Letter Eighteen #4
As Garland watched on with disapproval, we kissed and nipped at each other, Michael’s breaths quickly becoming ragged as he jerked my camisole down to my waist.
He groaned as I moved on top of him, his lips drifting across my collarbone. “Think about it,” he whispered. “You and me. My bed. How hot it’ll be.”
My chest crackled as I dragged my nails through his hair, pressing his mouth closer still.
And then—
A deep voice, piercing through it all. “What the hell?”
I knew that voice well: John.
Your dad strode into the room with my dad trailing close behind him.
“Oh my God.” Mortified, I twisted to face Garland, struggling to yank up my camisole. Michael’s hands fluttered up my arms, helping me pull the straps back into place.
John directed a vicious look at Michael. “What’s going on here?”
Michael readjusted himself while I crossed both arms over my chest, suddenly hyper aware of how cold it was in that room.
We fumbled through an explanation, a jumble of muttered words that couldn’t have possibly made sense.
John pointed at me, then pointed to the sofa across from the coffee table. “Go sit over there.”
So I did, trembling along the way. Nic snatched my Harvard sweatshirt off the back of the sofa and tossed it at me.
John looked at my dad, standing still and perfectly silent. “Nic, how are you so calm about this?”
Nic shrugged, hands propped on his hips. “We knew this would happen eventually, right?”
“But how are you so calm about it?” John demanded, staring hard at my dad.
Nic closed his eyes. Sighed. Wiped a hand down his face. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened.”
“That’s what I thought.” John tilted his head to the side. “Tell me, Nic. When did it start?”
It took Nic a good thirty seconds to answer that question. “The end of last summer.”
Michael and I exchanged a look of both surprise and confusion over the coffee table. All this time, my dad had known we’d hooked up?
“You kept this from me?” John asked. “From us?”
“I know,” Nic whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“We’re not supposed to keep secrets from each other,” John said, and I remember thinking that was a really odd thing for one man to say to another, despite what great friends they were. Then again, Libby had said it, too: “The three of us don’t keep secrets from each other.”
Nic looked guilty as hell as he gazed back at John. It was obvious—to me, at least—that Nic was thinking about your secret.
“This is done,” John said, waving his hand between us. “It ends right now.”
“But I love her,” Michael said.
“Sorry, son. But the answer’s no.”
“I don’t remember ever asking for your permission,” Michael snapped.
“Oh, that’s funny,” John said, but he laughed like someone who wasn’t amused at all.
“You think because you’re in college now, and you live on your own, you can stop doing what I say?
You forget who pays for that nice apartment of yours—who pays for your tuition, and your credit cards, and all your fucking bills.
So, yes, you do need my permission. You need Nic’s, too—and we’re both saying no.
There are hundreds of eligible girls in this city for you to date, but this one’s off limits.
” John jabbed his finger at me. “This one’s a hard no. ”
I flinched as if he’d socked me in the stomach.
Worse—in the heart. It was one thing for me to say I wasn’t good for Michael, but for John to do it?
In such a harsh way? He couldn’t leave it at no.
He had to make it a hard no. Tears pricked my eyes.
“Seriously, John? You don’t speak for my dad. He hasn’t said no to anything.”
“Elliot,” Nic said. “Of course I’m saying no to this.”
“Why?” Michael asked. “Give me one good reason.”
“You don’t belong together, son,” Nic said. “It’s as simple as that.”
“I disagree,” Michael snapped.
“Doesn’t matter,” John said. “This isn’t up for discussion. It’s over whether you agree or not.”
“See, Michael?” I said. “I’m not good enough for you.”
“You’re not good for each other,” John claimed.
“Again,” Michael said, “I disagree. And if we really want to be together? You can’t stop us.”
Both of our dads laughed at that.
My dad said, “Yeah? Watch me.”
“You might not be able to see it now, son,” John added. “But this is for the best.”
I felt so much more than rage. It was hurt, deeper and more painful than any pain I could inflict on myself.
It was the startling realization I’d been lied to—by one of the people I trusted most in this world.
You’re not bad. But John didn’t think I was good, either. Not good for his son. A hard no.
“Fuck you, John,” I said.
Nic stepped forward. “Elliot, he’s right. Also: watch your mouth.”
“Fuck you, too, Dad.” I took pleasure in watching him flinch before I stormed upstairs.
