All We Ever Wanted(8)

   “Thank you,” I said, and as much as I wanted to shoot the messenger (or slap her across the face), I knew that Kathie was no longer the point. “I have to go now….I need to get back to Kirk.”

“Of course you do,” she whispered somberly, giving me a pat on the arm. “Bless your heart, Nina. I’ll be praying for y’all.”



* * *



—

WITHIN THIRTY MINUTES, Kirk and I were home, and I’d received the image from two other friends, including a hysterical Melanie, who recognized her son’s bedroom and was racing home herself.

“What in the world was he thinking?” I asked as Kirk and I stood on either side of the island in our kitchen.

“I can’t imagine,” Kirk said, shaking his head. “Maybe it was a dumb inside joke?”

“An inside racist joke?” I said, a fresh wave of despair washing over me.

“Well, it’s not really racist per se….” Kirk said.

“Seriously? Green card? It’s totally racist. Kathie said she’s Hispanic,” I said.

“Well, she really doesn’t look Hispanic….She just looks…like a brunette. Italian, maybe.”

I stared at him a beat, then shook my head, unsure how to even respond to this.

“Kathie doesn’t know everything,” Kirk said, reaching for the bottle of whiskey he’d left on the counter. I pushed it away from him.

“Okay. Look, Kirk. Even if she’s not Hispanic, his comment is still offensive and racist toward Hispanics,” I said, my voice steadily rising. “And regardless of this girl’s race or ethnicity, her nipple is showing! So if he did this, joke or not—”

   “Then he’s in trouble,” Kirk said. “Obviously. But maybe there’s more to the story….”

“Such as?” I said.

“I don’t know. Maybe someone took his phone. Maybe it’s a doctored screenshot. I have no idea, Nina. But try to calm down. We’ll get to the bottom of it soon enough.”

I nodded and took a deep breath, but before I could reply, we heard the front door open, followed by Finch’s footsteps in the foyer.

“We’re in the kitchen!” I called out. “Can you come here, please?”

A second later, our son appeared wearing a light-blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. His wavy blond hair looked messier than usual, and his whole appearance suddenly seemed to be cultivated, preppy sloppy.

“Hey,” he said, heading straight for the refrigerator with only a glance our way. He opened it and stared inside for several seconds before pulling out a bag of sliced roast beef. He peeled off a few pieces, then tossed the bag back in and pushed the door shut with his elbow.

“Aren’t you going to make a sandwich?” I asked.

“Too much trouble,” Finch said.

“How about a plate?” I said, anger bubbling inside of me. “Can you at least put that on a plate?”

He shook his head, grabbed a paper towel from the roll, then headed for the family room, stuffing roast beef in his mouth as he went.

“Where’re you going?” I called out after him.

“To watch TV,” he replied without looking back.

   “Come back here, please,” I said, circling the counter to stand alongside Kirk. “Dad and I need to talk to you.”

I glanced at Kirk, who wore a casual expression as he drummed his fingers on the edge of the counter. I nudged him with my elbow and made a mean face.

“Listen to your mother, Finch,” he said. “We want to talk….”

Finch turned around, looking more confused than worried, as I wondered how much he’d had to drink. “What’s going on?” he said, putting the last of the roast beef in his mouth and talking as he chewed.

“Will you please come here and sit down?” I said, pointing to one of the barstools.

Finch did as I asked but wore an expression of defiance.

“How was your night?” I said.

He shrugged and replied that it was fine.

“What did you do?”

“Went over to Beau’s.”

“Did he have a party?” I asked.

“No. Not a party. He just had some people over. Why? What’s with the third degree?”

I elbowed Kirk again, and he issued a perfunctory “Don’t talk to your mother like that.”

Finch mumbled “Sorry” as he ran his hand through his hair.

I waited for him to look back at me before I asked my next question. “Were you drinking?” I said, uncertain of what I wanted the answer to be. Would that make it better or worse?

“Yeah,” Finch said. “I had a few beers.”

“How many?” I asked, wishing that Kirk and I had been stricter about drinking. We’d never come out and given him our permission to consume alcohol, but we had looked the other way on a beer here and there. It was, after all, why we allowed him unlimited spending on Uber.

   “I didn’t really count,” he said. “Maybe three or four?”

“That’s too many,” I said.

“I didn’t drive.”

“Well. Isn’t that great,” I said. “You deserve a medal.”