All We Ever Wanted(77)

She looked a little stunned—or maybe just confused. “What does that mean?”

I hesitated, thinking of all the ways I could change the subject, then made a spur-of-the-moment decision that I was finished with small talk and surface conversation and diversions and lies of any kind, no matter how small. At least for right now, as I sat at my parents’ dining room table, with a kind man who had once loved me, and who still prayed to God before supper.

“It means,” I finally said, gathering strength I didn’t know I had, “I am filing for divorce.”





So it actually happened. I had sex with Finch. He would forever be the second person on my list. The act itself lasted only a couple of minutes, but that was okay. I think I actually preferred it on the quicker side—at least for our first time. For one, there was absolutely no mistaking how turned on he was. For another, it got us to my favorite part faster—which was just lying there together in the dark, feeling his chest rise and fall against mine.

“Wow, that was good,” he finally said, running his fingers through my hair.

“Yeah,” I murmured, more thrilled with every passing second.

“I’m sorry it was so…quick,” he said—which I thought was really sweet of him.

“No. It was great,” I said. “It was perfect.”

“Your body is perfect,” he said, kissing the top of my head.

The compliment melted me, but before I could thank him, we heard the basement door open and a woman’s voice.

“Finch?” she said, as light spilled down the steps, illuminating our bodies, reminding me of just how naked we were.

We both jumped, then froze. Finch put one finger to his lips, instructing me not to make a sound. I responded with a telepathic blink, praying that the door would close. After an agonizing few seconds, it did, darkness hiding us once again.

   “Hurry. Get dressed,” Finch whispered, as we both bolted upright, frantically searching for our clothes. One of his elbows jabbed me in the side, and I could feel fluid running out of me, down my leg, but those were the least of my concerns.

“I can’t see!” I said when I realized I was about to put on his shirt instead of mine.

“Hold on,” Finch said, producing his phone from somewhere, then panning the lit screen around the sofa area as we gathered our things and dressed in about twenty seconds.

“I thought you said she went to Bristol,” I said, feeling grateful that Finch hadn’t lasted any longer than he had.

“Um, yeeeah, Lyla. That wasn’t my mom,” Finch said.

“It wasn’t?”

“No.”

“Who was it?” I asked, although I suddenly knew, placing her voice.

“Polly,” he confirmed, now scrolling through his text messages.

“Is she still here?” I asked.

“How should I know?” he said, sounding a little harsh.

I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at me for asking a stupid question or simply pissed at Polly and the situation, but I said I was sorry, just in case.

“It’s not your fault. It’s her fault. She’s a psycho coming over here like this. And why are we hiding? This is my house.” Then he stood up and said, “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” I said, only because it seemed to be the answer he wanted. Then I stood up and trailed behind him as he charged up the stairs. But as he turned the corner, I stopped, just in time to hear her shriek.

   “Oh my God, Finch!” she said. “You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” Finch yelled back at her. “You’re the one who broke into my house!”

“I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked….”

“That doesn’t mean you can just barge in.”

“I saw your car.”

“So?”

“I thought maybe something was wrong. You wouldn’t return my calls or texts,” she said, her voice sounding whiny and desperate. “I thought maybe you’d gotten carbon monoxide poisoning or something.”

I rolled my eyes, thinking, Yeah right.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t you answer your phone? Or text me back?”

“Because,” he said. “I’m busy.”

“Doing what?” she demanded.

“Watching a movie.”

“A movie?” she said, as I could hear in her voice the accusation that was about to come. “Are you alone? Is there someone downstairs with you? Is Lyla here?”

It was horrifying to hear my name, yet also somehow validating, especially as I processed the jealousy in her voice. Polly was jealous of me.

And then it got more surreal. Because then Finch said, “Yep. She sure is. Hey, Lyla?” He belted out my name. “Come on up! Polly wants to say hello.”

It was my cue to frantically retreat, but Polly was too quick for me, whipping around the corner and staring right into my eyes. Later, I would process that my first and most immediate thought was that she’d done a shitty contouring job, her makeup way too dark for her complexion, likely in an attempt to cover up her freckles, which I’d heard she hated. But my second and more dominant thought was, Oh shit, she’s going to cry.