All We Ever Wanted(90)

“I don’t know. To frame Polly?” I say, desperately hoping that that’s not the case.

Melanie continues to tell me how unstable I sound, how worried she is about me, how nothing is more important than “our boys.”

I can’t hear another word of it. I tell her that I have to go. And that, for the record, I can think of a few things that are just as important—maybe more.

“Like what?”

“Like honesty and truth and character?” I say.

   “Oh my God, Nina,” she says. “It’s like you think you’re better than all of us.”

“Better than who?” I say, really wanting to know.

“Your husband. And all of your friends. At least I thought we were your friends.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I really thought so, too.”





Afew minutes after we get home from visiting Dad’s friend Bonnie (who I never even knew existed before today), Mrs. Browning shows up at our house. Dad’s back in his bedroom, so I answer the door, feeling reassured to know that he actually has friends.

“Hi, Lyla,” she says, looking and sounding frazzled. She’s wearing almost no makeup and workout clothes, her hair in a messy ponytail.

“Hi, Mrs. Browning,” I say. “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, please. I’d really like to talk to you and your dad,” she says, just as he appears in the hallway behind me.

I brace myself for a tense exchange, but Bonnie’s calming effect seems to have lingered because he just says hello and asks her to come in. Then we all walk into the living room. The two of them sit on the sofa, and I take Dad’s chair.

Mrs. Browning speaks first, staring down at her hands. “I’m so sorry about everything that’s happening.” She looks up at my dad, then turns her gaze to me.

“It’s okay,” I say, betting that Dad will correct me, and announce that it’s not okay.

But he doesn’t, saying only “Thank you, Nina.”

   “Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

Mrs. Browning takes a deep breath, then says, “May I ask you something, Lyla?”

I nod, staring back at her.

“Who do you think took that photo of you? Finch? Or Polly?”

I hesitate, not because I have any doubts whatsoever, but because I know she or my dad will probably ask for my reasons next, and it’s really hard to put everything into words.

“Go ahead, Lyla. Tell her what you think,” Dad says.

“I think Polly took it,” I blurt out. “And I think she wrote that word on our porch, too….I think she’s done everything out of jealousy…because she knew she was losing Finch. And now she’s lost him. For good.”

My cheeks burn as I say the last part, picturing what Finch and I did in his basement, and knowing Polly has very good reason to be jealous. I don’t dare look over at Dad, for fear that he’ll be able to figure that last part out.

“But weren’t they still dating on the night of the party?” Mrs. Browning asks, looking so worried and confused. “When the photo was taken?”

“Technically, I guess,” I say with a shrug, acknowledging to myself that maybe Finch’s version of the story doesn’t completely add up. But then I remember the way he looked at me when I was standing in Beau’s kitchen. And it all makes sense again.

Dad and Mrs. Browning wait for me to say more, but when I don’t, they look at each other instead. It’s almost as if they’re having a conversation with their eyes. Not the kind that Finch and I have had—more of a we’re-in-this-bullshit-together type gaze. I take the opportunity to stand and slip out of the room, feeling immense relief when neither of them tries to stop me.

   A few seconds later, I’m alone again. I close my door, find my phone, and climb into my bed. All I want to do is talk to Finch. I feel certain that he has a positive update, too, and that we are only hours away from his name being cleared. One step closer to being together—if we aren’t already.

But I quickly discover that Finch has not called or even texted. Instead I see a text from Polly. My heart sinks. The last thing I want to do is read her attacks. But you can’t just ignore a message from your enemy. So I open it and read.


Dear Lyla, I am so sorry that I called you a slut. It was a really ugly thing to say, and I actually don’t think that about you. I’ve just been really upset and confused about so much. But I did NOT take that picture of you. It was Finch and Beau. And I have proof. I also have something else really big to tell you. Will you please call me? Please, Lyla. I’m desperate and scared and begging you. From the bottom of my broken heart, Polly



I finish reading, telling myself that she’s full of shit. Just trying to cover her ass and pin everything back on Finch because that’s how bitter and jealous she is. The very definition of a hater. I tell myself to delete the text and erase every word from my memory.

But I can’t and don’t. Because deep down, I’m feeling pretty scared, too.



* * *



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THE AFTERNOON CRAWLS by as I read Polly’s text over and over and over, believing her a bit more each time. What makes me feel so much worse is that Finch doesn’t call or text. I end up falling asleep, with my ringer on high just in case.