Letter Fourteen
One of the worst parts of being in jail?
No leisurely strolls through the park. No colorful canopy of leaves overhead or stoops decorated for fall.
No pumpkins or gourds or chrysanthemums. No window boxes full of pansies in deep burgundy or yellow or purple-black.
No drizzly fall days where you hold the umbrella, and we huddle close against the early-morning bite in the air.
No red leaves stuck to the bottom of my shoe when I get to school.
My only consolation in here is you. Our hour together on Tuesdays. How devastatingly gorgeous you are in each of your suits, all of which have been tailored to perfection.
When you leave me, I spend hours thinking of all the other suits I’m missing. And the walks. And the feel of my arm looped through yours. And your cardigans—a soft brown one in particular.
So maybe seeing you isn’t a consolation, after all. Maybe it’s just torture.
“You look very British today,” I commented earlier, referring to the navy tweed three-piece you’d paired with a light blue dress shirt and patterned burgundy tie. And wouldn’t you know it? Socks with your shoes. Ones with little squirrels all over them—a Christmas present from me last year.
You smoothed a hand down the tie and vest. “I am British.”
“No.”
“Yes,” you said, still standing firm on this.
“Technically? You’re American.”
“Absolutely not.” You brushed imaginary lint off your sleeve, head shaking. “I do not identify as that. No.”
“You were born in America. To two Americans.”
“Irrelevant.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll never understand how a person can cross the Atlantic for the sole purpose of discovering his identity…only to deny it.”
Naturally, you ignored this. Then you sat forward, blue eyes lighting up, and said, “I’ve been dying to tell you—they’ve just opened the most charming bookstore in Beacon Hill.
It reminds me a bit of Kathleen Kelly’s little bookshop in You’ve Got Mail—that’s how charming it is.
You’ll absolutely love it. There’s a children’s room with kid-sized furniture and a little secret red door in the wall that reminds me of the one across from your bedroom, and a train that goes round the ceiling between rooms. It doesn’t look like any bookstore you’ve ever seen.
It’s more like sitting in a home library—beautiful fireplaces, charming sconces throughout, cozy nooks with cushions everywhere.
There are three floors, and on every single one, I kept thinking, Elliot will adore this place.
I can’t wait to take you there when you get out. ”
The bookstore sounds lovely, and I hate that I’m missing it. But your enthusiasm made it seem as if things might actually be somewhat normal when I’m released. “You think I’ll be able to show my face in public when I get out of here?”
You stopped to consider this. “We’ll disguise you a bit. Hair down. A pair of sunglasses. A ball cap, maybe? We’ll figure it out.”
And there it was—the bleak reality of my future. That’s when it hit me, too: my life will never be normal. I’d say again, but my life was never really normal to begin with, was it?
“Right,” I said, voice cracking. “Sounds wonderful. I look forward to it.”
“Hey,” you said, gaze softening. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
You reached for my hand, but stopped when the guard behind you said, “Don’t even try it, pretty boy.”
You twisted to the side, shot her a dirty look, and muttered, “Stupid rules.”
Sometimes, the sight of you makes my heart swell, and I think it’ll be okay.
You’ll be there when I get out, and you’ll make whatever backlash I face more bearable.
But then I remember how, when I get out of here, I’m supposed to hand you these letters.
How it’s going to be so much harder than I thought it would be when you read what I’ve written here, and I might have to release you.
For now, though, I’m holding on—to what little of you I still have. I might never get to touch you the way I want again, but at least we have this.
Tuesdays.
Roughly seventy-two left.
“Tell me what it’s like outside. Tell me what you see on your walks,” I said, because the only way I’ll experience fall this year is to live vicariously through you.
After a few more weeks, the nasty looks died down at tennis, my teammates began to practice with me again, and—finally—fall arrived.
That golden time when the city shines boldest and makes me grateful to be a Bostonian.
We took the long way home from school, sometimes veering off-course to cut through the cobblestoned streets, jewel-toned leaves—amber, fiery red, blazing orange—often crunching beneath our feet.
We sat in the park on beautiful crisp days to people-watch, admire the lush fall scenery, and read.
We wore our fall best. Which, for me, meant the return of tights and blazers with my dresses. And for you, lots of plaid and cardigans, both thick and thin, on heavy rotation.
You and those damn cardigans.
You left a soft brown one on the back of a kitchen stool once, so I stole it for myself.
