I heard the past tense in her statement—which brought more tears—as I thought about how much time the three of us shared when Finch was little. During those early years, I’d go back to Bristol at least once or twice a month, whenever Kirk had to travel for more than a day or two, and although we stayed at my parents’ house, Finch always clamored to see Auntie Jules. On one visit, as Julie was really struggling with infertility, she told me that Finch gave her some peace. That even if she couldn’t have children of her own, she’d always have her godson. That’s how real and special their bond was.
Even after her twin daughters, Paige and Reece, were born when Finch was about five, we still got together often, including a week’s vacation at the beach every summer. Finch was so sweet to the girls, spending hours patiently playing in the sand, building castles, digging holes, and letting them bury him when he would have rather been out in the surf.
I asked her now what she would do if something like this happened to the girls.
She hesitated, then said, “They’re only in the seventh grade. So I can’t imagine it…yet.”
“Yes, you can,” I said because one of Julie’s many gifts was her imagination, a by-product of a highly evolved sense of empathy.
“Okay, you’re right,” she said with a sigh. “Well…I’d hang him by the balls.”
Her response was a punch in my stomach, but I knew it was the truth, and I now felt a little scared thinking of legal ramifications beyond Windsor’s walls. “Meaning what, exactly?” I said.
“I’d press charges,” she said, with what seemed to be anger. Was she angry with me or with Finch? Or was she simply angry on a young woman’s behalf?
“What charges would those be, exactly?” I said softly.
She cleared her throat, then said, “Well. There’s a new law in Tennessee. A sexting bill passed last year…Any minor sending sexually suggestive photos could be labeled a felon or sex offender for involvement with child pornography—which means he’d be put on the Sex Offender Registry until age twenty-five. It also means that the minor would be required to report this on all job and college applications.”
Now full-fledged crying, I couldn’t speak.
“I’m sorry, Nina,” she said.
“I know,” I managed to reply, hoping that she couldn’t tell just how upset I was.
“Of course…Adam might try to talk me out of pressing charges,” she said, speaking of her husband—a laid-back, even-keeled firefighter who, incidentally, occasionally hung out with my high school ex-boyfriend Teddy, now a cop.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I just think he’d say we should let the school handle it. And for what it’s worth? I don’t think this will go to the courts, either….For all the money you guys pay for school? I think this girl’s father will probably trust them to handle it.”
“Maybe,” I say.
She sighed and said, “So has Finch apologized to her yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Well, that needs to happen….”
“I know. What else do you think we should do?”
“Well…let’s see….If one of my girls did something like this to one of their classmates?…” She mused aloud.
“They would never,” I said, thinking that they had zero mean-girl tendencies.
“Yeah…but I guess you never really know,” she said. It was a generous statement, and I could tell she was grasping at straws to comfort me. “Anyway…I don’t know what we’d do, exactly….But I do know that we wouldn’t be trying to get them off the hook.”
I stiffened. “We’re not trying to get Finch off the hook, Julie.”
“Really?” she said, sounding skeptical. “So what is Kirk going to do when he calls this girl’s father?”
“Well, for one, apologize,” I said, wishing I had left off that part of the story—or at least my own conjecture that Kirk had manipulative intentions. After all, he hadn’t spelled anything out to me. Maybe all he had in mind was an apology.
“And for another?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
More silence.
“Well,” Julie said. “I think this is a real fork in the road for Finch….And I know Kirk is thinking in terms of Princeton….But there is much more at stake here.”
I was pretty sure I knew what she was getting at, but it still hurt to hear, and part of me was getting a little resentful, too. She really could be harsh, especially when it came to Kirk. “I’m sure it will work itself out,” I said, my voice sounding strained.
If she noticed the tension, she pretended not to. “Well, I’m not so sure a thing like this just ‘works itself out,’?” she began. “And maybe I shouldn’t say this, but—”
“Then don’t,” I blurted out. “Maybe some things are best kept to ourselves.”
The exchange was unprecedented in our friendship, but then again, so was the feeling that she questioned the character of my only child. Her own godson. For some reason, that was easier to focus on than the fact that I was wondering about his character, too.
“Okay,” she said, her voice softer but not at all remorseful.
I told her I had to go, then thanked her for her advice.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Anytime.”
On Monday evening, as I was cleaning up the dinner dishes, I got a call from a blocked number. Something told me I should answer it, and I listened to a man’s voice I didn’t recognize say, “Hello. Is this Thomas Volpe?”
“Yes. This is Tom,” I said, stopping in my tracks.
“Hi, Tom,” the man said. “This is Kirk Browning. Finch’s father.”
For a second, I couldn’t speak.
“Hello?” he said. “Are you there?”
“Yeah. I’m here. What can I do for you?” I said, my fist clenched as I gripped the phone with my other hand.
His reply was slick and fast. “It’s not what you can do for me. I want to do something for you. I want to try to repair what my son has done.”
“Huh,” I said. “I’m really not sure that’s going to be possible.”
“Yes. I realize that may be the case,” he said. “But I was wondering if there’s any way we could get together and talk?”
My instinct was to say no, there was nothing he could say to me—and I had less than nothing to say to him. But then I told myself there actually was a lot I wanted to tell this man. “Yeah. Okay,” I said. “When?”
“Well, let’s see….I’m out of town at the moment…back on Wednesday morning. Does Wednesday night work? My house around six?”
“Um, no. That actually won’t work for me. I’m with my daughter in the evenings,” I said to make a point.
“Well, you tell me when,” he replied—which was what he should have said in the first place.
“Wednesday at noon,” I said, hoping it wasn’t at all convenient for him. That he might even have to get on an earlier flight.
He hesitated, then said, “Sure. That works. I land at eleven. Can we say twelve-thirty just to be safe?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Great. Can I give you my address?”
“Yeah. Just text it to me. And this time? Don’t block your number.”
* * *
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