they got better.

  According to Dad, Nina never gave up on him, though, and sent him long, handwritten letters every week, until at some point he returned to her. Dad pretends to have a cynical view of the shift, saying out of Nina’s earshot that it probably had more to do with some sort of financial scandal Mr. Browning got caught in rather than any real change of heart. But I can tell Dad wants to believe something different. That like me, he might have faith that it was as simple—and powerful—as a mother’s love.

  I’m thinking about all of this now as my Uber turns onto Avondale and I see Dad standing on the front porch at the exact spot where that terrible word was once written. He waves, watching me get out of the car and climb the steps.

  “I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me pick you up at the airport.” He shakes his head, muttering something about my hardheadedness, then gives me a long, tight hug. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “I know how busy you are.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  “It’s really not that big of a deal,” Dad says, downplaying the design award he and Nina are receiving this evening. “But it’s going to mean a lot to Nina. And remember—your being here is a surprise.”

  “I know, Dad,” I say, smiling. “You’ve only told me a hundred times.”

  “Well…I just want tonight to be perfect.”

  “You’re so sweet to her,” I say.

  “She deserves it. She’s the best,” Dad replies.

  It is wild praise coming from him, and I find myself wondering, as I often have over the years, if there’s something romantic between them. They swear up and down that they’re just friends—best friends—and in some ways, I think that’s even sweeter.

  “So…is he coming?” I say, referring to Finch, knowing that Dad invited him, too.

  “No,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Work conflict. Although to be fair, he does live in London now.”

  “London?” I say, annoyed that Finch managed to land himself in the only city in the world better than New York.

  “Yeah. He took some job…something financial.”

  “Well. Whatever,” I say, with a shrug. I’m disappointed for Nina but relieved for myself. “We’re going to have a wonderful time regardless.”

  * * *

  —

  A FEW HOURS later, Dad and I are walking into the lobby of the Frist Center. He’s wearing his only nice suit and a light blue tie I feel sure Nina picked out for him.

  “Okay. She’s up in the Turner Courtyard,” he says, flustered as he reads a text message. “Where the event is being held…Do you know how to get—”

  “Yes, Dad,” I say. “I know.”

  “I better go before she walks down here and sees you.”

  “Go. Go,” I say. “I can fend for myself.”

  Dad kisses my cheek and thanks me, his unease seeming to shift into excitement. Maybe even pride. After all, it’s his award, too, and he’s come a long way since his solo carpentry and Uber days.

  As he turns to go, I head to the bar to get a glass of champagne, thinking that it’s nice to be back in Nashville. I really should visit more often.

  And that?
??s when I see him, rushing into the lobby. With glasses and short hair and a little extra weight, he looks so different. Older. Somehow changed. But as he gets closer, I can tell that he’s still unmistakably Finch, and remind myself that people seldom really change.

  My instinct is to duck away and avoid him, but I make myself walk directly toward him, looking right into his eyes.

  “Hello, Lyla,” he says, breathless, with flushed cheeks. He nearly hugs me but then stops, likely thinking better of it.

  “So you made it after all?” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says, giving me a half smile. “My boss might fire me….But I made it.”

  I smile back, though I don’t fully mean it.

  “Did you get my letter?” he asks.

  I nod and say yes. “Thank you,” I add, though I’m not really thanking him for his letter, but for being here tonight in Tennessee, wearing a crumpled overcoat that smells like an airplane. For showing up for his mother.

  He nods, looking sad but determined. “Well…we better go up….Your dad said eight o’clock, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, glancing at my watch and seeing that it’s a couple minutes past. I finish my champagne, put the glass on a highboy table, then follow Finch up the steps into the ballroom.

  The lights are low, but as I scan the room, I see Bonnie and a few of my dad’s old contractor buddies. The others I don’t recognize.

  There is a woman at the podium, talking about Dad and Nina and the work they’re doing for abused women’s shelters across the state. Plural. I thought there was only the one in Bristol.

  “Wow,” I say to myself, though Finch must hear me, because out of the corner of my eye I can see him nodding.

  “Yes,” he murmurs in agreement.

  A second later, Dad and Nina walk onto the stage together as everyone applauds. She is wearing an Audrey Hepburn–style pale blue dress that matches Dad’s tie and, come to think of it, the lettering on their business cards. His hand is on her back as he walks behind her, guiding her. My father has always been a gentleman in his own way, but I’ve never seen him like this before. He looks so confident, sparkling. They both sparkle.