Letter Eighteen #3
With his thumbs, he brushed the tears from my face. “It doesn’t bother me,” he whispered. “You know that.”
“It did when you accused me of using you to punish myself.”
“Because I’m afraid”—he swallowed hard—“that’s all it was. That that’s all you wanted from me at the beach. The pain.”
“Of course it wasn’t.” I pressed my fingers to the Braille-like scar on his neck—the one I’d left all those years ago, when I’d stabbed him.
“You know why I can’t let it go? Because you’re one of my favorite people in the whole world, and I nearly took you out of it.
You’re the only person who’s ever been completely honest with me, and sometimes it feels like you’re the only person who’s ever loved me unconditionally.
I love that you don’t take shit from me.
That when you let people in, you let them in fully.
That you forgive so easily, even when forgiveness isn’t deserved.
I’m so thankful my dad knocked up his college girlfriend just two years after your dad knocked up his college girlfriend, and we got to grow up together. ”
We smiled at each other.
“And if you ever take this away from me”—I stroked his lip once more—“I’ll die. I need it. It’s the only way I can be sure you’re still here with me. I love you.”
When Michael kissed me again, I deepened it, pulling him with me as I fell back on the sofa. He yanked your cardigan down my shoulder and his hand roamed freely, his teeth grazing my goose-pebbled skin.
And there was definitely something to this—to the mix of pleasure and pain, and the chill in the air, and the heat emanating from him—that set my whole body ablaze and muddled my thoughts and made me willing to forget everything.
Including you, sleeping two floors up, and all the complicated things I felt for you.
It didn’t matter. That’s what you’d said: “It doesn’t matter. ” So I convinced myself of it, too.
Upstairs, as the grandfather clock chimed one, I bit my bottom lip to keep from crying out when pleasure collided with pain, Michael’s teeth deeply embedded in my shoulder.
Afterward, I drifted upstairs and snuck into bed beside Bree, careful not to wake her as I adjusted my pillow.
Her arm snaked around my waist, and I froze.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, pressing her lips to my ear.
When I didn’t respond, she dragged her nose down the side of my face and whispered it again.
Still, I stayed silent.
No one—other than Michael—knew how to hurt me like her. How to take the truth and stab me with it. How to make it burn.
Bree turned my face to hers, eyes shining bright in the snowy light pouring in through my windows. “Forgive me,” she murmured, stroking my cheek with her thumb. “Please.”
I didn’t want to, but the next few days would be unbearable if I didn’t. We were snowed in together, after all. So I covered her hand with mine, nodded once, and forgave her, anyway.
Satisfied, she curled closer, resting her head on my shoulder and her arm across my chest. While I lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, she swept her fingers through my hair.
We woke to more than eighteen inches of snow, the sky bulbous and gray, more snow predicted.
In the kitchen that morning, my dad and the Harrises lingered over their coffee, Eleanor worked on a crossword in the sitting room, and the rest of us sprawled in front of the fire, watching movies with Garland.
Us girls crowded together on one sofa while you and Michael sat on the other one, your heads buried in schoolwork.
Michael worked through a giant stack of notes he’d taken for some philosophy class he deemed both torturous and bullshit, and—given the number of times he sighed and groaned and tossed the notes aside to take another break—it must’ve been torture, at least for him.
You, on the other hand, remained calm, fingers brushing your lips like they did when you read for pleasure, gaze steady behind your black glasses.
I couldn’t help feeling this horrible stab of guilt at the thought of the night before: I’d been wearing your cardigan while I made out with your brother, and you were sitting on the very sofa where all the kissing (and biting) had taken place.
Michael’s thoughts kept drifting there, too, because his scorching gaze kept catching mine over the coffee table.
At dinner later, while we helped ourselves to a hearty beef stew (made by you and Libby), you stopped me at the stove, put your hand to my chin, and tilted my face up to yours. “What’s happened to your lip?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said, pulling back. “Slipped on the stairs, coming down too fast.”
Nic walked over and did the same thing, narrowing his eyes on the cut, his thumb lingering on my chin. “You need to be more careful, Elliot.”
I swatted his hand away. “I’m fine.”
As we took our seats at the dining table, John caught my gaze. “Have you heard from Harvard yet?”
His question sent a jolt of anxiety through me. “Not yet.”
