All We Ever Wanted(49)

   “Yeah,” he said. “So I am giving her—and by extension, her son—a chance tomorrow. Doesn’t that part make you happy?”

“I guess so,” I said, blowing my nose. “I just want this to be over.”

“I know, kiddo,” he said, nodding emphatically like we were in perfect agreement, when we both knew that my version of it being over was very different from his.

We sat in silence for a few seconds, and I could tell he wanted to say something else but didn’t quite know how to say it. So I finally just said, “Anything else, Dad?”

“Actually, yeah,” he said. “I did want to say one other thing. About your mother…”

“What about her?” I said.

“Nothing really…” he said, sounding uneasy. “Just that I don’t think it’s a terrible idea for you to visit her this summer. You’re old enough now, and I trust that you’ll make good decisions. She is your mother.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I think I’ll do that. I miss her.”

A look of hurt flickered across his face, and I realized, too late, that maybe I’d said the wrong thing. Then again, it was the truth. I did miss my mother. Maybe not even my mother but the idea of having one around. Especially at times like this, when a father’s idea of empathy just wasn’t enough.



* * *



—

THE NEXT MORNING, I got up early to shower and wash my hair. With thick, curly hair, I had to let it completely air-dry to look halfway decent, which gave me plenty of time to agonize over what to wear. All my stuff seemed either too “going out,” too churchy, or too everyday. Of course I called Grace for advice, even though we’d already talked the night before for over an hour, breaking down the whole situation. In general, she was sort of on the fence about everything—not nearly as pissed off at Finch as Dad was, but definitely still upset.

   As far as my wardrobe went, she simply said, “Don’t try too hard. Go casual.”

I agreed, as we talked through my options and settled on white jeans, tight and ripped at the knees, with a blue silk tank I’d found at a vintage shop. After she wished me luck for about the fourth time, I hung up and put on very light makeup. I wouldn’t have worn any at all—that’s how much Dad hates it—but I banked on him being too distracted by his frantic cleaning to really notice the subtle application. Our house is always freakishly neat, but that morning he really went to town, his OCD kicking in as he vacuumed and swept and Windexed every surface. At one point, he announced that he had to run an errand and returned with a bag of assorted pastries from Sweet 16th, which he proceeded to arrange on a dinner plate before transferring them to a platter he used when grilling out.

“The plate was better,” I said, glancing up from my latest issue of InStyle, pretending to be calm.

He nodded, looking a little busted, then put them back on the plate, walking it over to the coffee table. He put it down, along with a short stack of napkins he spread accordion-style. I took it as a hopeful sign that he would keep his word about having an open mind. At the very least, I knew he didn’t hate Mrs. Browning, as Dad never goes to any kind of effort when he hates someone.

At exactly eleven, the doorbell rang. Dad took a deep breath and walked slowly over to the front door as I stayed put on the sofa and ran my fingers through my hair, breaking up the crunch of the mousse. My stomach was in knots. Now out of my view, I heard Dad open the door and say hello. He then introduced himself to Finch and invited them in. I took a few deep breaths as they all came into sight, walking in single file, Mrs. Browning first, followed by Finch, then Dad. It was sort of surreal, the way it feels when you see a teacher at the grocery store or in another context besides school.

   “Please. Have a seat,” Dad said, pointing to the sofa next to me and one of the two chairs. He looked as nervous as I felt, but less pissed off than I expected.

Mrs. Browning sat on the sofa beside me, and Finch took the chair diagonally across from her, as both said hello. I kept my eyes on her, too nervous to look at Finch. She was even more beautiful and glamorous up close than she’d been from the bleachers in the gym, although her outfit was casual. She was wearing a crisp white blouse, the sleeves rolled in wide cuffs, skinny jeans, and gold flats. Her jewelry was cool and layered—delicate pieces mixed with chunkier ones, gold mixed with silver, or more likely platinum. Everything about her was chic but seemed effortless. As if she just woke up looking this put together.

“Lyla, this is Mrs. Browning,” Dad said. “And you know Finch.”

“Yes. Hi. Hello,” I said, without making eye contact with either of them.

“Would you like a croissant?” Dad said, looking at Mrs. Browning, then Finch. It was the first time I’d ever heard him say the word, and it sounded weird. Too French or something.

Finch eyed the plate like he wanted one but shook his head and said no thank you. Mrs. Browning declined as well, rendering the pastries pure, awkward decoration.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Dad said, which he probably should have offered first. “A coffee? Water?”

“I have one, thanks,” Mrs. Browning said, pulling a bottle of Evian out of her tote.

“Finch? Something to drink?” Dad said.