Letter Fifteen #2
In other words, Willoughby wanted exactly what I wasn’t. Things I’d never be.
I gathered my clothes and climbed off his bed, covering my chest with one arm.
“Hey,” he said, reaching out to me. “You don’t have to leave.”
“No, I know,” I said, keeping my head down as I got dressed, trying to hide the tears in my eyes. “But the Harrises are probably wondering where I am.”
At the Harrises’ house, Bree and Michael sighed with relief when I strolled into the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” Bree asked. “We were supposed to meet in the library.”
“I had other plans,” I said, tossing down my backpack.
Bree huffed. “And you didn’t think to let me know so I wouldn’t worry?”
I shrugged like I didn’t care. But Michael, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed, narrowed his eyes.
“I waited for over thirty minutes,” Bree said. “When I came home without you, my mom completely lost it. She yelled at me for not letting her know you’d stood me up.”
“Where’s Libby now?” I asked.
“She’s at your house, asking Casey if he’s seen or heard from you. Did you turn off your phone or something? It kept going to voicemail.”
“Sorry. I just didn’t want to be bothered.”
“Where were you?” Michael asked.
“Willoughby’s.”
Michael’s jaw ticked as he glanced away.
Bree pulled a face. “Doing what?”
I laughed. “What do you think, Bree?”
“You’re hooking up with him?”
“Why do you care?”
“I—I don’t,” she said. “I just don’t understand what you see in him. He’s a loser.”
“He’s cute. Also, he has a dick—and I happen to like that.”
Bree reared back with a grimace. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means,” I said, because when I stopped giving a shit, I turned into an even bigger bitch—and just so you know, this particular memory makes me cringe. My behavior wasn’t okay.
“Elliot,” Michael warned. “That’s enough.”
“Oh, come on, Michael. She’s—”
“I said, enough,” Michael snapped, glaring so hard my gut clenched.
Bree grabbed her backpack and stormed off, her footsteps heavy on the stairs.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked. “You can’t talk to her like that.”
“I can talk to her however I want.”
Michael released a big sigh. “I’m starting to understand what he meant now.”
“What who meant?”
“Casey. He says you’ve been erratic lately. Acting out. Picking fights.”
“Wow. So you guys talk about me now?”
“He’s worried about you. He said Nic wants you to get help, but you refuse.”
I rounded the island, stopping in front of Michael, wringing my hands. “Take me upstairs.”
Michael straightened, pulling both hands from his pockets. “What?”
“Take me to your bedroom. That time you pulled my hair? So hard it made me cry? I’d like you to do it again. Let’s go do it.”
Michael closed his eyes. “Elliot, no.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, my mom’s about to be home. And for another? It feels extremely inappropriate right now, given what you’re going through.”
“I’ll beg if I have to. Please.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious.”
“Elliot, you’re not in a good place.”
“Some asshole hurts me for real, and now you’re too good for that shit?”
“Yes,” he said. “It feels like I’d be taking advantage of you in a very vulnerable situation.”
“But I’m asking for it. It’s just a little consensual hairpulling, Michael. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is I know why you’re asking for it, and no amount of pain’s going to make you feel better right now. You need help—like your dad said. You need to talk to someone.”
My shoulders fell. I closed my eyes, trying not to cry. But the tears came, anyway, rolling down my face as I grabbed my school bag.
“Elliot,” Michael said softly, walking toward me. “You know you can talk to me, right? I’ll stay here tonight, and we can talk as long as you want.”
“You want to talk now?” I asked, taking a few steps back. “After you haven’t talked to me in months?”
“I’ve been reaching out to you for weeks now.”
“Yeah. It took me almost dying for you to decide you cared again.”
“I never stopped caring,” he said, his expression so soft and genuine it pierced my heart.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Look, I could’ve handled things better.
I get that, but I’ve been in love with you forever.
Then I finally gathered the courage to tell you at the beach, and for ten whole days, it seemed like you felt the same way.
It was a dream come true for me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.
And I thought you wanted it, too. I thought—” He stopped on a hard swallow, blinking back tears, then tried again.
When he did, his voice wavered, barely above a whisper.
“But you didn’t. And it fucked me up, and I’m still not over it, but I know you need me right now, so I’m here. Trying to help you through this.”
Michael’s voice came out familiar but all wrong, his hurt swelling between us, palpable and thick—crushing.
A few tears slipped down his face, and he quickly swatted them away, like he was embarrassed.
