Letter Sixteen #3
“Yeah,” I said, closing in on her, “before I knock your ass into next year.”
Sienna cackled as she grabbed her coat. “Don’t look so homicidal, Elliot. Michael and I have an open relationship this time around, so we’re free to have fun on the side. Casey and I have been together several times since Michael cheated on me, and Michael’s totally okay with it.”
Except Michael didn’t cheat on her. And she knew that. Also: you and her? Together? Several times? My rage soared to disastrous levels.
“Is that what you call forcing someone to sleep with you? Fun?”
“Chill,” she said, rolling her eyes as she slipped one arm into the coat. “Casey knows I’m joking.”
Was she, though? Or—after seeing the murderous look on my face—was she backtracking in an effort to stay vertical?
“Did you think she was joking, Casey?” I asked, still creeping toward her. “Because it didn’t sound that way to me.”
“Off you go now,” you said, helping Sienna into the other sleeve of her coat, then swiftly leading her over to the back door. “We’ll chat later, yeah?”
“Sure,” she said, fingers waggling as she slipped out the door.
As the door closed, you lifted your copper teakettle off the stove and carried it to the sink. Rinsed it out. Added fresh water. Carried the teakettle back to the stove. Then flipped on the gas and strode over to the pantry. All of this without once making eye contact with me.
“Casey—”
“Which biscuits do you prefer today?” you called from the pantry. “The malted milk? Or the custard creams?”
“Are we not going to discuss what just happened?” I called back.
“The malted milk, then,” you said, emerging with a blue package of biscuits.
“Seriously?”
“Okay, fine.” You dropped the biscuits on the counter. “Let’s discuss it. I’ve had enough with the eavesdropping.”
“This is my house.”
“That’s no excuse,” you said, gaze flashing darkly. “Do what a normal person does and enter the bloody room so people know to leave their conversation for another time. Don’t fucking lurk about in the shadows, gathering information that’s none of your business.”
“None of my business? This psycho stood in my kitchen, refused to take no for an answer, and basically said that when she forces you to sleep with her, you’ll enjoy it.”
“Except she can’t actually force me to do anything,” you said.
“You told her no multiple times. You withdrew your consent—and she threatened you. If you sleep with her, that’s not just sexual coercion. It’s assault.”
“But it’s none of your concern. Because I’m handling it.”
“By doing what? Giving her exactly what she wants?”
“No. She’s just a pretty girl who expects guys to fawn all over her, and when they don’t, she throws a tantrum like the one you’ve just witnessed. I can handle her. Believe me, I’ve dealt with far worse.”
“But Casey—”
“Listen, her threats aren’t real. She’s bluffing. She can’t tell the truth about me without incriminating herself. She tells Michael why she really asked him out, and he’ll never speak to her again.”
“What if she lies, though? Makes up a story where she’s the innocent one, and you’re the bad guy who coerced her into doing something she didn’t want to do? Like dating Michael on your behalf, for instance? Then what?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t risk her being the one to tell Michael how we really met, or he might never accept me. I got myself into this mess, and I’ll get myself out of it. I don’t need you stepping up to defend me.”
“Like you did with Greer and Rory, you mean?”
“That was different.”
I scoffed at this. “It was not different. You just think it’s different because our genders are different.”
“I haven’t been beaten or nearly killed, either. So there’s that.”
“I think I could take her,” I said with a decisive nod, arms crossed over my chest. “She’s a couple inches taller, but I have way more pent-up rage. She’d never know what hit her.”
You lifted both eyebrows. “Stand down, Wednesday. What you’re talking about is assault, too.”
“Don’t care. I will fuck up anyone who tries to hurt you.”
You held my gaze a moment. “You sounded quite scary just now.”
“Because I’m serious.”
“For now, though, collect our cream and sugar, will you? Leave this Sienna business with me.”
Still stewing, I pulled our cream from the fridge, filled the little blue-and-white creamer we used for tea, then grabbed its matching sugar bowl from the cabinet.
I couldn’t leave the Sienna incident with you or let it go, but that’s exactly what I was forced to do when Michael walked through the back door—to some extent, anyway.
He glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Sienna? Did you get rid of her?”
“Sure did,” I said. “Caught her hitting on Casey, and when he told her he wasn’t interested, she started giving him hell about it.”
“Really?” Michael asked, walking over to the island. “What happened, dude? I thought you were into her?”
Into her? Since when?
