As far as Dad goes, I think he can’t help blaming himself just a little for the way things went down. And maybe he even thinks that if the two of them had had the don’t-go-to-bed-mad rule, he could have convinced her to go to rehab or tried to figure their messed-up shit out. I doubt it, and I bet Dad doubts it, too. But I still wonder sometimes, and I bet he does, too.
In any case, when Dad came back in my room, I was glad, even though I was still really pissed. Before he could say anything, or throw another pity party for himself, I went off. “Look, Dad. I’m totally grateful to you for being a good father and everything, but this whole deal is really killing me.”
“Killing you?” he said, doing the calm routine again.
“It’s just an expression, Dad.”
He nodded.
“Yes. I mean, honestly, the last thing I’d want to do in the world is sit down with the Brownings. Like, I’d rather walk through fire. Or pull my toenails out.”
“It’s not my idea of a good time, either,” Dad said.
“Then why are we doing it? Whose idea was it, anyway?” I asked.
“Nina’s,” he replied. “Mrs. Browning’s.”
I stared back at him, processing the information, as well as her name. Nina. It was so classy and elegant, totally fitting the memory I had of her from senior night at the last home basketball game, which was the only time I had ever seen her. Finch was one of four seniors on the team, so he’d walked out to midcourt before the game with both his parents. I don’t remember anything about his dad, other than that he was tall like Finch, but I remember thinking his mother was so pretty and stylish. She was petite, with shoulder-length honey-blond hair, and her outfit was soo good: dark denim, knee-high boots, and an ivory cape with a fringe of pom-poms.
“She called you?” I asked. I couldn’t help being a little intrigued by their exchange.
“She emailed me,” Dad said. He glanced down at the laundry basket again, then walked over to the edge of my bed.
“When?” I said. This business of him keeping secrets was another thing that had changed between us, although to be fair, that worked both ways. There was plenty of stuff I hid from him, too. And not just the drinking.
He finally sat down, and put his hand on my foot, squeezing it through my fuzzy sock. I instinctively pulled my knees up, hugging them to my chest.
He looked hurt or offended, maybe both, as he said, “A few days ago.” He paused. “Then we met for coffee.”
“Well, that’s super weird,” I said, in part because it just was, and in part because my dad never meets anyone for coffee.
“What’s so weird about it?” he said, with an odd look on his face—because he totally knew it was weird, too.
“Besides, like, everything?” I said.
He shrugged. “Okay. Maybe a little. But we had a pretty decent talk.”
“Great,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Lyla.”
“I’m not. I am glad you had a good talk and all. But can’t that be a wrapski?” I said, using one of my dad’s expressions.
“No. It can’t be a wrapski,” Dad said.
“Why not?”
“Because this boy owes you an apology, Lyla. It’s important. It’s important we all sit down together and talk about this. Nina and I agree on that.”
“Okay. But why do we have to meet here?”
“What’s wrong with meeting here?” he said, sounding so defensive. “Are you ashamed of where you live?”
“No,” I said—which was sort of a lie. Ever since I started at Windsor in the ninth grade, and realized how much money people around me had, I actually was a little embarrassed about our neighborhood and house. Of course I was even more embarrassed for feeling this way. “It’s just awkward,” I said again, trying to spare Dad’s feelings.
“Not more ‘awkward’ than that photo!” Dad said, getting all agitated and huffy again. “That photo, Lyla, is pretty damn awkward.”
I looked down, hit by a fresh wave of shame. More than all the drama at school, it killed me that Dad had seen me like that—passed out drunk with my boob hanging out of my dress—and whatever else he saw when I got home that night that I don’t fully remember. He might have already guessed that I drank occasionally, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t think I got shit-faced or had sex. Of course the photo wasn’t confirmation of the latter, but it certainly was a strong clue that I wasn’t the perfect angel he thought me to be.
“Daaaad. Why can’t you try to have a little empathy here? If not for Finch, then for me?” I said, using a big hot-button word at Windsor. Mr. Q often touched on empathy during assemblies, and the concept trickled down into a lot of class discussions.
“Whoa, whoa,” Dad said. “I’m sorry, what? I’m supposed to have empathy for Finch in this situation?”
“Yeah. You actually are. For everyone. It’s called forgiveness, Dad. Ever heard of it?”
“Forgiveness is earned, Lyla. He’s done nothing—”
“Well, isn’t that why he’s coming over?” I shouted over him. “I mean, what’s the point of all of this talking with Nina…and…and coming over to apologize if you’ve already made up your mind about him?”
Dad shook his head, looking dumbfounded, then said, “I just don’t understand why you’re not more pissed off by what this kid did to you. I really don’t.”
He paused, clearly expecting me to respond. But I had no response—at least not one I wanted to share with him.
“Finch is the one who should be worried about tomorrow,” Dad continued. “Not you. But I bet he’s not. Because he’s an asshole.”
“He’s really not, Dad,” I said, then started to cry again, more out of frustration than anything else. There was no way I was going to be able to explain to my father that kids take photos like that all the time. Of themselves, of each other. I mean, it wasn’t like Finch had posted it. It wasn’t his fault that it had spread like it did. Now, the caption was a different story, maybe. But even that had a context. He’d been playing Uno and screwing around and I think he was just trying to be funny. I’m not saying it was funny, but I think there’s a difference between trying to be a dick and simply making a stupid, bad joke, especially when you’re drunk. At least that’s what I’d been telling myself. It was what I wanted to believe. Needed to believe.
Dad slid closer to me and put his arms awkwardly around my shoulders, kissing the top of my head. Part of me wanted to push him away, but I really needed a hug. “I’m so sorry, Lyla. I’m just trying to do the best I can,” he said, but this time he didn’t sound like a martyr—just a dad who really was trying.
“I know,” I said, sniffling.
“And if it helps, I do think Finch’s mother seems like a decent person. I think her heart’s in the right place.”
“You do?” I said, my voice muffled against his chest.
Dad backed up and looked at me, his brow all furrowed and sad. “Yeah…She’s worried about you.”
“She is?” I said, reaching past him for the wad of tissues on my nightstand.
“Yeah,” he said. “So I am giving her—and by extension, her son—a chance tomorrow. Doesn’t that part make you happy?”
“I guess so,” I said, blowing my nose. “I just want this to be over.”
“I know, kiddo,” he said, nodding emphatically like we were in perfect agreement, when we both knew that my version of it being over was very different from his.
We sat in silence for a few seconds, and I could tell he wanted to say something else but didn’t quite know how to say it. So I finally just said, “Anything else, Dad?”
“Actually, yeah,” he said. “I did want to say one other thing. About your mother…”
“What about her?” I said.
“Nothing really…” he said, sounding uneasy. “Just that I don’t think it’s a terrible idea for you to visit her this summer. You’re old enough now, and I trust that you’ll make good decisions. She is your mother.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I think I’ll do that. I miss her.”
A look of hurt flickered across his face, and I realized, too late, that maybe I’d said the wrong thing. Then again, it was the truth. I did miss my mother. Maybe not even my mother but the idea of having one around. Especially at times like this, when a father’s idea of empathy just wasn’t enough.
* * *