Letter Nineteen #7
Usually, I looked forward to spending summers on the Cape, but for the first time in my life, I dreaded going to the beach. That year, it loomed on the horizon, a gray cloud in my future, empty of all sunshine and joy.
After school the next day, I received the next bit of news, and my summer loomed bleaker than before. A black cloud on the horizon. Much worse.
You’d run upstairs to grab a book, and I’d just sat down at the island to finish the final English paper of my high school career, when Michael pulled out the barstool next to mine and dropped himself into it. “I need to tell you something.”
“Have you heard Casey’s going to England this summer?” I asked him.
“Yeah.” Michael winced. “And the thing is, so am I.”
I slammed my laptop shut. “What?”
“I’m going with him,” he said.
“The whole time?”
He nodded. “Our dads think I need to go with him for moral support. His dad isn’t the greatest, you know? Nic’s worried about Casey being holed up with that asshole all summer.”
“You know the other reason they’re sending you, right?” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “They’re trying to keep us apart.”
“I know. They even admitted to that when I brought it up. They say we need a break from each other.”
I couldn’t believe our dads would go to such great lengths to separate me from Michael.
We hadn’t hung out alone in two months, and now they wanted us on two different continents?
I no longer believed Michael wasn’t part of the reason my dad had talked me into deferring a year.
After all, he’d admitted to John—and to me—that he’d known about our summer fling since the very beginning.
Tears sprang to my eyes. “But we’ve never been apart that long.”
Michael grabbed my hand. “But it’s not like you won’t hear from me at all. We’ll text and FaceTime, okay? I’ll have to check in occasionally to make sure you’re keeping your promise to me.”
“What promise?”
“Come on, Elliot,” he said, eyeing me. “Last summer, you promised you’d stop hurting yourself close to your birthday.”
“Oh, right,” I said—because a lot had happened since then, and I’d totally forgotten about that.
“Please don’t do anything because we’re both gone. If you don’t answer my calls, I’m calling your dad.”
The morning of my graduation ceremony, I groggily made my way upstairs for a shower, stopping inside my bedroom to rub the sleep from my eyes.
Yawning, I slumped down to my desk chair and glanced around the room, which had barely been touched in weeks.
Golden sunshine crept across my duvet. Birds chirped outside my window.
My white graduation dress, steamed by Henriette, hung from the top of my closet door.
The sky that day was a beautiful, clear blue. The high would be a comfortable seventy-six degrees with a light breeze. The perfect day for a graduation. For taking photos outside. For celebrating.
But as I stood there, thinking about the tumultuous year I’d had—the gloomy summer I’d have to endure without you or Michael, the year I’d spend sitting at home, not attending college like everyone else—I made a decision, Casey.
I chose violence.
Not the literal kind, of course. But a very specific type of violence nonetheless.
Forty-five minutes later, I found Nic and the Harrises with Garland, having their morning coffee together. I entered the room, still wearing my silky pajama set and robe.
Nic stood. “Elliot,” he said, glancing down at his watch. “We need to leave in twenty minutes. Why aren’t you dressed?”
I stuffed my hands into the fuzzy pockets of my robe. “I’m not going.”
My dad remained standing, speechless, while the Harrises rose from the sofa. Michael slowly reached forward to deposit his mug on the coffee table. Bree, legs draped over the arm of a wingback, glanced up from her phone.
“It’s your graduation,” Nic said, shoulders tensing as he spoke. “Of course you’re going. Go upstairs and change.”
“Not going,” I said.
“What’s wrong?” John asked, stepping forward. “Why don’t you want to go?”
“Don’t want to go?” you repeated, coming in from the kitchen, cup of coffee in hand. You wore a dark blue linen suit with a crisp white Oxford, unbuttoned at the throat. Seeing how handsome you were, all dressed up for me, nearly foiled my plans.
Libby held up her manicured fingers, flashed a blinding white smile at you, and chuckled. “She’s going, obviously. This is just—she’s having jitters. Everything’s fine.”
“Yes, Libby. Everything’s fine,” I said. “I’m simply choosing not to go.”
“No,” Nic said, panic creeping into his voice.
“You’ll put on the white dress we bought in New York specifically for this occasion, we’ll all walk down to the church together, and you’ll take a picture with your diploma.
You worked really hard, and that should be recognized.
That should be documented. So you’re going. ”
“You’re absolutely right, Dad. I worked so hard. But I’ve also had a rough year, and now I need a break—like you said. So I’m staying home.”
“Elliot,” John said, clearly fighting to keep his voice even. “This is important. You only graduate high school once.”
“I understand that, John. It’s just that—for me, personally—this is a hard no today.” I cocked my head at him. “You know what I mean?”
John knew exactly what I meant. He turned to my dad and they exchanged a long, hard look. One where the weight of my words sunk in, and they finally understood the ramifications of their actions.
“Come on, sweetie,” Libby said, taking my arm. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll help you with your dress.”
I yanked my arm free. “I’m not going.”
“Listen,” Nic said, stepping closer, hands pressed together as if he were praying, “you can make your point later. Skip dinner. Let the cake I ordered go to waste. Do whatever the hell you want as long as you get dressed and go to your graduation. I’ve waited your whole life for this.”
“I’ve waited my whole life for”—I pretended to think a moment—“a lot of things I still don’t have. Experiences. Firsts. Answers. The freedom to make my own choices.”
Did you see it, Casey? Nic’s eyes drifting closed? The disappointment moving through his body? The little nod, there at the end, where he accepted his fate?
It was the ultimate take. That’s what made the taking so violent.
It’s like I said before: Nic knew the price, he’d paid it many times, but he still continued to take from me.