All We Ever Wanted(48)

“When?” I said. This business of him keeping secrets was another thing that had changed between us, although to be fair, that worked both ways. There was plenty of stuff I hid from him, too. And not just the drinking.

He finally sat down, and put his hand on my foot, squeezing it through my fuzzy sock. I instinctively pulled my knees up, hugging them to my chest.

He looked hurt or offended, maybe both, as he said, “A few days ago.” He paused. “Then we met for coffee.”

“Well, that’s super weird,” I said, in part because it just was, and in part because my dad never meets anyone for coffee.

“What’s so weird about it?” he said, with an odd look on his face—because he totally knew it was weird, too.

“Besides, like, everything?” I said.

He shrugged. “Okay. Maybe a little. But we had a pretty decent talk.”

“Great,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Lyla.”

“I’m not. I am glad you had a good talk and all. But can’t that be a wrapski?” I said, using one of my dad’s expressions.

“No. It can’t be a wrapski,” Dad said.

“Why not?”

“Because this boy owes you an apology, Lyla. It’s important. It’s important we all sit down together and talk about this. Nina and I agree on that.”

“Okay. But why do we have to meet here?”

“What’s wrong with meeting here?” he said, sounding so defensive. “Are you ashamed of where you live?”

“No,” I said—which was sort of a lie. Ever since I started at Windsor in the ninth grade, and realized how much money people around me had, I actually was a little embarrassed about our neighborhood and house. Of course I was even more embarrassed for feeling this way. “It’s just awkward,” I said again, trying to spare Dad’s feelings.

   “Not more ‘awkward’ than that photo!” Dad said, getting all agitated and huffy again. “That photo, Lyla, is pretty damn awkward.”

I looked down, hit by a fresh wave of shame. More than all the drama at school, it killed me that Dad had seen me like that—passed out drunk with my boob hanging out of my dress—and whatever else he saw when I got home that night that I don’t fully remember. He might have already guessed that I drank occasionally, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t think I got shit-faced or had sex. Of course the photo wasn’t confirmation of the latter, but it certainly was a strong clue that I wasn’t the perfect angel he thought me to be.

“Daaaad. Why can’t you try to have a little empathy here? If not for Finch, then for me?” I said, using a big hot-button word at Windsor. Mr. Q often touched on empathy during assemblies, and the concept trickled down into a lot of class discussions.

“Whoa, whoa,” Dad said. “I’m sorry, what? I’m supposed to have empathy for Finch in this situation?”

“Yeah. You actually are. For everyone. It’s called forgiveness, Dad. Ever heard of it?”

“Forgiveness is earned, Lyla. He’s done nothing—”

“Well, isn’t that why he’s coming over?” I shouted over him. “I mean, what’s the point of all of this talking with Nina…and…and coming over to apologize if you’ve already made up your mind about him?”

Dad shook his head, looking dumbfounded, then said, “I just don’t understand why you’re not more pissed off by what this kid did to you. I really don’t.”

   He paused, clearly expecting me to respond. But I had no response—at least not one I wanted to share with him.

“Finch is the one who should be worried about tomorrow,” Dad continued. “Not you. But I bet he’s not. Because he’s an asshole.”

“He’s really not, Dad,” I said, then started to cry again, more out of frustration than anything else. There was no way I was going to be able to explain to my father that kids take photos like that all the time. Of themselves, of each other. I mean, it wasn’t like Finch had posted it. It wasn’t his fault that it had spread like it did. Now, the caption was a different story, maybe. But even that had a context. He’d been playing Uno and screwing around and I think he was just trying to be funny. I’m not saying it was funny, but I think there’s a difference between trying to be a dick and simply making a stupid, bad joke, especially when you’re drunk. At least that’s what I’d been telling myself. It was what I wanted to believe. Needed to believe.

Dad slid closer to me and put his arms awkwardly around my shoulders, kissing the top of my head. Part of me wanted to push him away, but I really needed a hug. “I’m so sorry, Lyla. I’m just trying to do the best I can,” he said, but this time he didn’t sound like a martyr—just a dad who really was trying.

“I know,” I said, sniffling.

“And if it helps, I do think Finch’s mother seems like a decent person. I think her heart’s in the right place.”

“You do?” I said, my voice muffled against his chest.

Dad backed up and looked at me, his brow all furrowed and sad. “Yeah…She’s worried about you.”

“She is?” I said, reaching past him for the wad of tissues on my nightstand.