All We Ever Wanted(44)

She took a sip, then said, “So? Details. Did he ask to meet with you or what?”

“No. I asked to meet with him,” I said, refilling my glass, too.

“Why? To talk him out of pressing charges?”

“No,” I said. “To apologize to him.”

“Oh yeah, of course. I just thought there might be something else,” she said, bouncing her foot again and looking wounded. It was an expression she wore often. In some ways, I loved this vulnerability about her, even when it felt misplaced. It was unlike so many of the other housewives of Belle Meade, who wore perma-masks of bliss. From those types, the answer to the simple and actually not very curious question “How are you doing?” was always a gushing litany of how wonderfully full and satisfying their lives were. Busy, busy, busy! Happy, happy, happy! All good! Busy, happy, and good! I had one friend who would actually answer with a chipper Better than terrific! Her marriage, her kids, her holidays, her summer—were all, always, better than terrific.

   Even the breezy I can’t complain! grated on me. First of all, sure you can complain, and you do, and you will. You’ll complain about your kid’s teachers and coaches, your neighbors and your neighbors’ pets, your fellow committee members on whatever charity or school function you’re working on (whether it’s because they’re not doing their fair share or because they’re being too bossy and trying to take the whole thing over); you’ll complain when people don’t reply fast enough to your correspondence or when they hit reply all, giving you needless information that swamps your oh-so-important in-boxes; you’ll complain over your housekeepers and nannies and gardeners and anyone at all who comes into your home to do any kind of work for you. You’ll complain over everything and nothing unless it is any kind of reflection on you, your kids, your marriage, or your life. And if, God forbid, you or your children make a misstep, you blame everyone else and insist that you’re the victim from a “good family.” I knew the drill.

“Can I just say?” Melanie began now. “It hurts my feelings a little bit that you didn’t tell me. Especially since Beau’s involved.”

“But I just told you.”

“I mean, sooner. Right away. Before you even met with him.”

“I guess I forgot to mention it,” I fibbed. “I’m sorry, Mel.”

   Her frown lines grew as deep as her Botox would allow. “Did he mention Beau? Or the party itself? Is he mad about that?”

“No,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that’s the least of his concerns right now.”

Melanie nodded, then took a deep breath. “Listen. I admire you, Nina. So much. You’re such a good person—and your heart’s in the right place….I admire the fact that you’re trying to make this right. But…I really think you’re being too hard on yourself. And Finch.”

I nodded, torn. Her steadfast loyalty certainly felt better than Julie’s tough love. Yet I was also frustrated by her inability—or at least refusal—to see what was at stake. I guess my friends couldn’t win. I knew that’s what Kirk would say if he could read my mind now. He hated when I got this way, at least when my feelings threatened his agenda. You’re impossible to please, he’d tell me. Move on and stop obsessing.

Of course, he obsessed over plenty of things, too. But in his mind, those things were different. They were obsession-worthy because they were about the big financial picture—or another quantifiable issue. It was almost as if anything related to relationships or emotions was trivial to him. A disagreement with my mother? She’ll get over it. A friend getting on my nerves? Stop hanging out with her. A feeling that I wasn’t doing enough in the world or guilt about all we had? We give more than enough money away to charity. And now: our own son’s character? He’s a good kid who made one little mistake. Move on, let it go.

“Are you even listening to me?” I heard Melanie say.

“Sorry. I spaced out there for a second,” I said.

“I was just asking about Polly and Finch?”

“What about them?”

   “How’s Finch doing? With the breakup?” she said, lowering her voice.

“They broke up? I hadn’t heard,” I said, feeling a stab of maternal guilt for being the last to know.

“Yeah. Honestly, though, I think Finch could do so much better than Polly. I’ve said that from the beginning. Everyone thinks so,” Melanie said.

Marveling that Polly’s inferiority to Finch could still be Melanie’s conclusion given recent events, I said, “I don’t know, Mel. I bet she broke up with him….I’d break up with a boy for doing what he did to another girl. It was so mean.”

“Please stop torturing yourself, honey. Kids make mistakes. Especially boys. Remember that psychiatrist who told us that the frontal lobe of a boy’s brain isn’t developed until, like, age twenty-five?…They use bad judgment without a fully developed frontal lobe.”

I shrugged, then reiterated the point I’d made to Kirk. To me, this wasn’t about judgment so much as morals.

“C’mon, Nina! You need to be an advocate for your own child!”

“What about Lyla? Shouldn’t we be advocates for all children?”

“Let Tom worry about Lyla. Let him be her advocate. You need to be Finch’s. You should always side with your kid. Always.”