All We Ever Wanted, Page 3

  “Yes, it is,” she said breezily. “Besides, I was bidding more for charity than the trip itself.”

  “Certainly,” I said, noticing, not for the first time, how seldom she blinked. It made her big, wide-spaced eyes even more irritating.

  Meanwhile she gave me a look so grave that I had no real choice but to ask what was wrong.

  She inhaled deeply, pressing her palms together while she glanced up at the ceiling, as if gathering strength. “Oh, dear. Do you not know?…” Her voice trailed off.

  I knew her pretense to compassion well—and that the charade was simply a precursor to gossip. Perhaps someone had passed out at the dinner table. Or was dancing inappropriately with someone else’s spouse. Or had debuted a bad boob job. There was plenty of fodder to work with at any gala.

  “Don’t know what?” I asked, against my better judgment.

  She winced, pursed her lips, then drew another amazingly slow breath. “Finch’s Snapchat,” she whispered on the exhale with a fleeting but unmistakable expression of glee.

  My heart sank, but I told myself to remain strong, resist her entrapment, say nothing. So that’s what I did, simply staring at my own reflection, brushing an additional layer of gloss over my lipstick.

  It was clear that my silence both confused and frustrated her, and it took her a few seconds to find her footing. “You obviously haven’t seen…?”

  “No. I don’t have Snapchat,” I said, seizing a slice of the moral high ground that comes with opting out of any form of social media.

  She let out a little laugh. “Well, good heavens, I don’t either. And even if I did, it wasn’t on his ‘story.’…Apparently he sent the photo to his friends.”

  “Then how did you see it?” I asked, putting my gloss back in my bag.

  “Someone took a screenshot and it spread. Like wildfire…Lucinda sent it to me a few minutes ago. During Kirk’s speech, actually. But don’t worry. She won’t share it further. She’s very discreet when it comes to these sorts of things, and we’ve been strict with her about appropriate usage of social media.”

  “That’s so kind of her,” I said, thinking of Kathie’s daughter Lucinda, and how she shared her mother’s meddling tendencies. My mind raced with the possibilities. What could Finch possibly have texted that could warrant all of this drama? Perhaps he’d bragged a bit too much about Princeton? Or maybe he was drinking a beer in celebration? I reminded myself to consider the source—that this was vintage Kathie, stirring the pot so she could look superior, then play savior. But I still caved, turning away from the mirror and staring directly into her bug eyes. “So what was in the photo, Kathie?”

  “It was a photo of a girl,” she quickly replied, lowering her voice to a loud whisper, likely hoping that people were eavesdropping.

  “And? So?” I said, trying to remain unflappable.

  “So,” she began. “So…the girl was basically…naked.”

  “What? Naked?” I said, crossing my arms in disbelief. There was no way, no chance Finch would ever do something so stupid. Everyone knew that that was 101 on how to get thrown out of Windsor, right up there with stealing.

  “Well…half naked, anyway…”

  I bit my lower lip, now envisioning a lingerie-clad model—or perhaps a risqué photo of Polly, who could be known to dress a bit provocatively, but no worse than many of the other girls. “Well,” I said, turning again toward the door. “Kids will do that—”

  Kathie cut me off. “Nina. She was passed out. On a bed.”

  “Who is this she?” I snapped.

  “Her name is Lyla. I guess she’s a sophomore at Windsor? Hispanic girl. Maybe you should see it….” She whipped her phone out of her Chanel bag and pulled up her text messages, an image filling her screen. She held it out for me to see.

  I took a deep breath and looked down. At first glance, all I saw was a girl lying on her back on a bed, mostly dressed or at least far from naked, and I felt a small wave of relief. But as I peered more closely, I saw the details. Her little black dress hitched both up and down, as if someone had tried unsuccessfully to yank it off—or haphazardly put it back on. Her thighs slightly apart. Her calves dangling over the foot of the bed, her bare feet not quite touching the floor. And her left breast spilling out of a bra, nipple and all.

