All We Ever Wanted(78)

   Sure enough, she burst into hysterical tears, returning to the kitchen, where she and Finch began to scream at each other.

“First the concert and now this?” she shouted. “How could you do this to me?”

“We’re broken up, Polly,” he said, words that filled me with relief. Not that I’d doubted his story, but it was still good to hear confirmation. They were broken up; I hadn’t just slept with another girl’s boyfriend.

“I want you back.”

“No.”

“Please, Finch. Just talk to me.”

“No. You need to leave, Polly. Now.”

“But I love you,” she sobbed. “And I know you love me, too.”

“No,” he said, his voice ice cold. “I don’t, Polly. Now get out.”

At that point, I started to feel a little bit sorry for her—which sucked because I wanted to just hate her. I told myself not to be fooled. To remember what she had done to me. Then, as if refreshing my memory, I heard her voice turn from pitiful to cruel as she screamed, You can’t possibly actually like that pathetic slut? And if that weren’t bad enough, she added some really colorful stuff about how I’d probably give him an STD and try to get pregnant on purpose so I could get some of his money.

I forced myself to stop listening at that point, focusing only on my breathing, fighting back tears, convincing myself how absolutely ludicrous her charges were. I’d never had an STD, and the last thing in the world I wanted was to get pregnant. I didn’t like Finch for his money—I didn’t want his money at all. She had me all wrong. She knew nothing about me. And I had no reason to feel bad about myself.

   So why then, I wondered, long after Finch had gotten rid of her and then driven me home, profusely apologizing all the way, did I feel so ashamed? Like maybe she was right, and I actually was a little bit of a slut?





After a cursory kitchen cleanup (Mom always insists we leave the dishes for later), I excuse myself to check my phone. There is a text from Kirk that came in while we were eating, saying simply: I’m home. Finch says you’re in Bristol? I don’t answer it. I then check my voicemail, finding a lone message from Melanie. Her tone is frantic and dramatic, as she gives me a convoluted report about hearing from Kathie, who heard from her daughter, who heard from someone else, that there had been some sort of “Lyla-Polly showdown” at our house this afternoon. “Lovely,” I say aloud, contemplating what to do.

Instead of calling Melanie back, or trying to reach Finch to get to the bottom of things, I realize my only concern is for Lyla. So at the risk of being a tattletale, I text Tom: I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I have good reason to believe our kids have been spending time together….I believe they went to a concert last night, and I understand from Melanie (and the usual rumor mill) that Lyla was at our house today. I’m in Bristol at my parents’ and don’t believe Kirk was home, either. Although we do not have a rule against girls being over when we’re not home (we should!), I did not give Finch permission to invite Lyla over, and something tells me you did not grant yours, either. I also heard that there was a situation with Finch’s ex-girlfriend, Polly, coming over and confronting Lyla. Details unclear and very possibly blown out of proportion, but given everything, I felt it was the right thing to share this information with you. I’ll be home tomorrow, but feel free to call me tonight. I’m sorry. Again.

   I wait a moment, hoping for a response, relieved when I get it: She did not have my permission. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll talk to her and be in touch.

Feeling sick, but deciding there is nothing more I can do for now (and that there is certainly no point in trying to enlist Kirk’s assistance), I put my phone back in my purse. Then I join Teddy and my parents, who have retired to our back porch. Mom is serving her signature Pepperidge Farm mint Milano cookies with glasses of crème de menthe. I can see Teddy has declined the sweet nightcap and is sticking with his Corona.

As I take the only free seat, on the sofa next to Teddy, I have the distinct feeling they have been discussing me.

“What did I miss?” I say.

“Oh, nothing, really,” Dad says. “Is everything okay at home?”

We all hear that it’s a rather ridiculous question—so I smile and say, “No worse than usual!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Mom says.

After dropping my bomb and accepting their condolences, I’d insisted that I would be fine and that it was all for the best. I’d even tossed in the glib but often true statement It is what it is.

“Yes, I’m sure. Not tonight,” I say, desperate for an emotional escape. “Why don’t you just tell us some stories?”

You never have to ask my mother twice.

She launches into a long, rambling story about my brother and me trying to get “lost” in the woods on a family vacation so we could be like Bobby and Cindy Brady. She then finishes by saying, “That was back when Nina was willing to go camping. These days her idea of roughing it is a Comfort Inn or Hilton Garden.” She laughs, then looks at me and adds, “Though come to think of it, I bet you wouldn’t do those, either!”

   “Stop it,” I say, feeling defensive. “I’ve stayed at my share of Comfort Inns and Hilton Gardens.”