All We Ever Wanted

by Emily Giffin

  Bonnie whistled and shook her head. “What did you tell him? Wait. Let me guess. Over your dead body?”

  “Not exactly, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Why so surprised? I thought you believed in forgiveness?” I said. “Letting go of bitterness and all that stuff?”

  “I do,” she said. “But you don’t.”

  “Good point,” I said. “But I’m trying to set a better example. I’d rather Lyla be like you than me.”

  Bonnie smiled.

  “So. I’m hoping she says no on her own. That she accepts his apology but still wants nothing to do with him. I am hoping this has taught her a few things about self-respect.”

  Bonnie nodded, then squinted up at the sky. The late afternoon sun highlighted all her lines and wrinkles, making her look older than I thought of her as. Then again, she probably was in her early seventies by now, which somehow seemed so much older than one’s late sixties. At forty-seven, I thought about how fast I would get there, too. I was almost fifty, for fuck’s sake. How had that happened?

  “What if she says yes? What if she ends up really liking him?” she asked tentatively, reaching down to stroke one of her two black cats, who was just moseying by.

  “I guess I’d cross that bridge,” I said. “With your help.”

  “Do you think he likes her? Or is he…?” She struggled to find the right slang.

  “Playing her?”

  Bonnie nodded. “Yeah. That.”

  “I can’t tell,” I said. “Maybe both?…I know I’m biased, but Lyla really is a special girl.”

  Bonnie squinted harder, deep in thought. “Well. What could it really hurt if they did go out?”

  “She could get her heart broken,” I said.

  “God forbid she take that risk,” she quipped, clearly making a separate point.

  “It’s not the same thing,” I said, knowing she was about to get on her soapbox about my personal life. “I don’t have time for that stuff—”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “People make time for what matters to them.”

  “Not interested,” I said. “I’ve seen what’s out there. No, thanks.”

  “If only Nina were single, huh,” she said breezily, almost under her breath.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, though I knew exactly what it meant.

  “I think you like her.”

  “I do like her,” I said, playing it cool.

  “Like her, like her.”

  I rolled my eyes, trying to remember exactly what I’d just said about Nina. That she was attractive? That she was much nicer than her husband? That she’d been kind to Lyla? Certainly none of that indicated I had feelings for her.

  “Don’t be an ass,” I said, feeling a little guilty about calling an older lady an ass. But I knew Bonnie could handle it, maybe even liked it.

  “You’re denying it?” she said.

  “Hell, yeah, I’m denying it….For one, she’s married.”

  “So?” Bonnie said. “When has that ever stopped anyone?”

  “Cynic,” I said, thinking that I had never touched a married woman.

  “Well?”

  “Well…for another, she’s the mother of this jerk kid.”

  “The same jerk kid who you gave permission to ask your daughter out?”

  “I told you. I want Lyla to come to her own conclusions….And maybe, if she and Finch become friends, she could spend a little time with Nina. That would be good for her, no?”

  Bonnie nodded, a hint of a smirk on her face.

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You don’t feel anything for this woman? Not even a teensy-tiny crush?”

  “That’s the wrong word for it entirely.”

  “What’s the right word?” she said. “What’s that look you keep getting on your face when you talk about her? Intrigue?”

  “That’s too strong, too….At most?…Maybe I’m a little curious.”

  “About?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just kind of want to know her deal…like how she ended up with that douchebag of a husband.”

  Bonnie rubbed her fingers together in the universal sign of money and raised one eyebrow.

  “Yeah. Maybe,” I said. “But I get the feeling it’s not that simple….She just doesn’t strike me as a gold digger….Something else is going on there. It’s almost as if she’s…I don’t know…”

  “Do you think there is abuse?” Bonnie said.

  “No. Nothing that sinister. That’s not my read, anyway…but something doesn’t add up,” I said. “She’s clearly not in sync with the guy….Like, I don’t think she’s told him we’ve met. At all. She seems trapped. At the very least, unhappy. Really unhappy.”

  Bonnie nodded, then said, “What if she ends up having a romantic interest in you?”

  “Not possible,” I said as quickly and adamantly as I could, even while I wondered what it might be like to kiss Nina.

  * * *

  —

  WHEN I GOT home a few hours later, I noticed that Lyla had changed clothes and was now wearing a sundress that I hadn’t seen before.

  “That’s pretty,” I said, pointing at it. “Are you going out?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’m going to the Luke Bryan concert. If that’s okay?”

  “With who?” I said.

  “Grace,” she said.

  “Where’s the show?”

  “Twelfth and Porter.”

  I nodded. “How are you getting there?”

  “Grace is picking me up. We’re getting ready at her house.”

  “Why not get ready here?”

  “She has a bigger bathroom.”

  “Okay. But remember. Your curfew is eleven.”

  “I know, Dad,” she said with a loud sigh.

  I looked at her a long beat, then said, “All right, Lyla. Have fun….Just please don’t let me down.”