“Her interview went great,” Nic said with a confident nod. “She’ll get in.” A look passed between him and John—between him and Libby, too. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, turning his gaze back to me. “What if you take a gap year?”
I smiled, like he’d just told everyone a joke. “Why would I take a gap year?”
Nic—arms folded on top of the table, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up—gave a casual shrug.
“Harvard will be pretty grueling, you know? Then there’s business school after that and work at the firm.
You’ve worked really hard the last four years—it might be nice to take a break.
Rest while you can. Travel a bit. We can go anywhere you want. ”
“We,” I repeated with a small laugh. “As in, me and you?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Because most people don’t take a gap year to travel with their dad.”
Over the rim of her wineglass, Eleanor shot Nic a look that said, The girl’s got a point.
Nic smiled. “Oh, come on. With the right view, how bad could it be? A little more time with me—that’s not exactly suffering, is it?”
“So instead of being stuck with you here,” I said, “I’ll be stuck in Europe—or, like, on a yacht in the Mediterranean somewhere—while Tinsley and everyone else goes off to college?”
Nic grasped his heart, as if wounded. “Stuck with me?”
Libby reached over to squeeze his shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie. My kids don’t like hanging out with me, either.”
“How come no one ever proposed this idea to Michael?” I asked.
“I did propose the idea to Michael,” John said. “I definitely gave him that option.”
“And I wanted to take him up on it,” Michael said, “before my mom shot him down.”
“But that doesn’t mean it isn’t still an option,” Libby said, raising her wineglass. “As a matter of fact, Harvard highly encourages students to take a gap year.”
Michael perked up. “Really? So I can take one?”
She sipped her cabernet, and John shot her a look from across the table. “Before law school, maybe,” she said. “We’ll see.”
John turned to me. “Hey,” he said softly, catching my gaze. “I took a gap year, and it was great.”
“Because you had a brand new baby to take care of,” I said.
“That’s way different. You were busy doing something, not just…
sitting around the house.” I glanced across the table, where you happened to be staring at me with a little groove of concern between your eyebrows.
I looked at Nic. “When Casey’s at school, and you’re at work, what would I do? ”
“Well,” Nic said, gaze flitting over to you, “maybe Casey could…limit his courses to two days a week, and I could work from home when he isn’t here. That way, someone’s always here to hang out with you. We can sort out the details later.”
“You say that as if it’s definitely happening.” I dropped my spoon, no longer hungry. “As if I don’t even have a choice in the matter.”
“You always have a choice,” Nic said. “But you’ve had a tough year, honey. So I’d really like you to consider doing this for yourself.”
What a convenient way to use my assault against me.
Nearly dying hadn’t kept me from excelling in my classes, acing my college interview, or sailing through midterms. So what if I’d missed the deadline to apply for early decision?
Got sent to the headmaster’s office that one time?
Disappeared with Willoughby once? Cut myself?
Sent someone to the ER? Still had nightmares?
Okay, so maybe I hadn’t actually sailed through anything. Just barely kept my head above water. But still.
“Right,” I said, rising from the table. “Because it’s totally normal to put off college for no reason at all.”
“I just gave you several reasons,” Nic said. “Where are you going?”
“Upstairs.”
Late that night, after Tinsley and Bree had drifted off to sleep, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed downstairs.
Michael peeled back three blankets before pulling me onto his lap. “Are you okay?”
I shrugged, hands resting on his shoulders.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I would’ve loved to take a gap year. I was so pissed when my mom fought my dad on it.”
“But it’s putting my life on hold for nothing.” Or was it? Maybe Nic wanted me to defer because I’d hurt Sienna. Because he knew I’d want to live on campus, where he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on me anymore. “It puts me a whole year behind everyone else.”
“Who’s everyone else?” Michael asked with a snort.
“None of your classmates are heirs to a billion-dollar empire. Unlike them, your future’s already secure.
You don’t have to worry about someone coming along to take Nic’s place before you finish school.
The firm’s yours whenever you want it—or whenever Nic steps down. Whichever comes first.”
“You think he’ll actually give it to me? That he’ll ever trust me with that kind of responsibility?”
“He’d be stupid not to. You’ll make a more formidable president than all the men who’ve come before you—and your dad knows it.” He pressed his lips to my neck. Against my pulse, he whispered, “I keep telling you: you’re a total badass.”