On Friday night, right when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Dad came into my room and dropped another bomb on me. A stealth bomb.
“Get some sleep,” he said, standing in the doorway in a Titans T-shirt and sweatpants. “We have a meeting in the morning.”
“What kind of meeting?” I said, feeling suspicious because we never had appointments and stuff on the weekends. Dad knows that I love to sleep in on Saturdays, and it really is my only day to do so because he often guilt-trips me into going to mass with Nonna (who is sort of obsessed with being Catholic) on Sunday mornings.
“Finch Browning and his mother are coming over,” he said all nonchalantly, like I wasn’t going to notice.
I waited for the punch line, but there wasn’t one. “What? Why?” I demanded.
“To talk,” he said, taking another step into my room and glancing down at a laundry basket filled with clean clothes that he’d put there and asked me to fold the night before. Usually he does that for me—or at least refolds everything after I do a shit job (Dad is totally OCD about the weirdest things)—but I could tell he was trying to be stricter all of a sudden. As if his folding my laundry for me had been a contributing factor in my decision to drink at a party.
“Talk about what?” I said, horrified.
“What do you think, Lyla?” he said.
“I don’t know, Dad,” I said as sarcastically as I could. “That’s why I asked you—since you obviously set this up.”
“I would imagine—and this is just a wild guess—that we’re going to talk about what Finch did to you,” he said super-calmly and just as sarcastically.
I’m not sure exactly what I pictured going down tomorrow, but he might as well have just suggested that the four of us sit naked around a table playing Monopoly. Like, I really couldn’t think of anything more painfully awkward than rehashing what Finch did to me.
“Wow. So you really are trying to completely ruin my life?” I said. It actually felt like an understatement. I held my breath because I wasn’t fooled. I knew that at any moment, he could erupt. These days my dad went from zero to a hundred in no time at all. Actually, there was never a zero anymore. He was always pretty amped up and ready to explode.
“Not at all,” he said. “I’m trying to be a good father. That’s all.”
“Yeah. Well. Good fathers don’t usually try to destroy their daughters’ lives.”
I’d finally pushed his button, so he made a huffing sound, then threw up his hands like a pissed-off cartoon dad, and left the room mumbling, “You must have me confused with your other parent.”
I almost chased after him to tell him to stop playing the martyr. I mean, yeah, I get that Mom completely sucked in the parenting department. But Mom’s over-the-top sucking shouldn’t give Dad extra credit for doing the same basic job that everyone else’s parents were doing. I honestly couldn’t believe I’d never thought to make the point before and couldn’t wait to lay it on him, but I couldn’t make myself get up. So I just lay in bed low-key crying until Dad came back to my room—which I knew he would. He’d never stated aloud the don’t-go-to-bed-mad rule, but he more or less followed it. He’d always at least come back to say a civil good night. I heard Nonna once say that it was because he had “a weak stomach for conflict,” but I think it actually might have something to do with the way Mom left us.
Neither one of them had ever been entirely clear about what had happened when she jetted off in the middle of the night, but I got the gist that they’d had a big fight over me. It was something about Mom drinking too much and almost letting me drown at a pool party. (Though Mom insisted that I knew how to swim from a few lessons at the Y, Dad maintains that I’d only learned how to turn my face to the side to blow bubbles.) Anyway, Dad was furious at her “negligence”—and she was pissed off at his “judgmentalness”—if that’s even a word. She was so pissed off, in fact, that she left. For good.
“Your father made it clear that he thought you would both be better off without me. And I suppose he was right,” Mom told me one of the times she came back. She was a master at painting herself as the victim even when talking to me, her abandoned daughter.
I almost pointed out that he wasn’t beating her. Like, being judgmental just isn’t that drastic. At least not drastic enough to choose abandonment, and obviously she had another choice besides completely throwing in the towel. She could have proven Dad wrong and tried to show him that she could be a responsible, good mother. Instead, she kind of proved his case for him.
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 tha
t.”
“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.
* * *
—
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.