All We Ever Wanted(52)

“Yes,” he said, nodding.

“And?”

“And…it was good, Mom,” he said, his voice loud and clear.

Mrs. Browning looked at me, as I dumbly echoed Finch. “Yeah. It was good,” I said.

Dad frowned. “Good how?”

“Good…in that…he’s very sorry for what happened,” I stammered.

“Yes. And I’d love the chance to talk with Lyla a little more,” Finch added. “If that’s okay with you, Mr. Volpe?” His voice rose along with his eyebrows.

“Now?” Dad asked.

“No,” Finch said. “Not now. But maybe another time…Lyla and I could get together and talk?”

I held my breath, watching Dad process the request. “Are you trying to ask my daughter out?”

“Well…actually…yes, sir,” Finch said.

“On a date?” Dad said, his voice getting louder and his face redder.

“Dad,” I said, mortified that he was trying to label it. “He didn’t say a date.”

But Finch rose boldly to the challenge. “Yes, sir. On a date. I want to get to know her better. And I want her to know me. I’m just asking for the chance to prove that I’m really not a bad person. Although I know I’ve done nothing to deserve that chance.”

   I cleared my throat and made myself speak up. “Yes, you have,” I said, my heart racing. “You coming here today means a lot to my dad and me. Right, Dad?” I said, prompting him, wondering if he was going to be a total hypocrite and recant everything he’d said about giving Finch a chance.

It took him another few seconds to finally answer. “I guess,” Dad grumbled, shifting his gaze from me to Nina, then back to Finch. “But you know this changes absolutely nothing about your hearing next week?”

“Of course. Yes, sir,” Finch said. “Besides. Even if I wanted to get out of it, my mom would never let me….” He smiled.

Dad didn’t smile back.

“But I don’t,” Finch added. “Want to get out of anything. I know I have to face my punishment.”

Dad nodded, his jaw relaxing a little. “Okay,” he said.

“So I have your permission to ask Lyla out?” Finch asked. “At some point?”

Dad rolled his eyes, then took a deep breath. “I can’t stop you from asking her out,” he said. “But I’d be very surprised if she said yes.”





“How do you feel?” I asked Finch on the way home from the Volpes’ house. We were in my car, but he was driving.

“I feel great,” he said. “Really great. I’m so glad we did that.”

I felt a wave of relief as I said to my son, “Doesn’t it feel good to do the right thing?” The question was a little heavy-handed, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing over at me. “It really does….And Lyla? She’s a cool girl….”

He bit his lip, smiled, and slowly shook his head, the way he did when watching an amazing play in a football or basketball game. It was in stark contrast to Kirk—who always got up and clapped and yelled at the television.

“Yeah. She is,” I said, thinking that there was something about Lyla that seemed lacking in other girls I knew through Finch, Polly in particular. A certain genuine quality. Polly was always perfectly polite, saying all the right things to me, making eye contact and fluid small talk. Yet there was something about her that seemed almost too polite, scripted even.

“Mr. Volpe was nice, too,” Finch said.

I nodded, thinking of our conversation on the back porch. We’d talked about Finch and Lyla, wondering how it was going inside. But we’d also discussed kids today in more general terms. How they hid behind their phones, saying things that they’d never say directly to someone’s face—whether mean or sexual or just plain bold. We pitied them, and pitied ourselves as their parents. Tom never let Finch off the hook for what he’d done to Lyla, but he’d definitely softened since the coffee shop.

   Finch slowed at a yellow light, then came to a full stop. His foot on the brake, he looked at me, big-eyed. “So, Mom. I think I am going to ask Lyla out at some point….You heard Mr. Volpe say I could, right?”

“Yes,” I said, still surprised Tom had left the door open on that possibility. “But you also heard him say she probably wouldn’t go….”

He nodded, now staring up at the light, waiting for it to change. “Yeah. Well. Maybe I’ll just call her. I really want to talk to her some more,” he said as the light turned to green.

I understood the feeling—I wanted to keep talking to Tom, too. Conversation felt healing, and we all needed that.

“In any case, I think you should wait until after your hearing,” I said, part of me worried about how it would look: Finch manipulating the situation. On the one hand, I was tired of worrying about appearances, sick of making decisions based on what others might think. But on the other, this just wasn’t a good idea.

“Yeah,” Finch said. “I got it.”

“Also, just so you know, I’m going to tell Dad about our meeting and your apology,” I said. “As soon as he gets home…”