All We Ever Wanted(36)

“Isn’t like what?”

“He’s a good person. He’s not going to make a decision here based on what we’ve given to the school,” I said.

“Okay, look,” Tom said, leaning over his coffee, his face close enough to mine for me to make out the flecks of gold in his beard. “Say what you want. But I know how the world works. And so, apparently, does your husband.” His voice was calm but his eyes were angry as he pushed the pile of bills toward me.

“Well. Obviously, my husband got it wrong this time,” I said, my voice shaking a little. I gestured toward the money, then finally got rid of it, sliding the bills into my purse.

Tom refused to grant me the point and instead said, “Your son got into Princeton. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Congratulations. You must be really proud.”

“I was,” I said. “But I’m not proud now. I’m ashamed of my son. And my husband. And I’m just so sorry—”

He stared at me, then said, “Look. Here’s the way I see it. Your husband wanted to make this go away with money. And you’re trying to do the same thing with words. With a nice apology. You recognize your husband’s a bit of an asshole, so you’re trying to clean up after him. And ditto for your son.”

   My cheeks on fire, I shook my head and said, “No. That’s not what I’m doing. I’m not here trying to clean anything up, or make anything go away. I’m just here to tell you I’m sorry. Because I am.”

“Okay. And?”

“And what?” I said.

“Does that make you feel better? Telling me that? Are you hoping that I’m going to tell you not to worry about it? No hard feelings. All’s forgiven. And…and you’re not like your husband and son?” His voice was stronger now, and he was talking with his hands. I noticed calluses on them, and a deep, long cut on the back of his left thumb. The scab looked new.

I shook my head and said an adamant no, though deep down, I knew I wasn’t being entirely truthful. That was absolutely part of why I was here. I wanted him to know that I was a good person—at least I thought I was—and certainly not the type to offer bribes to get my way. “No….I’m here to tell you that I think it should go forward to the Honor Council,” I said softly. “I think you should make sure that it does.”

He looked at me and shrugged. “Okay. Fine. Noted. Is that all?”

“No,” I said. Because there was something else, too. Another reason I was there. I made myself say it at my own peril. “I’m also here to…ask about Lyla….How is she?”

A look of surprise crossed his face as he sat back a bit in his chair. Several seconds passed before he replied. “She’s fine,” he said.

   “What’s she…like?” I said, preparing myself to be told off again. For him to tell me that was none of my business.

But instead he said, “She’s a sweet kid…but tough.”

I nodded, sensing I was about to be dismissed. “Well…will you please tell her that I’m so sorry?”

He ran his hand over his stubble, then leaned forward, staring into my eyes. “Why are you sorry, Nina? Do you think you’re to blame for what your son did?”

I hesitated, thinking, and then replied, “Yes. I do, actually. At least in part.”

“And why’s that?” he pressed.

“Because,” I said. “I’m his mother. I should have taught him better.”



* * *



—

AFTER LEAVING THE East End and crossing back over the Woodland Street Bridge, I couldn’t make myself go home. Instead, I wound my way through Lower Broadway—the heart of Nash Vegas—with all of its neon honky-tonks and juke joints that I hadn’t been to since the last of my friends’ bachelorettes. It was a shame we didn’t come here more—I love live music at Robert’s and Layla’s and Tootsies. But it really isn’t Kirk’s thing, unless he’s wasted—in which case, it isn’t my thing.

I kept driving, all around downtown, eventually turning onto Sixth Avenue, slowing as I passed the Hermitage. The same valet who had opened the Uber door for me the night of the Hope Gala was out in front again, and I found it almost impossible to believe that it had been only five days since the incident. So much had changed since then—or at least so much had been acknowledged in my own heart.

My phone vibrated in my purse with an incoming call. I didn’t check to see who it was as I drove around the Capitol, then up into Germantown. Realizing I was hungry—famished—I pulled into City House. It had been a long time since I’d eaten a meal alone in public, and it felt liberating to sit at the bar by myself. Not only did Kirk dictate where we went but he always picked our table, too, and often ended up ordering for us. “Why don’t we split the beef tartare and a chopped salad, and then get the trout and the rib eye?” he’d suggest because those were his four favorites. Passivity wasn’t the worst sin in the world, but I made a mental note to start making my own menu selections. Baby steps.

   At that moment, I went with a margherita pizza and a Devil’s Harvest that the bartender brought in a can. He started to pour it into a glass, but I stopped him and said I’d do it, thank you. My phone vibrated again. This time I checked it, finding missed calls and texts from both Kirk and Finch, asking me where I was, when I’d be coming home, if I wanted to join them at Sperry’s for an early dinner. I could tell they’d been communicating with each other, as their texts were worded so similarly, and I wondered what that meant. Was Kirk manipulating me? Or were they both just appropriately worried and upset? I wasn’t sure, but I wrote them both back on a group thread, saying that I’d forgotten I “had something” and they “should just go ahead without me.”