Letter Nineteen #5
“Yeah, you did. You know what it’s called when someone can’t be left alone without experiencing extreme anxiety or a panic attack?
Autophobia. I read about it online. It stems from childhood trauma or neglect.
Like abandonment, Dad.” Like being locked in an office.
All alone. Begging your dad to let you out. For hours.
Nic’s expression grew very still. He stared past me, thoughtful, like maybe he was thinking of that incident, too. Then he closed his eyes and whispered, “Um—”
But the sound of your footsteps cut him off.
You paused inside the Garland Room. “Sorry,” you said, backing away. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No, Casey.” Nic rose from the sofa. “Now that you’re here, I’ll just head on up to bed.” He bent to kiss me on the forehead, then squeezed your shoulder on his way to the stairs.
You climbed under the blankets on your sofa while I climbed under the blankets on mine. Our eyes met across the coffee table.
“Is everything alright between you and your dad?” you asked.
I karate chopped my pillow. Tossed myself down. Stared at the ceiling. “He said a bunch of bullshit about never leaving me alone because he wants to keep me safe.”
“And you don’t believe he does?”
“No. That’s just the thing he says so he doesn’t have to admit the truth.”
“What’s the truth?”
I considered telling you about the phobia stuff, but having a panic attack—the one and only time you’d ever left me alone—was embarrassing enough.
So I said, “That he can’t leave me alone because he thinks I’m a danger to myself and others.
” I paused to think. “That time I went to Michael’s and messed with Sienna’s stuff?
I was alone then, and I didn’t have a panic attack. ”
“For how long?”
“About thirty minutes.”
You considered this. “Maybe you panicked here because you know you’re not supposed to be alone here.”
“Maybe.” But there was something about the stillness of the house.
The chime of the grandfather clock. That bedroom.
The way the light slanted across the floor.
The crushing fear of being alone. There, specifically.
In my old nursery. “Guess it’s a good thing I deferred college for a year, because now I have to deal with this crazy shit. ”
On top of everything else.
So much for ever being normal.
I clasped my chest, wanting to bury my face into my pillow and sob.
“I don’t think your dad’s lying,” you said. “The way he goes about it might be a bit extreme—and, yes, even a bit messed up—but your safety’s important to him. He doesn’t think you’re a danger to others.”
“Whatever,” I said, propping my head up with one hand. “He does think that, and so do you. It’s why you don’t trust me to go off on my own anymore.”
“I don’t trust you because you lied to me about where you were going.”
“But why should I have to tell you exactly where I’m going? I mean, yeah, giving me freedom behind my dad’s back was cool, but how was it any of your business where I went?”
“If you’re going by Michael’s,” you said, cutting your eyes at me, “it’s absolutely my business.”
“He’s my best friend, Casey. If I want to hang out with him, who are you to tell me I can’t?”
“I’d never tell you not to see him, Elliot. If you want to hang out with him, go right ahead, but don’t hide it from me. Don’t lie about it. And if you’re doing more than hanging out with him, just say that. Just put me out of my misery.”
“Your misery? Why are you so miserable?”
You stared at me. “You never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“You know what question,” you said darkly.
I made one of those I-have-no-idea faces. Totally fake, by the way. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you said. “The one about Michael. When I asked if you’d slept with him.”
“You said it didn’t matter.”
Your face, Casey. You should’ve seen it. All sharp angles and barely suppressed irritation, your dark gaze intense. “Answer the question.”
“But why would I answer the question,” I said, pulse jumping, “if the answer doesn’t matter to you?”
“Oh my God.” You tossed your head back, hand clenched into a fist. “You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever known. Do you honestly think your answer doesn’t matter to me?”
“Honestly? I don’t know what to think.”
You hesitated a moment, jaw ticking. “It matters to me, alright? Everything you do matters to me. Surely that was made clear to you when I nearly fucking cried in your lap,” you said, gesturing to the sofa where that very incident had taken place.
“When I nearly bloody begged you to speak to me at the art gallery.”
“I just figured you must really value my friendship.”
You pulled a face. “Oh, come off it. You think I act like this with other girls?”
“Never really seen you interact with other girls.” And thank God for that. Might’ve put me in jail much sooner.
“Well, I don’t, alright? I’ve been trying to work out why you couldn’t answer the question.
Because you have, and you’re afraid to admit it?
