by Emily Giffin
“I can’t see!” I said when I realized I was about to put on his shirt instead of mine.
“Hold on,” Finch said, producing his phone from somewhere, then panning the lit screen around the sofa area as we gathered our things and dressed in about twenty seconds.
“I thought you said she went to Bristol,” I said, feeling grateful that Finch hadn’t lasted any longer than he had.
“Um, yeeeah, Lyla. That wasn’t my mom,” Finch said.
“It wasn’t?”
“No.”
“Who was it?” I asked, although I suddenly knew, placing her voice.
“Polly,” he confirmed, now scrolling through his text messages.
“Is she still here?” I asked.
“How should I know?” he said, sounding a little harsh.
I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed at me for asking a stupid question or simply pissed at Polly and the situation, but I said I was sorry, just in case.
“It’s not your fault. It’s her fault. She’s a psycho coming over here like this. And why are we hiding? This is my house.” Then he stood up and said, “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Okay,” I said, only because it seemed to be the answer he wanted. Then I stood up and trailed behind him as he charged up the stairs. But as he turned the corner, I stopped, just in time to hear her shriek.
“Oh my God, Finch!” she said. “You scared the shit out of me! What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” Finch yelled back at her. “You’re the one who broke into my house!”
“I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked….”
“That doesn’t mean you can just barge in.”
“I saw your car.”
“So?”
“I thought maybe something was wrong. You wouldn’t return my calls or texts,” she said, her voice sounding whiny and desperate. “I thought maybe you’d gotten carbon monoxide poisoning or something.”
I rolled my eyes, thinking, Yeah right.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.
“Why wouldn’t you answer your phone? Or text me back?”
“Because,” he said. “I’m busy.”
“Doing what?” she demanded.
“Watching a movie.”
“A movie?” she said, as I could hear in her voice the accusation that was about to come. “Are you alone? Is there someone downstairs with you? Is Lyla here?”
It was horrifying to hear my name, yet also somehow validating, especially as I processed the jealousy in her voice. Polly was jealous of me.
And then it got more surreal. Because then Finch said, “Yep. She sure is. Hey, Lyla?” He belted out my name. “Come on up! Polly wants to say hello.”
It was my cue to frantically retreat, but Polly was too quick for me, whipping around the corner and staring right into my eyes. Later, I would process that my first and most immediate thought was that she’d done a shitty contouring job, her makeup way too dark for her complexion, likely in an attempt to cover up her freckles, which I’d heard she hated. But my second and more dominant thought was, Oh shit, she’s going to cry.
Sure enough, she burst into hysterical tears, returning to the kitchen, where she and Finch began to scream at each other.
“First the concert and now this?” she shouted. “How could you do this to me?”
“We’re broken up, Polly,” he said, words that filled me with relief. Not that I’d doubted his story, but it was still good to hear confirmation. They were broken up; I hadn’t just slept with another girl’s boyfriend.
“I want you back.”
“No.”
“Please, Finch. Just talk to me.”
“No. You need to leave, Polly. Now.”
“But I love you,” she sobbed. “And I know you love me, too.”
“No,” he said, his voice ice cold. “I don’t, Polly. Now get out.”
At that point, I started to feel a little bit sorry for her—which sucked because I wanted to just hate her. I told myself not to be fooled. To remember what she had done to me. Then, as if refreshing my memory, I heard her voice turn from pitiful to cruel as she screamed, You can’t possibly actually like that pathetic slut? And if that weren’t bad enough, she added some really colorful stuff about how I’d probably give him an STD and try to get pregnant on purpose so I could get some of his money.
I forced myself to stop listening at that point, focusing only on my breathing, fighting back tears, convincing myself how absolutely ludicrous her charges were. I’d never had an STD, and the last thing in the world I wanted was to get pregnant. I didn’t like Finch for his money—I didn’t want his money at all. She had me all wrong. She knew nothing about me. And I had no reason to feel bad about myself.
So why then, I wondered, long after Finch had gotten rid of her and then driven me home, profusely apologizing all the way, did I feel so ashamed? Like maybe she was right, and I actually was a little bit of a slut?
After a cursory kitchen cleanup (Mom always insists we leave the dishes for later), I excuse myself to check my phone. There is a text from Kirk that came in while we were eating, saying simply: I’m home. Finch says you’re in Bristol? I don’t answer it. I then check my voicemail, finding a lone message from Melanie. Her tone is frantic and dramatic, as she gives me a convoluted report about hearing from Kathie, who heard from her daughter, who heard from someone else, that there had been some sort of “Lyla-Polly showdown” at our house this afternoon. “Lovely,” I say aloud, contemplating what to do.