  There were other details, too, less jarring than the girl herself, though somehow still disturbing. The dingy clutter of a teen boy’s bedroom. A tan comforter. A nightstand covered with beer bottles and crumpled tissues. A poster of a band I didn’t recognize, its members grungy, menacing, tattooed. And very strangely, a green Uno card in the girl’s left hand, her fingers curled around it, her nails painted crimson.

  I took a few breaths, trying to remain calm, hoping that there was some explanation. That, at the very least, this image had nothing to do with Finch.

  “Did you read the caption?” Kathie asked, still holding the phone in front of my face.

  I looked down again, squinting at the photo, this time seeing Finch’s name, as well as the words that were typed onto the image, blending in with the comforter. I read them, hearing Finch’s voice: Looks like she got her green card.

  My heart sank as any defense of my child melted away.

  “I’m sorry,” Kathie said, slowly pulling her phone away from me, then stowing it in her bag. “I especially hate that this happened on a night when you and Kirk are being honored….I just thought you should know.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and as much as I wanted to shoot the messenger (or slap her across the face), I knew that Kathie was no longer the point. “I have to go now….I need to get back to Kirk.”

  “Of course you do,” she whispered somberly, giving me a pat on the arm. “Bless your heart, Nina. I’ll be praying for y’all.”

  * * *

  —

  WITHIN THIRTY MINUTES, Kirk and I were home, and I’d received the image from two other friends, including a hysterical Melanie, who recognized her son’s bedroom and was racing home herself.

  “What in the world was he thinking?” I asked as Kirk and I stood on either side of the island in our kitchen.

  “I can’t imagine,” Kirk said, shaking his head. “Maybe it was a dumb inside joke?”

  “An inside racist joke?” I said, a fresh wave of despair washing over me.

  “Well, it’s not really racist per se….” Kirk said.

  “Seriously? Green card? It’s totally racist. Kathie said she’s Hispanic,” I said.

  “Well, she really doesn’t look Hispanic….She just looks…like a brunette. Italian, maybe.”

  I stared at him a beat, then shook my head, unsure how to even respond to this.

  “Kathie doesn’t know everything,” Kirk said, reaching for the bottle of whiskey he’d left on the counter. I pushed it away from him.

  “Okay. Look, Kirk. Even if she’s not Hispanic, his comment is still offensive and racist toward Hispanics,” I said, my voice steadily rising. “And regardless of this girl’s race or ethnicity, her nipple is showing! So if he did this, joke or not—”

  “Then he’s in trouble,” Kirk said. “Obviously. But maybe there’s more to the story….”

  “Such as?” I said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone took his phone. Maybe it’s a doctored screenshot. I have no idea, Nina. But try to calm down. We’ll get to the bottom of it soon enough.”

  I nodded and took a deep breath, but before I could reply, we heard the front door open, followed by Finch’s footsteps in the foyer.

  “We’re in the kitchen!” I called out. “Can you come here, please?”

  A second later, our son appeared wearing a light-blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. His wavy blond hair looked messier than usual, and his whole appearance suddenly seemed to be cultivated, preppy sloppy.

  “Hey,” he said, heading
straight for the refrigerator with only a glance our way. He opened it and stared inside for several seconds before pulling out a bag of sliced roast beef. He peeled off a few pieces, then tossed the bag back in and pushed the door shut with his elbow.

  “Aren’t you going to make a sandwich?” I asked.

  “Too much trouble,” Finch said.

  “How about a plate?” I said, anger bubbling inside of me. “Can you at least put that on a plate?”

  He shook his head, grabbed a paper towel from the roll, then headed for the family room, stuffing roast beef in his mouth as he went.

  “Where’re you going?” I called out after him.

  “To watch TV,” he replied without looking back.

  “Come back here, please,” I said, circling the counter to stand alongside Kirk. “Dad and I need to talk to you.”

