All We Ever Wanted(92)

   Her voice is calm and reassuring as she tells me she’s going to hang up and call Polly’s parents—and she’ll head over to see me after that.

“Are you sure?” I say, feeling guilty. “I know it’s getting late.”

“I’m sure, Lyla,” she says. “I’ll be right there.”





After leaving Tom and Lyla’s house earlier this afternoon, I do not go home. I can’t. Instead, I drive around again. Only this time, it’s not quite as aimless. As filled with despair as I am, I have a vague purpose now, along with hope. I am looking for somewhere to live after I move out, trying to imagine the beginning of a new, different life. I decide East Nashville really might be the answer. Not the only answer—I can actually picture moving back to Bristol for a while. Or maybe I’ll get an apartment in Princeton—or wherever Finch winds up going to college. But if I do stay in Nashville, I want to be on this side of the river, with people less like Kirk and Melanie, and more like Tom and Lyla. All I know for sure is that Finch is now my only real priority, and wherever I physically end up, I will do everything I possibly can to help him become a good man. The person I know he can be.

As afternoon becomes evening, I wind up at the same coffee shop in Five Points where Tom and I first met. Our table is taken, but I sit at the one next to it, laying out the real estate brochures and newspapers that I’ve picked up over the day. I then pull a pen from my purse and start circling listings while I sip a decaf latte. I allow myself to dream a little about all the possibilities of a new life that could lie ahead for Finch and me.

   Then, just as I’m gathering up my things with thoughts of going home, my phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. At first I think it might be a realtor calling me back, as I’ve contacted a few already. But when I answer it, I hear a girl’s voice saying, “Mrs. Browning?”

“Yes,” I say. “Is this Lyla?”

“Yes. My dad just gave me your number….Are you busy?”

“No,” I say. “I was just finishing coffee. I’m at Bongo. The one near you.”

“Oh, wow,” she says, then blurts out, “Could you come get me?”

“Now?” I say.

“Only if you can….I’m just worried, and it’s kind of hard to talk to my dad about this,” she babbles, then uses the word emergency. Of all things, she says she’s worried about Polly. That she may do something to hurt herself.

“Why do you say that?” I ask, heading toward my car. “What happened?”

“She’s just really, really upset about some things,” Lyla says.

I tell myself that teenage girls are prone to melodrama, and yet, I can’t help but think of some of the calls I’ve answered for Nashville’s suicide helpline, as well as the girl from Windsor who took her life. The very reason Kirk and I went to the gala the night of Beau’s party. “Honey, let me try to call the Smiths,” I say. “Then I’ll head over to see you. Okay?”

“Are you sure?” Lyla says. “I know it’s getting late.”

“I’m sure, Lyla,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”

In a low-grade panic, I hang up and log on to the Windsor directory, finding the Smiths’ home and cell numbers. I don’t expect them to answer—and they don’t—but I leave multiple messages asking them to please call me. I add that it’s urgent and about Polly. Then I start my car and drive back to Avondale for the second time today.

   When I arrive five minutes later, I see Lyla standing by the street, her white high-top sneakers, light jeans, and a silver bomber jacket all glowing in my headlights. There’s no way that I could miss her, but she still waves frantically at my car, then runs up to my window.

“Hi,” she says, out of breath. “Did you call Polly’s parents?”

“Yeah. I tried them, but no one answered.”

“She’s not answering her phone, either,” Lyla says.

“Okay,” I say, trying to stay calm. “I think I’ll drive over there and knock on the door. Just to be sure.”

Lyla nods, then asks if she can come with me.

For reasons I can’t pinpoint in the adrenaline-filled moment, I feel relieved by the offer. Her mere presence. “Okay,” I say. “Is it all right with your dad?”

“Yes. I told him you were coming over. But I’ll text him,” she says, then runs around my car and gets in. The second her door is closed and her seatbelt fastened, she pulls her phone from her jacket pocket.

As I do a quick three-point turn, then make a right on Ordway, I ask Lyla to tell me more about her conversation with Polly.

I feel her looking at me as she hesitates, then says, “She told me that she has proof it wasn’t her who took that picture of me. And that there are other pictures, too. Of other girls.”

“What kind of pictures?” I say.

“You know…embarrassing…sexual-type pictures she doesn’t feel like she can tell Mr. Q or her parents about.”

As things start to come into horrifying focus, I clench the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking. “Lyla?” I say. “Did Finch take these pictures?”

   “Yes. Along with Beau, apparently,” Lyla says softly. “I might not have believed her…but Polly sent me one of them tonight. It was of me. And Finch. When I was passed out. And it was…really bad.”