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THE NEXT MORNING, I got up early to shower and wash my hair. With thick, curly hair, I had to let it completely air-dry to look halfway decent, which gave me plenty of time to agonize over what to wear. All my stuff seemed either too “going out,” too churchy, or too everyday. Of course I called Grace for advice, even though we’d already talked the night before for over an hour, breaking down the whole situation. In general, she was sort of on the fence about everything—not nearly as pissed off at Finch as Dad was, but definitely still upset.
As far as my wardrobe went, she simply said, “Don’t try too hard. Go casual.”
I agreed, as we talked through my options and settled on white jeans, tight and ripped at the knees, with a blue silk tank I’d found at a vintage shop. After she wished me luck for about the fourth time, I hung up and put on very light makeup. I wouldn’t have worn any at all—that’s how much Dad hates it—but I banked on him being too distracted by his frantic cleaning to really notice the subtle application. Our house is always freakishly neat, but that morning he really went to town, his OCD kicking in as he vacuumed and swept and Windexed every surface. At one point, he announced that he had to run an errand and returned with a bag of assorted pastries from Sweet 16th, which he proceeded to arrange on a dinner plate before transferring them to a platter he used when grilling out.
“The plate was better,” I said, glancing up from my latest issue of InStyle, pretending to be calm.
He nodded, looking a little busted, then put them back on the plate, walking it over to the coffee table. He put it down, along with a short stack of napkins he spread accordion-style. I took it as a hopeful sign that he would keep his word about having an open mind. At the very least, I knew he didn’t hate Mrs. Browning, as Dad never goes to any kind of effort when he hates someone.
At exactly eleven, the doorbell rang. Dad took a deep breath and walked slowly over to the front door as I stayed put on the sofa and ran my fingers through my hair, breaking up the crunch of the mousse. My stomach was in knots. Now out of my view, I heard Dad open the door and say hello. He then introduced himself to Finch and invited them in. I took a few deep breaths as they all came into sight, walking in single file, Mrs. Browning first, followed by Finch, then Dad. It was sort of surreal, the way it feels when you see a teacher at the grocery store or in another context besides school.
“Please. Have a seat,” Dad said, pointing to the sofa next to me and one of the two chairs. He looked as nervous as I felt, but less pissed off than I expected.
Mrs. Browning sat on the sofa beside me, and Finch took the chair diagonally across from her, as both said hello. I kept my eyes on her, too nervous to look at Finch. She was even more beautiful and glamorous up close than she’d been from the bleachers in the gym, although her outfit was casual. She was wearing a crisp white blouse, the sleeves rolled in wide cuffs, skinny jeans, and gold flats. Her jewelry was cool and layered—delicate pieces mixed with chunkier ones, gold mixed with silver, or more likely platinum. Everything about her was chic but seemed effortless. As if she just woke up looking this put together.
“Lyla, this is Mrs. Browning,” Dad said. “And you know Finch.”
“Yes. Hi. Hello,” I said, without making eye contact with either of them.
“Would you like a croissant?” Dad said, looking at Mrs. Browning, then Finch. It was the first time I’d ever heard him say the word, and it sounded weird. Too French or something.
Finch eyed the plate like he wanted one but shook his head and said no thank you. Mrs. Browning declined as well, rendering the pastries pure, awkward decoration.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Dad said, which he probably should have offered first. “A coffee? Water?”
“I have one, thanks,” Mrs. Browning said, pulling a bottle of Evian out of her tote.
“Finch? Something to drink?” Dad said.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Finch replied.
Meanwhile I just sat there, wanting to die, as Mrs. Browning announced that Finch had something to say to me.
I nodded, staring at a wide gold bangle sliding up and down on her arm as she pushed her glossy blond hair behind her ear.
“Yes,” I heard Finch say. He then said my name, and I looked directly at him for the first time.
“I’m really sorry for what I did,” he said. “I was drinking—not that that’s an excuse. It was stupid and immature and a really awful thing to do. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I mumbled, but Dad interjected in a loud voice that it actually wasn’t okay.
“Dad,” I said under my breath. “Stop.”
“No,” Finch said. “He’s right. It’s not okay.”
“It’s not,” Mrs. Browning chimed in. “And for what it’s worth, Finch wasn’t raised like that.”
“Like what?” Dad said, though he managed to sound more curious than confrontational.
“To be ignorant. Or mean. Or insensitive,” Mrs. Browning said, her voice shaking a little as if she might cry. Something about her didn’t strike me as a crier, though, and Dad’s expression tough cookie crossed my mind.
Finch and I made eye contact for one second before he turned to Dad and said, “Mr. Volpe, do you think I could talk to Lyla alone for a moment?”
Dad looked speechless for a beat, then said my name in a question as if asking for my permission. I nodded, keeping my eyes lowered.
“Okay,” Dad said. “Nina and I can step outside for a minute….” His voice trailed off as they both stood. She followed him to the kitchen, then out the side door to the backyard.
When I heard the door close, I raised my chin and looked at Finch. He gazed back at me with those sick blue eyes. When he blinked, I could see the curl of his blond lashes. It made my chest ache, even before he said my name, as a low and whispery question.
“What?” I said softly, my face on fire.
Finch took a deep breath, then said, “I’ve been debating this…but I really think I need to tell you exactly what happened that night….”
“Okay,” I said, eyeing the back door and feeling sick to my stomach. I couldn’t see Dad or Mrs. Browning but pictured them sitting together at the picnic table.
“So, you know how we were playing Uno?” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, Polly and I got into an argument at one point. Did you notice?”
I shrugged, even though I had.
“Well, we did….And it was over you.”
“Me?” I said, shocked.
“Yeah. You.”
“Why?” I asked.
“She was jealous. You looked so hot in that black dress….She saw me looking at you…accused me of flirting…and she got pissed.”
“Oh,” I said, a mix of emotions washing over me. Confusion that Polly would ever be jealous of me, worry that I had caused an argument, but mostly just a strange, warm tingling at hearing him call me hot. In the past, a few boys had said as much in the comments of my Instagram posts, but no one had ever said it so plainly to my face.
“Anyway,” he said. “One thing led to another….” His voice trailed off. “Are you following?”
I shook my head, confused by his one thing led to another. Was he talking about his fight with Polly? Or about me? I fleetingly wondered if something had happened between us. Something physical. But there was no way. I would have remembered that. I remembered every look Finch had ever given me.
“Listen, Lyla,” Finch said, leaning toward me, saying my name breathlessly. “I wasn’t the one who took that photo of you. I wasn’t the one who wrote that caption. And I wasn’t the one who sent it to my friends.” He bit his lower lip, then ran his hand through his wavy blond hair. “Do you follow me?”
“What? No. Not really,” I said, my mind and heart both in a dead sprint. Suddenly, a realization washed over me. “Wait. Was it Polly?…Did she have your phone?”
He slowly but distinctly nodded. “Yes. She took it because she thought you and I were talking…texting.”