  I glanced at Kirk, who wore a casual expression as he drummed his fingers on the edge of the counter. I nudged him with my elbow and made a mean face.

  “Listen to your mother, Finch,” he said. “We want to talk….”

  Finch turned around, looking more confused than worried, as I wondered how much he’d had to drink. “What’s going on?” he said, putting the last of the roast beef in his mouth and talking as he chewed.

  “Will you please come here and sit down?” I said, pointing to one of the barstools.

  Finch did as I asked but wore an expression of defiance.

  “How was your night?” I said.

  He shrugged and replied that it was fine.

  “What did you do?”

  “Went over to Beau’s.”

  “Did he have a party?” I asked.

  “No. Not a party. He just had some people over. Why? What’s with the third degree?”

  I elbowed Kirk again, and he issued a perfunctory “Don’t talk to your mother like that.”

  Finch mumbled “Sorry” as he ran his hand through his hair.

  I waited for him to look back at me before I asked my next question. “Were you drinking?” I said, uncertain of what I wanted the answer to be. Would that make it better or worse?

  “Yeah,” Finch said. “I had a few beers.”

  “How many?” I asked, wishing that Kirk and I had been stricter about drinking. We’d never come out and given him our permission to consume alcohol, but we had looked the other way on a beer here and there. It was, after all, why we allowed him unlimited spending on Uber.

  “I didn’t really count,” he said. “Maybe three or four?”

  “That’s too many,” I said.

  “I didn’t drive.”

  “Well. Isn’t that great,” I said. “You deserve a medal.”

  Finch heaved a sigh and said, “Why’re you so pissed off, Mom? You know I drink.”

  “We’re both very, very upset, Finch. But it’s not just about the drinking,” I said, then took a deep breath, pulled my phone out of my purse, and found the image saved to my camera roll. I slid it across the counter and watched him look down at it.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  My heart sank.

  “Mrs. Parker showed it to Mom. At our event tonight,” Kirk replied.

  Finch glanced at me as I nodded. “Yeah. So let that one sink in….But, honestly, is that really what you’re worried about here? Where I got it?”

  “I was just wondering,” Finch said.

  I took a breath and said, “Did you take it?”

  “Mom, it’s a long story…and it’s not as bad as it looks….I bet she wouldn’t even be that mad….”

  “Who is she?”

  “Just some girl,” he said.

  I turned the words over in my head, feeling absolutely sickened. “Does this girl have a name?” I asked him.

  “Yeah. It’s Lyla Volpe….Why?”

  “Why? Because you posted a photo of her half naked, Finch. That’s why,” I said, feeling myself become hysterical.

  “It wasn’t posted. It just got sent to a few people. And she wasn’t half naked, Mom.”

  “I saw her nipple, Finch,” I said. “That counts as naked to me.”

  “Well, it’s not like I took her clothes off….”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because that would make it assault.”

  “Assault? C’mon, Mom. You’re overreacting,” he said with a weary sigh. “Nobody assaulted her. She drank too much and passed out. That’s not my problem.”

  “On the contrary, son, this is your problem,” Kirk said, as if the gravity of the situation was finally setting in for him. “Many people have seen this photo. It’s out there.”

  “And…green card, Finch? Really?” I said.

  “It was just a joke, Mom.”

  “It’s racist,” I said. “You took a photo of a half-naked girl who was passed out, and then made a racist joke about her.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his eyes and voice.

  “That you did it? Or that you got caught?” I asked.

  “C’mon, Mom. Please. Stop. I’m really sorry.”

  “What were you thinking? I mean, actually what was going through your mind?” I said.

  Finch shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Nothing?” I said, floored by his answer, though maybe it was better than if he had set out to hurt someone. Still, the result was the same. The injury wasn’t any less.