Instead of calling Melanie back, or trying to reach Finch to get to the bottom of things, I realize my only concern is for Lyla. So at the risk of being a tattletale, I text Tom: I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I have good reason to believe our kids have been spending time together….I believe they went to a concert last night, and I understand from Melanie (and the usual rumor mill) that Lyla was at our house today. I’m in Bristol at my parents’ and don’t believe Kirk was home, either. Although we do not have a rule against girls being over when we’re not home (we should!), I did not give Finch permission to invite Lyla over, and something tells me you did not grant yours, either. I also heard that there was a situation with Finch’s ex-girlfriend, Polly, coming over and confronting Lyla. Details unclear and very possibly blown out of proportion, but given everything, I felt it was the right thing to share this information with you. I’ll be home tomorrow, but feel free to call me tonight. I’m sorry. Again.
I wait a moment, hoping for a response, relieved when I get it: She did not have my permission. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll talk to her and be in touch.
Feeling sick, but deciding there is nothing more I can do for now (and that there is certainly no point in trying to enlist Kirk’s assistance), I put my phone back in my purse. Then I join Teddy and my parents, who have retired to our back porch. Mom is serving her signature Pepperidge Farm mint Milano cookies with glasses of crème de menthe. I can see Teddy has declined the sweet nightcap and is sticking with his Corona.
As I take the only free seat, on the sofa next to Teddy, I have the distinct feeling they have been discussing me.
“What did I miss?” I say.
“Oh, nothing, really,” Dad says. “Is everything okay at home?”
We all hear that it’s a rather ridiculous question—so I smile and say, “No worse than usual!”
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Mom says.
After dropping my bomb and accepting their condolences, I’d insisted that I would be fine and that it was all for the best. I’d even tossed in the glib but often true statement It is what it is.
“Yes, I’m sure. Not tonight,” I say, desperate for an emotional escape. “Why don’t you just tell us some stories?”
You never have to ask my mother twice.
She
launches into a long, rambling story about my brother and me trying to get “lost” in the woods on a family vacation so we could be like Bobby and Cindy Brady. She then finishes by saying, “That was back when Nina was willing to go camping. These days her idea of roughing it is a Comfort Inn or Hilton Garden.” She laughs, then looks at me and adds, “Though come to think of it, I bet you wouldn’t do those, either!”
“Stop it,” I say, feeling defensive. “I’ve stayed at my share of Comfort Inns and Hilton Gardens.”
“In the last few years?” she says.
“Absolutely,” I say, pleased that it’s actually the truth, although I don’t offer that it only happens when Finch plays basketball in remote rural locations and I literally have no other choice. Nor do I confess that I’ve been known to pack my own pillow and linens.
“Well, you definitely haven’t gone camping in the last twenty years,” Mom says, as it occurs to me that she may be nostalgic not only for the “good ol’ days” but also for the old me. “Other than glamping!” she adds, shaking her head with something approaching glee.
“Glamping? As in ‘glamorous camping’?” Teddy asks, clearly as amused as Mom.
“Bingo!” Mom says as the two laugh. Even Dad smiles.
“That’s a real thing?” Teddy asks me.
Mom answers for me, “Yes! In Montana. Right, Nina?”
“Right,” I mumble, grateful that she doesn’t also remember our glamping excursions in Big Sur and Tanzania.
“And, Teddy, you should see these ‘tents,’ ” Mom says, making big air quotes. “Plumbing, heat…even heated floors! Fanciest tents you’ve ever seen!”
I can’t tell if she’s calling me out or bragging—but she has the same look on her face she gets whenever she asks me how much I paid for something. I know this is none of my business, she always starts. But how much did this set you back?
“Subject change, please, Mom,” I say, abrasiveness creeping into my voice.
Mom’s smile quickly fades as she gives me a sincere under-her-breath apology, knowing she went a little too far.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, regretting being so sensitive and dampening the jovial moment. I really need to lighten up. After all, it’s not a big secret that my life has changed—and that that change has a lot to do with money. “It’s just a little embarrassing….”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” Mom says. “I think it’s wonderful that you’ve had so many neat experiences.”
“Me, too,” Teddy says, nodding.
“Me three,” Dad chimes in.
“Yeah. I’ve been lucky. In some ways,” I say. It’s a reference to Kirk, and I can tell that at least Mom picks up on it.
“Yes. Nobody has the ‘perfect life,’ ” she says.
“True,” Teddy agrees. “There are pros and cons to everything. Every life.”
I nod.
“I mean, I hate that my boys aren’t with me full-time since the divorce,” Teddy says. “It stinks that they live in Charlotte. But…” He pauses, as I wonder where he’s going. What the pros to this situation could possibly be. “They’re in this fancy private school getting a really good education. An opportunity they wouldn’t have had here. Not to knock Vance and Tennessee,” he says, referring to the local middle and high schools that we attended and where Julie’s kids go now. “But Charlotte Country Day is way better. I could never have afforded a school like that. But their stepfather can. And he is happily paying for every dime. It’s a silver lining, for sure. You can always find one if you look hard enough.”
“I really hope so,” I say.
Suddenly my mom announces that it’s past their bedtime, but that “you kids” should keep catching up. Teddy looks as if he’s going to announce his own departure, so I quickly intervene. “One more beer?”
I’m not sure whether I actually want him to stay—or just want to avoid a divorce talk with Mom, but I am happy when he says, “Sure. One more.”