The following day, I forced myself to stay downstairs with everyone else, but buried myself in schoolwork. Michael did the same, I assumed, from my dad’s office—where he remained hidden—only wandering out occasionally for snacks and meals, keeping his eyes downcast, never once meeting mine.
After lunch, I distracted myself with more schoolwork. Bree and Tinsley—both restless and looking for something to do—reluctantly did the same, so we all sat at the dining table with our laptops, toiling away, while you or Libby occasionally popped in to drop off snacks.
A couple hours in, I checked my email, and there it was: the response I’d been waiting for from Harvard.
Hand trembling, I clicked on the email. Dear Elliot, it read, I am delighted to inform you…
A normal person would squeal with excitement and call everyone into the room, bursting to share the good news.
But not me. Long after Tinsley and Bree had left the table, I sat there, frozen still, staring at the email.
You came up behind me, saw the screen for yourself, and pulled out the chair beside mine.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “You got in.” You pulled out your phone. “Let’s—”
“Don’t,” I said, clasping your forearm. “I’m not telling anyone.”
You drew back. “Why not?”
“There’s no point.” I slammed the laptop shut.
“Of course there is,” you said, aghast. “You’ve just been admitted to your dream school.”
“I’ve just been admitted to his dream school. And he doesn’t even want me to go.”
“He wants you to take a year to unwind, that’s all.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, drawing back. “Have you talked to him about this?”
You squirmed beside me. “He just asked what I thought.”
“And what are your thoughts, Casey?”
You studied me, gaze dancing softly over my face. “I think you should do whatever you want. But I also feel, given everything that’s happened over the last year, you deserve to take a break if you want one.”
“If I want one? That’s funny. He doesn’t care what I want.
What I want is completely irrelevant to him—always has been.
I put a bitch in the ER, and now he wants to extend my sentence by another year.
One more year, in which I’m really not allowed to have anything.
In which I’m stuck—on pause—while everyone else gets to move on with their lives. ”
“Listen, if you decide to take a gap year, we’ll make the most of it, okay? We could…volunteer at an animal shelter.”
“He doesn’t want me around people, Casey. You think he’ll let me around a bunch of already traumatized cats and dogs?”
“Okay,” you said, eyes drifting closed.
“I’m beginning to wonder why he didn’t just…let him take me.”
Those twin lines appeared between your eyebrows. “Let who take you?”
“My grandfather. For years, Gabe’s been trying to talk my dad into letting him take me to Paris—to live with him. Last time he was here, they got into a fight because my dad wouldn’t let him take care of it.”
“Take care of what?”
“Me. He wants my dad to move me far away…before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Before I screw up too badly over here and tarnish their precious name, I guess. Gabe doesn’t want me here at all.
If it were up to him, I’d never be allowed to work at the firm.
You know what I heard him say to my dad once?
Gabe told my dad he needs to have more kids—that’s the real reason he’s always trying to set my dad up with someone.
He wants them to have other options, because I’m not good enough. ”
Not good enough for my family. Not good enough for Michael. Not good enough for college. Not good enough for anything.
Then something else occurred to me: maybe that’s why Nic had moved you in, excited by the possibility you might be his son. Someone good. Someone better. Someone to replace me if I screwed up.
“And I guess my dad agrees,” I said, voice catching on the words. “I’ll never be good enough for him.”
You leaned forward, trying to meet my gaze. “Elliot—”
“What happens when he decides to take the firm from me, too? What then? What will I have left? What will I do with my life?”
I tried to imagine it: a future without the firm. A future where the first girl born to a Bancroft was also the first Bancroft to screw the line of succession. Where my dad chose a successor who wasn’t a Bancroft at all.
Little did I know, that future would become my reality.
You. On Tuesdays.
All those perfectly tailored suits.
“Elliot,” you said softly, squeezing my forearm. “This’ll be a great year, no matter what you’re doing, okay? Your dad’s not taking anything. Everything will work out.”
“Easy for you to say,” I said, ripping my arm from your grasp. “You’re free to have whatever you want, and no one will ever try to take it from you.”
“No,” you said, expression hardening. “I can’t have whatever I want. That’s absolute shit. That’s not at all true.”
“Name one thing you can’t have, Casey.”
You stared at me. “I can’t have the relationship I want with my biological family.”
“Wrong. It’s there, waiting on you, whenever you’re ready. You’re choosing not to let yourself have it. They’re your blood and no one can ever take that away from you.”
You shook your head. “It’s not that simple. I’ve already screwed it up.”