  * * *

  —

  LATER THAT NIGHT, after Lyla was picked up by Grace, and I did a few things around the house, I decided I’d drive a little to distract myself from my feeling of doom and gloom. So I did about four uneventful trips, including a back-and-forth from the airport, all with solo passengers and no conversation, exactly how I like it.

  A little before ten, I got pinged for a pickup at 404 Kitchen, a nice restaurant in the Gulch. The drop-off was for No. 308, a bar on Gallatin Avenue. I knew from experience with those locations that I was probably getting one of two rides—either a couple on a date or a girls’ night out. If the latter, they’d likely be single women or divorcées (married women typically got together on weekdays, not weekends). Either way, they’d be drunk, or well on their way, which I guess was the whole point of Uber.

  Sure enough, when I pulled up to the restaurant, I saw a pair of middle-aged women who looked like they were having a big time. As they both slid ungracefully into my car, their intoxication was confirmed by all the usual hallmarks—most notably, loud, shallow, repetitive commentary. I quickly gathered that the alpha, bitchier of the two was married; the other, who happened to be prettier but perhaps a bit dimmer, was either single or divorced. To be clear, I gathered all that not because I was interested in anything they had to say but simply because it was impossible to tune them out. At the moment, they were focusing on some guy they’d just run into outside the restaurant.

  “You know who that was, right?” Married said.

  “No. Who?”

  “The CEO of Hedberg. He’s worth a bloody fortune. And his wife just passed away. Cancer,” she said as if announcing tomorrow’s weather forecast.

  Single sighed and said, “That’s soo sad.”

  “Yes
. Which means he’s going to need lots of comfort.” Married let out a snort.

  “Jackie! That’s awful,” Single said, but she did not sound appalled, as the two turned their attention to their phones, namely the selfies they’d just taken outside the restaurant.

  Here we go, I thought. The debate about which photos to delete and which to post.

  Sure enough, a very familiar and painful script ensued:

  Delete!

  Why don’t you like that one? It’s adorable of you!

  No, my arms look so fat! Delete it now!

  I can crop that.

  Only if you crop my pale face, too.

  I have the best app for that!

  And on and on, until Married concluded, and the apparently more photogenic Single reluctantly agreed, that none were “post-worthy.” At which point they promptly began a hair and makeup session followed by another photo shoot complete with a discussion about their respective “good sides.” A second later, I was blinded by a flash.

  “Whoa,” I said under my breath.

  “Aw, I’m sorry,” Single said, reaching up to tap my shoulder. “Are we bothering your driving?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, aware that these kinds of women were the most likely to slap you with a one-star rating.

  “He’s probably enjoying the show,” Married said, as if I couldn’t hear her. Against my better judgment, I glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see her cleavage bulging out of her bra, as excessive as the perfume one or both of them had doused themselves with.

  “Sir, do you often have hot women taking selfies in the back of your car?” Single asked proudly.

  Here we go, I thought again, preparing myself for full-on engagement. Because typically, it was all or nothing. They either ignored me completely or wanted to delve into a deep conversation about my life, which was really just a way to segue back to theirs.

  “Not as often as I’d like,” I said, on autopilot.

  The two laughed, and Married reached up and put her hand on my arm. “Wait. I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Tom,” I said.

  She repeated my name, turning it into a singsongy two syllables, then said, “You’re very strong. Do you get those muscles from driving Uber?”

  “Jackie,” Single said under her breath. “Obviously he works out….Right, Tom?”

  “Not really,” I said as Married commenced massaging my shoulder and neck.

  “Jackie,” Single said. “Let him drive.”

  “But he’s so cute. You should be talking to him….Tom? Are you single?”

  I said yes, aware that I was now moving into Uber pawn territory.

  “Divorced or never married? What’s your story? Do you have a story?” Married pressed.

  “Everyone has a story,” Single said. “Right, Tom?”

  “Nope,” I said. “No story here.”

  “Oh my God!” Single gasped. For a second, I thought maybe she somehow knew who I was. Perhaps I’d worked on her house or made her some custom piece of furniture. But then I saw in the rearview mirror that she was staring down at her phone. “Speaking of married, guess who just texted me?”

  “Who?”

  “Kirk Browning. Be still, my heart.”

  I gripped my steering wheel more tightly. I had overheard plenty of incriminating conversations from the backseat of my car and in some cases, had had things directly confessed to me. But nothing like this. Nothing that felt pertinent to me. I told myself it wasn’t. Not really.

  “Ugh. Is that still going on?” Married asked.

  “Nothing’s going on. We’re friends,” Single said. “He just wants to talk.”

  “Yeah, right,” Married said.

  “He’s going through a lot right now,” Single said. “All this stuff with Finch and the Mexican girl….Have you heard?”

  I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood. Now it was pertinent to me.

  “Of course I heard. Saw the photo, too. I feel so sorry for Kirk.”

  “Why?” Single said, and for one second, I thought she was going to redeem herself with a bold defense of Lyla. Instead, she said, “Because his son’s in trouble? Or because he’s married to such a bitch?”

  A jolt of hate passed through my body as Married laughed and said, “She really is. And so full of herself. It’s like—hey, honey, it’s not your money.”