Because you just wanted to mess with me?
And I hate not knowing for sure. Michael told me no when I asked him, but he also let me believe he might’ve cheated on Sienna when he didn’t.
So tell me right now. Have you slept with my brother? ”
“In what way exactly?”
“Oh my God,” you said, a frustrated laugh bubbling out as you tugged at your hair. “You’re definitely fucking with me now. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“A little bit, yeah. You made me feel pretty small that night. You hurt my feelings.”
“And I’m deeply sorry about that, okay? I never meant to hurt you. If it makes you feel any better, I suffered—I mentally and emotionally suffered—when you barely spoke to me for ten weeks.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You counted the weeks?”
“Of course I counted the weeks,” you said hoarsely, squeezing your eyes shut. “When you aren’t speaking to me, it’s torture.”
“Torture?” I might’ve been playing it pretty cool, but deep down, your admission had my heart doing little summersaults inside my chest.
“Yes,” you said miserably. “It’s like going without tea.
Can I do it? Sure. But then there’s nothing to look forward to.
Nothing to enjoy. Nothing to warm me up on a cold afternoon.
It’s like doing without the best part of my day.
Hearing your voice—talking to you—is the best part of my day.
Now,” you said, much lower, definitely pleading, “will you please answer my question?”
“I’ve never slept with Michael—not like that. We’re just friends.”
“Yeah? Then I why do sense a vibe between you two?”
“A vibe? There’s no vibe.”
“There’s tension.”
“If by tension you mean him being an asshole and me calling him on it, or him calling me a bitch when I’m acting like one, then sure.”
“Nope,” you said. “That’s not what I mean at all. I get the feeling he might like to be more than your friend.”
“Michael? You think Michael has feelings for me?”
“Either that,” you said, gaze dark and ominous, “or he just really wants to sink his teeth into you.”
I laughed—to hide the panic. “Sink his teeth into me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your dad bought you heaps of new dresses in New York. Different than the ones you usually wear. Low cut. Small straps. But you haven’t been wearing them. You’re back to the old ones. Why’s that?”
Obviously, I knew exactly why you were asking about this—you thought I might be hiding bite marks—but I wanted you to think I didn’t, so I had to play dumb. “I don’t understand. What do my dresses have to do with Michael?”
“You’ve been over to the Harrises’ quite a lot recently, and he hasn’t been by. In fact, he’s been at his parents’ nearly every day that you were there.”
“So what? You think I might’ve been…doing stuff with him?
I hardly saw Michael. I stayed in Bree’s room.
” The truth. I hid out with her, mainly hoping to avoid John.
Besides, even after the clawing episode, Michael had still been keeping his distance from me.
“You could’ve come over, too, you know. You could’ve hung out with everyone there—at your dad’s house. ”
“Right,” you said. “Where I’m forced to see their family photos all over the place? Forced to see all the holidays and birthdays the other two got to share with John that I never did? No, thank you.”
I hadn’t realized the family photos in John’s study bothered you that much. “Casey,” I said softly.
But you kept talking. “I’d rather torture myself with images of what you and Michael might be doing—in that charming childhood bedroom of his—than ever put myself through that again.”
“Well, I can assure you I’ve never hooked up with Michael in that bedroom, if that’s what you’re implying.” This, too, was the truth.
“But the weather’s warmed up, and you’re back to the old dresses. The ones with high necklines that cover everything. The ones you hate.”
“So?”
“Let me see your shoulder,” you said, gaze scorching mine.
“Are you kidding? This again? What the hell would be on my shoulder? A hickey or something? What?”
“Let me see it.”
“Okay, fine.” I shoved myself up from the sofa, stormed the few feet over to yours, and dropped to my knees, terrified you’d figure out the truth about me and Michael.
I had no choice but to show you. “Here’s the actual reason I’m back to the old dresses.
I didn’t want to upset you, but you asked for it. ”
Still propped up on one elbow, your face hovered thrillingly close to mine as I lifted the Harvard sweatshirt over my head and dropped it to the floor.
Underneath the sweatshirt, I wore that flimsy camisole without a bra, and you completely forgot about my shoulder—like I knew you would—because you instantly saw them: the claw marks scattered across my chest, the worst of them scabbed over.
A week later, they were still there, jagged and grotesque.
Your brow furrowed. “What’s this?”
So I told you—how my dad and Michael had actually found me.