All We Ever Wanted(46)

I hit send just as Kirk’s name lit up on my phone. I answered as he barked into my ear. “That asshole took the cash and is still letting this go to trial! So much for a gentleman’s agreement.”

“A gentleman’s agreement?” I said, so aghast by this ridiculous spin that I further rationalized not telling him that Tom had returned the money. I knew two wrongs didn’t make a right, but he didn’t deserve the truth. He deserved to feel screwed.

“A settlement. Yes.”

“It wasn’t a gentleman’s agreement. Or a settlement. It was a bribe. You tried to pay him off to keep quiet. And it backfired,” I said.

“Try not to sound so happy about it,” he said.

“I’m not happy about this,” I said. “I’m not happy about anything right now.”

“Well,” Kirk said. “That makes two of us.”



* * *



—

A FEW MINUTES later, I went to Finch’s room. His door was closed. I stared at it for a few seconds, thinking of how much things had changed, both quickly and gradually. When he was a little boy, his door stayed open and he often ended up in our bed. By the time he reached late elementary school, he would occasionally close it, but I felt free to open it without knocking. When he was in middle school, I did a quick knock before walking in. Once he was in early high school, I awaited his permission following the knock. And in the last year or two, all bedroom chats had become nonexistent. I barely entered his room at all, as Juana did his laundry and put away all his clean clothes.

I knocked now, then opened the door to find Finch on his bed. He was on his laptop and wearing headphones. He looked up at me blankly.

“Hi,” I said.

   “Hi,” he replied.

“Can you take those off?”

“There’s no sound,” he said.

“Take them off anyway.”

He did, with no attitude.

“How’re things going?” I asked, my voice sounding stilted.

“Fine.”

“Good,” I said. “And how’s Polly?”

“She’s fine, I guess.”

“You guess?” I took a step inside his room. “You don’t know?”

“Not really,” he said, expressionless. “We broke up.”

“I’m sorry. Can I…ask why?”

He sighed. “I don’t really want to talk about it, if that’s okay?”

I bit my lip and nodded. “Well, I also wanted to tell you that your father and I heard from Mr. Quarterman. Your Honor Council hearing is scheduled for next Tuesday.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I got an email, too.”

“Oh,” I said. “Have you talked to Lyla?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Dad told me not to.”

“He did?” I said. “When did he tell you that?”

“Last week. After our meeting with Mr. Q.”

“Well,” I said briskly. “I’m overriding that. We’re going to see her tomorrow morning. You and I. Her dad will be there, too. It will be the four of us.”

I braced myself for resistance, but he only nodded and said okay.

“And in the meantime, I want you to think about Lyla. Her feelings. This is about her right now.”

“I know, Mom,” he said, looking a little like his younger, earnest self.

   “Do you?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“So you understand that this meeting with Lyla is not a strategy for you. It’s an apology to her.”

He nodded again. “Yeah, Mom. I get it,” he said, holding my gaze.

Maybe he was humoring me or trying to avoid a lecture, but his expression really seemed sincere. It wasn’t quite a relief—I was still worried about his character—but it was a very small consolation and maybe even a source of hope.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about Polly? Or anything else going on in your life?” I gently pressed, feeling certain I knew what the answer would be.

“Yeah, Mom,” he said. “I’m sure.”





On Friday night, right when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Dad came into my room and dropped another bomb on me. A stealth bomb.

“Get some sleep,” he said, standing in the doorway in a Titans T-shirt and sweatpants. “We have a meeting in the morning.”

“What kind of meeting?” I said, feeling suspicious because we never had appointments and stuff on the weekends. Dad knows that I love to sleep in on Saturdays, and it really is my only day to do so because he often guilt-trips me into going to mass with Nonna (who is sort of obsessed with being Catholic) on Sunday mornings.

“Finch Browning and his mother are coming over,” he said all nonchalantly, like I wasn’t going to notice.

I waited for the punch line, but there wasn’t one. “What? Why?” I demanded.

“To talk,” he said, taking another step into my room and glancing down at a laundry basket filled with clean clothes that he’d put there and asked me to fold the night before. Usually he does that for me—or at least refolds everything after I do a shit job (Dad is totally OCD about the weirdest things)—but I could tell he was trying to be stricter all of a sudden. As if his folding my laundry for me had been a contributing factor in my decision to drink at a party.