  “No shit. I heard she grew up in a trailer park.”

  “Really?” Married asked.

  “Yeah. Pretty sure.”

  “But isn’t she Jewish?”

  “She is?” Single gasped. “Well, that’s a combo you don’t see every day. Trailer park Jew.”

  They laughed together. Then Single said, “So what do you think will happen?”

  “With Nina? Or Finch? Because I bet they both get axed….I hear the headmaster over there’s a huge liberal.”

  As I white-knuckled the steering wheel, I felt another tap on my shoulder. “Aren’t you glad you don’t have to deal with this Belle Meade drama?” Single asked.

  I unclenched my jaw and said, “Oh. You’d be surprised….”

  “Oh, dear. Were you listening to us?” she said, so full of herself.

  I told myself to play dumb, but I just couldn’t.

  “Yes,” I said, then continued in a loud, clear voice. “And for what it’s worth? I agree. I don’t think Finch will get away with what he did to that girl. Who, by the way, isn’t Mexican. Although that’s kinda beside the point.”

  Silence filled the backseat.

  “So you know the girl?” Married finally asked, suddenly sounding sober.

  “Yeah,” I said, pausing for a satisfying beat just as I pulled up to their destination, put my car in park, and stared at them over my shoulder. “She’s my daughter. So yeah, I know her pretty damn well.”

  * * *

  —

  THE SECOND THEY were out of my car, I called Nina, ready to give her my enraged report. But in the few seconds it took for her to answer the phone, I calmed down just enough to change my mind. As pissed off as I was at what I’d just heard (for both Lyla’s sake and Nina’s), getting involved in someone else’s marriage was never a good idea. Things were already hard enough.

  “Hello?” she said. “Tom?”

  “Yes. Hi,” I said, wondering how it was possible to feel both rattled and relieved to hear someone’s voice.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to say thanks for today…for coming over…with Finch,” I said. Because I had to come up with something. But I also meant it.

  “Of course,” she said. “Thank you. It was really amazing of you to give him that chance….”

  “You’re welcome. Listen. I didn’t realize it was so late….I’m sorry about that. I hope I didn’t wake you? Or your husband?” I said, tensing up just thinking about that guy and so wishing I could meet him in a dark alley.

  “No. It’s fine. You didn’t. Kirk’s actually out of town….He travels a lot….And I was just sitting here…reading a little…”

  “That sounds nice,” I said, and although a quiet Saturday night reading did sound nice in theory, she sounded more lonely than anything else.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What did you do tonight?”

  “Oh, I just worked some.”

  “On someone’s house? Or were you making furniture?”

  “Neither. I drive for Uber on the side. Easy money. Flexible gig. And I’ve always liked driving. It relaxes me,” I said. Although they were all true statements, I didn’t like the insecure feeling I had in my chest as I said them.

  “I know what you mean,” she said. “I like driving, too, sometimes.”

  My heart started to race, as I carefull
y crafted my next statement. “Yeah. So funny thing…I actually drove a couple of women I think you might know.”

  “Oh, really? Who?”

  “One was named Jackie.”

  “Jackie Allen?”

  “Yeah. I think that was it,” I said, trying to remember her last name from the ride request. “Tall blonde. Big hair. Big…breasts.”

  “Yep. That’s her,” she said with a laugh.

  “But the other woman…I didn’t catch her name. Generic looking. Strong Southern accent. Oh. And she might be divorced?”

  Nina sighed. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t narrow it down very much these days.”

  “Yeah. I guess not.”

  “So wait…how did you put together that I know Jackie?”

  “Well, that’s actually a funny story…not ha-ha funny…shitty funny,” I babbled.

  She said nothing, waiting.

  “Well. Finch and Lyla came up…the incident…”

  “Oh, no,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What did they say?” she asked.

  “You probably don’t want to know,” I said, wondering if she would press me, sort of hoping she would.

  “People are so gossipy,” she said with a sigh.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to think of something else to say—or at least a way to get gracefully off the phone.

  But then she said my name as a question, all whispery.

  I caught my breath. “Yes, Nina?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Nothing…I’m just glad you called tonight.”

  “You are?” I said.

  “Yes. Very. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Then, with a huge knot in my chest, I made myself tell her goodbye.

  “Wow. That was ah-ma-zing!” I said over the ringing in my ears as the four of us left the show and walked the few blocks toward Finch’s car. I’d been to concerts before, sitting in seats my dad referred to as the “nosebleeds” while I watched all of the action on the jumbotron—and even that had thrilled me. But the experience tonight had been totally different. For one, there were only about three hundred people in the entire audience. For another, we were so close to Luke that I could see individual hairs in his beard and the stitching on his jeans and the sweat on his cheeks. It was, without a doubt, the best night of my life so far, and that had as much to do with Finch as with Luke Bryan. No star could have melted me as much as Finch did when he put his arm around me during “To the Moon and Back.” It wasn’t done in a coupley way, more like a friend hug, the same way I occasionally had slung my arm around Grace’s shoulders. But still, the contact and closeness killed me. “Totally amazing,” I said again, almost in a state of disbelief.