All We Ever Wanted(83)

Finch takes a deep breath, finally showing his nerves—or at the very least, some pretty solid acting skills. “Polly did it,” he says, speaking rapidly. “Or one of her friends. If she didn’t do it herself, she knows who did. She was involved for sure.”

“Son, this is a pretty big accusation to make,” Quarterman says. “Do you have any sort of proof?”

“Not concrete proof,” Finch says. “But yesterday…Polly called Lyla…that word.”

“You mean a slut?” I force myself to say, my heart pounding in my ears.

Finch holds my gaze, then slowly nods. “Yes, sir. That’s the word she used.”

Something inside me snaps, and I lean toward him, seething. “Do you think you’re at all responsible here?”

Finch shakes his head and says, “No, sir. I didn’t do anything to your porch.”

“Well, don’t you think your photo of my daughter contributed to this?”

Finch returns my angry glare with a blank stare. Any goodwill built up from his visit Saturday morning goes out the window, and I have to fight a strong urge to lunge at him.

“I don’t understand what you mean—” he begins.

“What Mr. Volpe is saying,” Quarterman translates for me, “is that your photo—the one you took of Lyla—has perhaps put all of this in motion.”

Finch blinks, then boldly shakes his head and says, “No, sir. With all due respect, I do not agree with that statement.”

This time, I do leap out of my seat, taking some satisfaction at the look of fear on his face.

   “Mr. Volpe! Wait! Please listen!” he shouts, holding his palms up. “I didn’t take that photo of Lyla! And I didn’t write the caption. And I didn’t send it to anyone!”

“What?” Quarterman and I shout in unison.

“I swear!” Finch continues. “Ask Lyla. She knows it’s the truth!”

“Well, you either lied then, or you’re lying now. Which is it?” Quarterman asks.

“I was lying then, sir. And I’m very sorry for that. But I’m telling you the truth now. I didn’t take the photo of Lyla.”

“Well?” I yell at him. “Who took it, then?”

“Polly took it,” he says, glancing at Quarterman, then back at me. “I was covering for her….But after what she said to Lyla? And what she wrote on your porch? She doesn’t deserve my help.”

He shakes his head, then stares me down so boldly that I am positive only one of two scenarios can be true. Finch is either completely innocent or a total sociopath. He’s either more like his mother or exactly like his father. I have no clue which one it is, but I will find out.





Iwake up a little after 4:00 A.M. in my childhood bedroom, knowing that I won’t be able to fall back asleep. I’m just too anxious, my mind spinning with thoughts of the past, the future, and the miserable moment of limbo that I’m in. Part of me regrets my candor last night. First in telling everyone about my plans to file for divorce—because no matter what he’s done, Kirk deserves the respect of hearing my decision before others. But also in telling Teddy about what happened to me in college. I know what they say about the truth setting you free, but really, what was the point in worrying and upsetting everyone?

Worse than regret about my past decisions, I dread what’s to come. I dread seeing Kirk, and I dread confronting Finch about the concert and the incident at our home. But I know I must, and that there is no point in stalling any further. So I get up, quickly make the bed, brush my teeth, and get dressed. I throw my pajamas and toiletries back into my overnight bag and tiptoe downstairs, expecting to leave a goodbye note and slip out the door. But my mother is sitting in her bathrobe at the counter, playing solitaire on her laptop.

“You’re leaving?” she says, glancing up at me before clicking on her next move. “So early?”

   “Yeah. I have a lot of stuff I need to do today.”

She nods, then asks if she can make me a cup of coffee for the road.

“That would be great, Mom,” I say. “Thank you.”

She stands, walks over to the stove, and turns on the kettle. I smile to myself, realizing that she means instant coffee. Sure enough, she pulls out a jar of Folgers, along with powdered creamer and packets of Splenda and Equal.

“Black’s fine,” I say, thinking I might dump it out once I’m on the road and wait until I pass a Starbucks, or at least a Chick-fil-A. Then again, maybe my mom’s instant coffee is exactly what I need right now.

We both lean against the counter, waiting for the water to boil, looking straight at each other. “I’m so sorry about you and Kirk,” she finally says.

“I know, Mom,” I say. “I’m sorry, too.”

“I know this is none of my business, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” she begins—which is sort of an unprecedented disclaimer for my mom. “But…do you think there’s someone else?”

I shrug and say, “Honestly, Mom? I’m not really sure. Probably so…But that’s not really why I’m leaving….I could get over an affair, I think, if that were the only issue.”

“You could?” she says.