  When he didn’t reply, I got more upset. “How could you do this, Finch? I just don’t get it. It’s so…cruel! This is not the way your father and I have raised you!”

  “And beyond that, do you realize what you’ve risked here?” Kirk asked, finally raising his voice, too. “How stupid and irresponsible this was? You could be expelled!”

  “C’mon, Dad, that’s crazy,” Finch said.

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “It’s not far-fetched at all, actually. Hell, forget Windsor. You could be sued in court.”

  “On what grounds?” Kirk asked me, as if I were a legal expert.

  “I don’t know—I’m not a lawyer,” I said, my voice rising. “Defamation? Child pornography?”

  “Pornography? Come on, Mom,” Finch said.

  “Yeah. This is hardly a porno,” Kirk chimed in.

  “Porn, Kirk,” I said. “They dropped the o two decades ago.”

  “Yes. Because that’s the important point here,” Kirk said under his breath.

  “Look. There is enough here to bring a lawsuit,” I said. “I am certain of that. Bottom line, this girl and her parents could always claim emotional distress—”

  “Mom, there’s no emotional distress,” Finch said.

  “There’s not?” I asked, incredulous. “How would you know? Did you ask her? Do you care about her feelings at all?”

  “She’ll be fine, Mom. This kind of thing happens all the time.”

  “Happens? It doesn’t just ‘happen.’ You did it!” I started to rant again.

  Kirk held up his hand and said, “Look. It’s not about the girl.”

  “It’s not?” I said. “What’s it about, then, Kirk? Enlighten me?”

  Kirk cleared his throat. “This is about his shitty judgment.” He turned his gaze to Finch and said, “Son, you showed terrible judgment tonight that could jeopardize your future. You really have to think—”

  “Not just think. You have to feel, too,” I said, cutting Kirk off. “You can’t treat people like this.”

  “I don’t, Mom. It was just—”

  “A lapse of judgment,” Kirk finished for him.

  “Well, unfortunately, it’s not that simple,” I said.

  Because deep down, I knew that even if every person out there deleted the picture from their phones, and Lyla and her parents and the administration of Windsor
never caught wind of it, and Finch truly was sorry, everything had still changed. At least for one of us it had.

  I’ll never forget the first moment I laid eyes on Beatriz. I was sitting in a dive bar in Five Points, back when East Nashville had not yet become a hipster hangout and had all been a dive. My dive. It wasn’t the kind of spot you’d expect to see a beautiful girl, especially all alone, but she walked in solo, which was kind of alluring in and of itself. She happened to also be my type, with dark hair and eyes, bronzed skin, plenty of curves. The tight red dress didn’t hurt her cause, either.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said to my buddy John without averting my gaze.

  John laughed. “Who? The J.Lo lookin’ one?”

  I said yeah, her.

  “Why? Did ya fuck her?” John asked, chewing on a straw, watching her as she approached us. He was the kind of loud, good-looking guy that hot girls gravitated toward, especially in bars late at night.

  “No. But I’m gonna try,” I said with a laugh. “And then I might marry her.”

  John laughed. “Yeah. Oookay,” he said, hopping off his stool. He slapped me on the back, and when she was within earshot, he added, “Good luck with that, buddy.”

  She glanced at him, then smiled at me, clearly aware of why he thought luck was needed.

  “May I?” she asked, gesturing to the now free stool.

  “Yes,” I said, catching a whiff of her hair. It smelled like that suntan oil girls slathered on themselves. Coconut, I guess. I tried to think of something clever to say but came up blank, so I just said the truth. “I don’t do pickup lines, but…you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” Then, realizing how cheesy that sounded, I stupidly added, “In this bar.”

  “In this bar?” she asked with a low, sexy laugh as I noticed that her left front tooth was adorably crooked. She looked around, glancing purposefully at a group of not very pretty girls sitting on the other side of me.

  “Okay, fine. Anywhere,” I clarified, no longer caring if I sounded cheesy. She was that pretty.