All We Ever Wanted(51)

I looked at him, feeling skeptical. What issues could Polly possibly have? She was rich and beautiful—the female equivalent of Finch. Plus she was dating him. She had him. So what if he flirted a little with me? That meant nothing compared to their long-standing relationship. Or did it?

“Anyway. We broke up over it,” he finished.

“You did?” I said, my voice cracking. “Because of me?”

“No. Because of what she did to you.”

My head spinning, I said, “Does your mom know? That Polly did it?”

He shook his head and said, “No.”

“Does anyone?”

“No,” he said again.

“Why not? Why haven’t you told anyone the truth?”

Finch sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know….It’s hard to explain, and I just can’t get into everything….But…let’s just say Polly has a lot of issues.”

“Like what?” I said.

Finch sighed and said, “I can’t really say.”

I stared at him, suddenly remembering rumors I’d heard earlier in the school year about an eating disorder and cutting. A very small, ugly part of me had sort of hoped they were true, if only to believe that nobody’s life was that perfect. But a bigger part of me assumed that the rumors were lies, born from the same jealousy I felt when I scrolled through her glittery, glamorous Instagram. Now I believed them—and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. More because she’d lost Finch than anything else. I told myself to get over that. She’d made her own bed. She didn’t deserve my sympathy.

   “You have to tell the truth,” I said. “At your hearing. You have to tell them that you didn’t do this. That she did.”

He shook his head, adamant. “No, Lyla. I just can’t do that to her….Beyond her…issues…she’s been in trouble before. This would be her second offense….She’d definitely get thrown out. I don’t want that on my conscience.”

I glanced toward the backyard again, wondering how much time we had before Dad and Nina returned. “You can’t take the blame for this,” I said.

“Yes, I can,” he said. “Please respect my decision.”

“But you could get suspended or expelled. You could lose Princeton.”

“I know,” Finch said. “But I don’t think that will happen.”

“What do you think will happen?”

He sighed, shrugged, and said, “Well, hopefully, I go through this honor process, and take the blame for the picture….But somehow I don’t lose Princeton. And…Polly gets help….And you don’t hate me….” His voice was soft and sweet—the way boys almost never sound except in the movies with slow, romantic songs playing in the background.

“I don’t hate you,” I said, my heart skipping random beats.

“Really?”

“Really,” I said.

“Okay. So…given that you don’t hate me…” He hesitated, dropping his eyes. “I was wondering…if you might like to hang out sometime?”

Light-headed, I tried to process what he was asking. Surely it was only a theoretical question. “You and me?” I said.

“Yeah. You and me,” he said.

   “When?” I said.

“I don’t know…soon? Are you free tonight?”

“I’m not sure my dad would be cool with that,” I said. A huge, huge understatement. “Besides, aren’t you grounded?” I asked, having heard the rumors of his harsh punishment. That he wasn’t allowed to leave his house for the rest of the spring and summer.

“Yeah. But given the circumstances, I’m betting my parents might make an exception here,” he said, just as the side door opened and my dad and his mom reappeared.

“Was that enough time?” Mrs. Browning asked, peering over at us.

“Yes,” Finch and I answered in unison.

She looked hesitant, but returned to her original seat on the sofa, as my dad stood nearby and offered coffee again.

This time, Mrs. Browning said, “Sure. I’d love one, thank you.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“No, thank you. Black’s fine,” she replied.

Dad nodded and walked toward the kitchen, while the three of us just sort of sat there. I caught Mrs. Browning giving me a once-over, and then smiling at me.

“I love your top,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, pleased. “I got it at a vintage shop.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“Star Struck. On Gallatin. Do you know it?”

“Of course,” she said.

“It’s a little pricey. But sometimes you can find deals.”

Mrs. Browning smiled and said, “Yes. Shopping can be a very strategic enterprise. Sometimes I think it’s the hunt I like more than the actual purchase.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” I said. Then I added, “I really like your shoes.”

   She did a little Dorothy there’s-no-place-like-home heel tap and thanked me as Dad returned with her coffee, handing her the mug.

It fleetingly occurred to me that Mrs. Browning was being too nice—and I felt a dash of suspicion. What if she and Finch had come here with the goal to win me over? A “good cop, bad cop” thing, though this was two good cops. I told myself that I was being crazy as Mrs. Browning looked at Finch and said, “So? Did you two…talk?”