And what I wanted was the one thing I couldn’t have—to have never caused him pain in the first place. Any pain. Ever.
Unfortunately, once I started destroying things, I usually kept going until there was nothing left to save. So before I headed upstairs, I said, “We both know I would’ve fucked it up, anyway. So, really, Michael? I did you a favor.”
At dinner that night, Libby and John weren’t happy with me.
“So,” Libby said, wearing a sleek white blouse and thin gold necklace, the little diamonds of which sparkled across her collarbone when she moved.
Her shoulder-length bob gleamed beneath the crystal chandelier, glossy and immaculate, not a hair out of place.
“We need to talk about your behavior today, young lady.”
I rolled my eyes, and she didn’t appreciate that, her nostrils flaring with annoyance.
“Where were you today when you stood Bree up at the library and came home an hour late?”
“This isn’t my home.”
“For the next couple of days, it is,” Libby said.
I hated when she talked to me like this—like I belonged to her, too. “I’d like to go back to my house. Sleep in my own bed.”
“Elliot,” she said, “your dad wants you here, so this is where you’ll stay. Answer my question, please.”
Fine, I thought. This will be fun.
“I was at a boy’s house,” I said, then popped a piece of asparagus into my mouth.
Libby and John exchanged a look.
“What boy?” John asked.
“His name is Willoughby. My dad knows all about him.”
“What were you doing at this boy’s house?” Libby asked.
I smirked. “Do you really want me to answer that at the dinner table?”
Across from me, Michael and Bree closed their eyes, identical expressions of dread on their faces.
Libby made no effort to stop me, so I said, “We kissed, and then we took off our clothes, and then he—”
“Okay.” John held up his hand. “That’s enough.”
“Do you realize how worried we all were when we couldn’t get in touch with you?” Libby asked. “You scared your dad to death, and now you aren’t responding to his texts. So you’re to call him immediately after dinner.”
“I don’t want to talk to him.”
“It isn’t optional. You’ll call him as soon as we’re finished here.”
I laughed. “Of course it’s optional. I’m not calling him, and you can’t make me.”
John leaned forward, his concerned gaze trained on my face. “What’s going on, Elliot? Why don’t you want to talk to your dad?”
See there, Casey? That’s where you get it from—the innate desire you have to tug the truth loose.
“That’s none of your business, John,” I snapped.
“Actually,” John said, “anything you do under our care is my business. You scared us today, so we deserve a little honesty from you right now. We’d like to understand.”
“Maybe you think you would, but maybe you don’t. Maybe my dad doesn’t want me to be honest, and I’m respecting his wishes by not telling you.” Michael’s brush with the police came to mind.
“Elliot, honey,” Libby said, a glass of white wine held aloft in her hand, her shiny manicured nails catching the light, a smug look plastered across her perfectly made-up face, “your dad tells us everything.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure about that, Libby?”
Michael tossed me a warning glance from across the table.
Libby nodded. “I’m positive. The three of us don’t keep secrets from each other.”
I laughed so hard, Casey. So freaking hard. They all narrowed their gazes at me—except for Michael. Michael tossed his head back, heaving a sigh so loud it caught John’s attention. But even Michael didn’t know the biggest secret of all: the secret about you.
“We know what happened to you at the Halloween party,” Libby said, “and you’re struggling, honey, we can tell. Your dad wants to hear your voice—he just wants to make sure you’re okay—that’s all. Why aren’t you willing to check in with him?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not calling him.”
“You are, Elliot. In fact, you aren’t leaving this table until you’ve talked to him.”
I hated being forced to do anything I didn’t want to do, but what I maybe hated more? What really irked me? Politician Barbie thinking she had the right to parent me. She was not my fucking mom.
Black rage swept through my veins.
“My dad doesn’t want to see if I’m okay,” I said through clenched teeth.
“My dad wants to gauge how erratic I am right now. He thinks the two of you can keep me in line as well as he can, but he learned today that the two of you can’t control me, either.
He’s worried, because for the first time in my life, he’s beginning to realize I can’t be contained forever, and it’s only a matter of time before he loses all control.
To answer your question, Libby, I’m not willing to check in because I don’t fucking want to—and that should be a good enough reason for everyone. ”
John pushed out his chair and yanked it next to mine. “Hey,” he said in a soft, soothing voice. “You don’t have to call him if you don’t want to, okay? No one’s making you do anything.” He picked up my right hand, firmly grasping my wrist. “Now, please, drop the knife.”