As my parents and Teddy stand to hug goodbye, I go to the fridge and grab a Corona. While I’m putting in the lime, my parents walk into the kitchen behind me.
“You okay, sweetie?” Mom says, as she initiates a hug.
“Yes. I promise,” I say, hugging her back. “We can talk all about it in the morning.”
“Okay. Or come get me if you can’t sleep,” Mom says, the way she did when I was little. “Are you staying here or with Julie?”
“Here,” I say. “I just have to get my bag out of the car.”
“I’ll get it,” Dad says.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a wave of love for my father. For both of them.
“Anything else you need?” Mom asks.
I shake my head. “No, thanks….I’m just really glad I’m here.”
“We are, too,” Dad says.
As I nod, collect Teddy’s beer, and head back toward the porch, I can feel Mom watching me. “Have fun,” she says a little too eagerly. “You never know what could—”
“Don’t say it, Mom,” I cut her off, glancing over my shoulder.
But she says it anyway, a goofy grin on her face. “Well, it could happen….You and Teddy, after all these years.”
* * *
—
“I FORGOT HOW awesome your parents are,” Teddy says when I get back to the porch, this time sitting across from him.
“Yeah. My mom’s a little nuts, though,” I say. No matter how much you don’t like your son-in-law, and I suspect that it may be a great deal in her case, normal people just don’t say something like that on the same evening their daughter tells them she’s getting a divorce. Then again, my mom clearly isn’t normal. For better or worse.
“She cracks me up,” Teddy says, chuckling to himself. “Always has. No filter. And I just love how she calls you out.”
“Oh, really?” I say, smiling back at him. “And why do you love that?”
“Because. She puts you in your place.”
“Yeah. But there’s a lot of hyperbole with her, too.”
“Really?” Teddy raises his eyebrows, then takes a sip of beer. “So you don’t actually glamp?” I can tell he’s suppressing a smile.
“Oh, stop it,” I say, as it occurs to me that he’s probably a little more clever than I’ve given him credit for.
“You know I’m teasing you,” he says.
“Yeah. But you think I’m a snob,” I say.
“Think?” Teddy grins. “Shoot. I know you are.”
I say his name in a whiny voice, the sound of it putting me right back in high school.
“Let’s put it this way,” Teddy says, as I hold my breath. “You definitely like the finer things in life.” He speaks slowly, as if choosing his words diplomatically, but I still hear a euphemism for materialism.
I must look embarrassed because he adds, “Hey—I get it. I’d drive an Aston Martin if I could.”
I smile, comforted by this admission.
“And anyway…I know you’re a good person, Nina,” he says.
I’m not sure whether this statement is true, but I believe in this moment that Teddy thinks it is, and hearing it heals my heart a little. More important, it gives me hope for the son I’ve raised.
“Thank you, Teddy,” I say.
He nods as we stare at each other for a few seconds. Then he says, “I’m really sorry about your marriage….Divorce is hard….It’s a little bit like death…or…a house burning down to the ground.”
I give him a sad smile, digesting the analogy. “Yeah. I haven’t really processed it yet, but I know it will be difficult.”
“And just to warn you? It’ll probably get a lot harder before it gets easier….At least that’s the way it was for me. But it helps to know you’re doing the right thing.”
“That’s just it,” I say. “I me
an…it’s complicated. Yet also not.”
“I know. People always want to boil divorce down to one thing. A one-line explanation. ‘He cheated.’ ‘She’s an alcoholic.’ ‘He gambles.’ ‘She spends too much.’ It’s usually not that simple. But you still just know it’s right….”
I can’t tell whether he’s asking me what happened, or just thinking aloud. “Yeah,” I say. “Our issues have been gradual—and cumulative. There’s probably not a tagline. But if I had to come up with one—I’d say we just don’t share the same values anymore. Maybe we never did….”
Teddy nods. “Yeah. Well, you’ll figure it out. You’re the smartest girl I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, c’mon. We both know Julie’s way smarter,” I say, still feeling flattered. I also realize how much I’ve been craving compliments about things other than my looks—all I ever get from Kirk.
“Julie’s up there,” Teddy says. “But she married a man who puts a uniform on every day and stayed in Bristol. She can’t be that smart, right?” He smiles and sips his beer.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, wondering whether he’s being self-deprecating or revealing his own insecurities.
“I’m kidding,” Teddy says, taking another sip.
“Well, look,” I say, just in case. “You’re right. Julie married a fireman and stayed in Bristol. I married a rich guy and live in Belle Meade. And who’s happier?”
Teddy shrugs, as if it’s a close contest.
“ ‘Not I, said the little red hen,’ ” I say, one of my mother’s expressions.
Teddy frowns, looking deep in thought.
“What are you thinking?” I ask him.
“Honestly?”
“Yeah. Of course. Tell me.”
He lowers his eyes. “I was just thinking about you breaking up with me.”
“I didn’t break up with you,” I say, knowing that’s exactly what I did. “We just…broke up.”