All We Ever Wanted(50)

   “I’m fine, thank you,” Finch replied.

Meanwhile I just sat there, wanting to die, as Mrs. Browning announced that Finch had something to say to me.

I nodded, staring at a wide gold bangle sliding up and down on her arm as she pushed her glossy blond hair behind her ear.

“Yes,” I heard Finch say. He then said my name, and I looked directly at him for the first time.

“I’m really sorry for what I did,” he said. “I was drinking—not that that’s an excuse. It was stupid and immature and a really awful thing to do. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I mumbled, but Dad interjected in a loud voice that it actually wasn’t okay.

“Dad,” I said under my breath. “Stop.”

“No,” Finch said. “He’s right. It’s not okay.”

“It’s not,” Mrs. Browning chimed in. “And for what it’s worth, Finch wasn’t raised like that.”

“Like what?” Dad said, though he managed to sound more curious than confrontational.

“To be ignorant. Or mean. Or insensitive,” Mrs. Browning said, her voice shaking a little as if she might cry. Something about her didn’t strike me as a crier, though, and Dad’s expression tough cookie crossed my mind.

Finch and I made eye contact for one second before he turned to Dad and said, “Mr. Volpe, do you think I could talk to Lyla alone for a moment?”

Dad looked speechless for a beat, then said my name in a question as if asking for my permission. I nodded, keeping my eyes lowered.

“Okay,” Dad said. “Nina and I can step outside for a minute….” His voice trailed off as they both stood. She followed him to the kitchen, then out the side door to the backyard.

   When I heard the door close, I raised my chin and looked at Finch. He gazed back at me with those sick blue eyes. When he blinked, I could see the curl of his blond lashes. It made my chest ache, even before he said my name, as a low and whispery question.

“What?” I said softly, my face on fire.

Finch took a deep breath, then said, “I’ve been debating this…but I really think I need to tell you exactly what happened that night….”

“Okay,” I said, eyeing the back door and feeling sick to my stomach. I couldn’t see Dad or Mrs. Browning but pictured them sitting together at the picnic table.

“So, you know how we were playing Uno?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, Polly and I got into an argument at one point. Did you notice?”

I shrugged, even though I had.

“Well, we did….And it was over you.”

“Me?” I said, shocked.

“Yeah. You.”

“Why?” I asked.

“She was jealous. You looked so hot in that black dress….She saw me looking at you…accused me of flirting…and she got pissed.”

“Oh,” I said, a mix of emotions washing over me. Confusion that Polly would ever be jealous of me, worry that I had caused an argument, but mostly just a strange, warm tingling at hearing him call me hot. In the past, a few boys had said as much in the comments of my Instagram posts, but no one had ever said it so plainly to my face.

   “Anyway,” he said. “One thing led to another….” His voice trailed off. “Are you following?”

I shook my head, confused by his one thing led to another. Was he talking about his fight with Polly? Or about me? I fleetingly wondered if something had happened between us. Something physical. But there was no way. I would have remembered that. I remembered every look Finch had ever given me.

“Listen, Lyla,” Finch said, leaning toward me, saying my name breathlessly. “I wasn’t the one who took that photo of you. I wasn’t the one who wrote that caption. And I wasn’t the one who sent it to my friends.” He bit his lower lip, then ran his hand through his wavy blond hair. “Do you follow me?”

“What? No. Not really,” I said, my mind and heart both in a dead sprint. Suddenly, a realization washed over me. “Wait. Was it Polly?…Did she have your phone?”

He slowly but distinctly nodded. “Yes. She took it because she thought you and I were talking…texting.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Because of the way we were looking at each other.”

“But we weren’t texting, were we?” I said, remembering that my dad had gone through my messages. Maybe he had erased a thread? Was that possible?

He shook his head. “No. I mean, I wanted to….If I had had your number, I might’ve…but no, it was just eye contact….But Polly could tell. Women’s intuition or whatever.”

I nodded. Because of course I could tell, too.

“So I got buzzed and kind of lost track of my phone….”

“And she used it to take that photo of me?” I asked, wanting to make absolutely certain I was hearing him right.

“Yes,” Finch said. “That’s exactly what happened.”

   “Wow,” I said under my breath, mostly to myself. “What a…bitch.”

“I know….I mean—she’s not usually that kind of a person. She’s really not….She’s just going through some things.”