All We Ever Wanted(73)

We stayed in the PG-13 zone for several minutes, before things escalated again and he reached up under my bra, unfastening the front closure after a couple tries. He cupped my breasts with his palms and told me how perfect they were.

The compliment made me feel bold, and I sat up and took my shirt all the way off, then rolled back on top of him, straddling him as he worked on the button fly of my jeans. It was taking too long, so I finished the job while he took off his own shirt, then sweats. Only his boxers and my red Victoria’s Secret thong were between us. I was glad I’d worn it, just in case.

Now on top of me, he reached down and touched me through the silk, whispering how good I felt, how wet I was. Then he slid his middle finger around the edges of my thong, dipping it inside me, just a little bit.

I arched my back, raising my hips up to his hand, both because it felt good and because it seemed like the sexy thing to do, and I desperately wanted to be sexy for him. I fleetingly thought of Polly, how much hotter she was than me, but I reminded myself that he wasn’t this hard for her or moaning her name right now.

“I want you, Lyla,” he added. “I want you so bad.”

“I want you, too,” I said.

   “Have you…before?” Finch whispered, kissing my ear, his breath giving me goosebumps everywhere.

I hesitated, then tried to answer by reaching down and taking hold of him with my hand. My strategy seemed to work for a second, as he made a little groaning sound. But a second later, he seemed to remember his question. “So you’re not a virgin?” he pressed.

“No,” I finally said, because I didn’t want to lie—and because I thought he might stop if he thought I was a virgin. And I didn’t want him to stop.





Ileft Julie’s and drove the three miles to my parents’ house around suppertime (I only called it “supper” when I was back in Bristol; otherwise it was “dinner,” no matter how casual or early). As I pulled into our cul-de-sac, then parked behind my dad’s white Cadillac in the carport, I vowed to keep things light, both because I was too drained for more deep conversation and because I didn’t want to prematurely worry them. But the second I walked into the house from the garage, my mom started firing questions at me.

“Is everything okay?” she said before the door was even closed.

“Everything’s fine,” I said.

“Why the last-minute visit?” she asked, standing in the direct path of the kitchen.

I took a deep breath and said, “Because I wanted to see you. And Julie. I had a lovely afternoon with her.” It probably wasn’t the most accurate characterization of our day, but it wasn’t a lie either.

Clearly Mom wasn’t buying it, though, because she literally started wringing her hands—something I’d never seen anyone actually do. “What are Finch and Kirk doing today?” she asked, frowning.

“Kirk’s coming back from a business trip. He was in Dallas,” I said, hearing that woman saying honey again.

   “And Finch?” Mom said.

“He had to study…exams coming up.”

I set my purse down on the small wooden pew that had been in the back hallway adjoining the laundry room, powder room, and kitchen for as long as I could remember. It was where my brother and I used to stow our book bags and rain boots and sporting equipment. I felt a pang of nostalgia, a feeling I associated with my mother—one of her defining traits. She was generally a happy person but had a tendency to live in the past, making frequent references to “when you kids were little.”

I played on that theme and said, “Can’t a girl visit her parents without an inquisition?”

“A girl can,” Mom said as I navigated my way around her. “But this one usually doesn’t.”

It was a fair point—my trips back to Bristol had become few and far between in recent years, usually only for my parents’ birthdays or a major holiday. And sometimes not even then. Occasionally, I’d squeeze a guilt-induced weekday into the mix, but our weekends were just too crammed with social plans. “Well. Times are a-changing,” I said, thinking aloud.

“Oh?” Mom said, raising her eyebrows, her radar really going off now. “And why’s that?”

“Well, you know. With Finch going off to college,” I said, wondering if it would still be Princeton, “I’ll have more time.”

It was what I always said to my parents. What I always told myself as the months and years had flown by. As soon as we get out of this stage or that stage. Out of middle school, once Finch can drive, once he gets into college. And yet somehow, life had only gotten busier, more complicated.

“Hey, whatever works for you,” Mom said. “We’re just glad to see you.”

   “Yes. We’re thrilled to see you, sweetie,” Dad said, walking into the kitchen from the front hallway, giving me a big hug. He was wearing one of his fishing shirts, even though he didn’t fish, using all the assorted loops and pockets for reading glasses or writing instruments. Tonight, he was showcasing not one but two mechanical pencils.

“You, too, Dad,” I said, as I inhaled his famous Sloppy Joes simmering on the stove. I spotted a fresh pack of Wonder hamburger buns, the primary-color dots on its package conjuring childhood, and next to it, a tinfoil-lined baking sheet covered with thawing frozen French fries. I noticed they were sweet potato, my mom’s idea of gourmet.