I loved the soft scratch of it against my skin when I lifted the cowl neck up to my face, but the thing I loved most?
How strongly it smelled of you: your natural clean scent, plus the leathery spice of your deodorant (the little black tube of which I might’ve sniffed a time or two when sneaking into—I mean, looking for you in—your room).
Wearing that cardigan felt like having your arms wrapped around me in a hug.
You found me wearing it one afternoon while I watched You’ve Got Mail with Garland, a big bowl of popcorn sitting in my lap. “I’ve been wondering where that went.”
“It’s mine now,” I said, “and I’m not giving it back.”
You smiled. “But it swallows you whole.”
“It’s like wearing a blanket. It keeps me nice and warm.”
“Well.” You dropped down next to me and reached for the popcorn. “I suppose I’ll let you have it, then.”
“You only have, like, fifty of them,” I pointed out.
“Oh, do I? You haven’t been in my bedroom counting them, have you?” You bumped my knee with yours and shot me a meaningful look.
“Oh, no. I don’t do that anymore.”
You laughed. “Right,” you said, then glanced up at the TV. “Oh, hey. I love this movie.”
I smiled. “Where do you get your love of old movies from?”
“My mum. What about you?”
“Eleanor.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. For someone who shows very little emotion, she has great taste in movies. When my dad left me with my grandparents as a kid, that’s all we’d do—watch movies together.
If I made it through an entire movie without saying a word, she’d let me choose two chocolate ganaches from her stash of Parisian chocolate. ”
“You know,” you said, juggling a handful of popcorn, “I’m liking Eleanor better all the time.”
“Casey, she put movies on so she wouldn’t have to talk or interact with me. You get that, right?”
“I don’t know,” you said, your head tilted thoughtfully.
“A woman like Eleanor was probably taught not to show her emotions. Maybe by putting on a movie like this, she could tell you all the things that might’ve been too difficult or uncomfortable for her to say out loud.
Things about disappointment, family, new beginnings, love… ”
Leave it to you to take a small resentment, flip it inside out, and force me to look at it from a different perspective, all while tugging at my heartstrings in the process.
Not for the first time, I marveled at your unique ability to brighten everything around you, shining light in unexpected places.
“I bet,” you said, “she got a lot more out of introducing you to these movies than you realize. I bet it even makes her happy to see you’re still watching them.”
An overwhelming surge of warmth flowed through me. “Who are you?” I whispered.
“I’m Casey,” you said flatly. “Some strange foreign guy.”
I tossed my head back and laughed.
“Who slithered into your lives, apparently,” you added.
“Oh, come on. I was joking when I said that.”
You snorted.
Not thinking, I leaned over and pecked you on the cheek. Then I snuggled close, resting my head on your shoulder. “I didn’t mean it. I promise.”
After a minute, you said, a little gravelly, “Well. I guess I’ll forgive you for saying it, then.”
That’s the last warm moment I can recall us having right before everything went to shit just two days later on Halloween.
By some stroke of luck (or maybe the better term here is misfortune), my dad spent Halloween night in New York, so Tinsley and I cornered you at the dining table while you worked on a paper for school.
Tinsley informed you there was a Halloween party at Willoughby’s and suggested that I go with her.
“Out of the question,” you said, looking very studious in your cardigan and black glasses, a freshly sharpened pencil tucked behind your ear.
“Come on, Casey,” whined Tinsley. “Everyone else at our school will be there.”
“Yes—and other people besides,” you said sternly. “Take it from me: nothing good ever happens at these things. It’s just loads of drinking, people being groped all over the place, and nothing but regret come morning—”
“Oh, blah, blah, blah,” I said. “I’m not asking for your permission, by the way. I’m telling you I’m going.”
“Oh, really?” you said, leaning back in the chair with narrowed eyes.
“Really. You can’t stop me.”
You crossed your arms. “I absolutely can.”
“How? By chaining me to the newel post in there?”
You quirked an eyebrow. “That’s one option.”
Tinsley leaned forward. “What’re the other options?” She nudged me in the arm. “Because honestly, Elliot, this has the potential to be way more interesting—and possibly hotter—than the party.”
I rolled my eyes, nudging her back.
“This is different than you hanging out at Tinsley’s or going for a coffee,” you said. “If something bad happens, I’d have to answer to your dad. He’d kill me for even considering letting you go to this party.”
“Wait,” Tinsley said. “Does that mean you are considering it?”