Your gaze remained stubbornly lowered to the counter. Were you avoiding making eye contact with me? Again?
“She isn’t my type, mate,” you told him, scooping dry tea leaves into a strainer. “Especially not if you’re hooking up with her, too. It’s weird.”
Tinsley wouldn’t think so. Two brothers sharing the same girl was one of her favorite fucking tropes.
“I’ll talk to her,” Michael said, taking a seat at the island.
While I stared at Michael in awe, it hit me: months ago, when I’d met with Sienna in the park and she’d said, “This works out so much better,” she’d meant the “cheating” incident had provided her the perfect opportunity to secure an open relationship with Michael.
An arrangement where she was allowed to be with you, too. Where she could have you both.
That stupid, conniving bitch.
“There’s no need,” you told him. “Because I’m handling it.”
“You know what, Michael?” I asked, pulling a face. “I find this whole thing disgusting.”
“Find what disgusting?” he asked.
“That you’re willing to share your girlfriend with your”—I fumbled here—“him.”
“So? She hooked up with him first, anyway.”
“You know about that?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Jesus,” you muttered, leaning on the counter with your head dropped between your shoulders.
“Casey told me,” I said.
“Look,” Michael replied. “It’s not like I plan to marry Sienna. I’m not in love with her. We’re just fooling around. It’s college.”
“Wow,” I said, shocked at how blasé Michael—who’d had a different girlfriend every year since he was fourteen, sure, but had always remained firmly monogamous, once breaking up with a girl for blowing another guy in the restroom at a party—could suddenly be about carnal matters. “Your parents would be so proud.”
Michael rolled his eyes.
“Can we drop this now?” you asked, pushing off the counter. “Michael, grab three cups from the cupboard. Fuck’s sake.”
But I couldn’t drop it.
The drama with Sienna hovered in the back of my mind all through Christmas, even though the day itself had been merry and magical.
We woke to a white Christmas, then spent the morning with my dad, the three of us huddled close on one sofa while we opened presents, the fireplace lit, crackling beneath Garland and keeping us warm.
We laughed while recounting Christmases past, my dad telling you stories about John, who strolled in a short while later with the rest of the family, wanting to know why Nic was making him out to be a troublemaker.
To which Libby laughed and responded, “Well, honey, because you were.” Then she pinned my dad with a knowing look.
“But what Nic’s conveniently leaving out is that he was right there with you, causing trouble, too. ”
We lingered over a late breakfast: giant cinnamon rolls, bacon, Henriette’s famous Christmas quiche. The adults drained two entire bottles of champagne, followed by multiple shots of espresso to sober up.
Then, later, the magical part: when we sat down with the Harrises again, and you got to have your first Christmas dinner by candlelight with your dad.
John, asking about your plans for the upcoming week in England and leaning close to hear your answer, quietly telling you he was glad to have you there, spending Christmas with us.
My dad, watching you two together, sentimental and proud—maybe a touch regretful, too.
Times like those, I wondered if Nic wished you belonged to him instead.
Or maybe he simply wished for John to know who you really were. I couldn’t quite tell.
As I watched you with John myself, I wondered if John felt a connection there, similar to the prickling one you’d first felt with Michael. But stronger. More intense. A gut feeling, maybe. Some undeniable pull.
The way John gravitated toward you that night—the string of personal questions he asked, the gleam in his eyes when you answered—made me think he must’ve felt something.
If I was right about your mother being that dark-haired girl in the picture, how could John look at you and not see her?
Because you were beautiful like she was.
By candlelight, Casey, you were breathtaking.
Our eyes kept meeting over a centerpiece made of fresh cedar, magnolia, and seeded eucalyptus. And when you smiled at me, a million butterfly wings fluttered inside my stomach.
After the Harrises left, I found you in the kitchen, prepping your kettle while Christmas music softly played in the background. Nat King Cole, if I remember correctly.
I’d come down bearing another gift, hidden inside the pocket of your cardigan. “You’re having tea this late?” I asked, clutching the little box to my thigh.
“It’s tradition,” you said, turning from the stove. “Claire and I always drink our final cup of the day just before midnight. My mum used to say we shouldn’t let a second of Christmas go to waste. Will you join me?”
“Do you have any bourbon creams left?” My mouth watered at the thought of dunking those crumbly chocolate cookies—sorry, biscuits—into my tea.
“Absolutely,” you said with a grin.
I smiled back. “Okay. Let’s do it.”