Letter Twenty #8
The shock of seeing you had temporarily made me forget. Remembering, I shoved you in the chest. “You are shit. Do you have any idea how that felt? When no one believed me? Do you? He almost sent me away.”
“I know,” you said. “I know.”
“You don’t know. I did that horrible begging thing to my dad. I was terrified.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I feel awful.”
You did seem sorry. Shoulders sagging. Face a bit drawn. Maybe tired, too. I stopped to consider what you must’ve endured over the last eight weeks, stuck in England with your adoptive dad, and all that residual anger drained away.
Well, maybe not all the anger.
You took my arm, pulling me close again.
“How is it that you’re even more beautiful than you were when I left?
” You brushed a strand of hair behind my ear and left your fingers there, your soft gaze dancing over my face.
“I’ve barely slept the last couple of days—half worried you’d be angry, half desperate to get back to you, anyway.
” You pressed your forehead to mine again and whispered, “These last eight weeks have been pure agony.”
“For me, too,” I said, then hugged you tight. You held my head to your chest, breathing a sigh so large and deep that I felt it against my chest. “Where’s Michael? How’d you get here? When?”
“He’s still sleeping. Hal brought us from the airport late last night.”
“What about Claire?”
“She’s fine. My dad’s doing much better now.” You lowered your head, pressed your lips close to my ear, and whispered, “Happy Birthday.”
I pulled back, smiling. “I can’t believe it. I was just standing over there, dreading this whole day, and now you’re here. Both of you.”
You picked up my braid, smoothing it between your fingers. “Your dad wanted to surprise you.”
“Really?” Fresh tears sprung to my eyes.
“Yes,” you said, smiling back. “He called a few days ago, said he wanted us back for your birthday. He offered to hire help for Claire, but she told him there was no need. She said to wish you a happy birthday.”
I started to cry.
“Hey.” You took my face in your hand. “Don’t cry again.”
“I’m so happy,” I said, laying my hand over yours. “I just had the worst summer of my life, but this makes up for it. This is the best gift.”
You swiped a tear from my cheek. “Let me make you a proper breakfast.”
Libby walked in soon after that, greeted you with a hug and kiss on the cheek, then got to work, helping you gather ingredients for our breakfast.
When I think of happiness—true happiness, Casey, the last time I felt truly happy to be exactly where I was—it was that morning. That whole day. My last birthday before coming here.
I remember it like one of those scenes in a movie, where the characters are smiling and laughing, and everyone’s so deliriously cheerful that you think, People are never that happy in real life. But we were that day, weren’t we? I know I was.
I remember my dad walking in, and how I threw myself against him so hard that he laughed, the low hum of his voice as he said “Happy Birthday” before pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
I remember him rounding the island to embrace you next, how big he grinned as he held your face between his hands, and how I didn’t care how happy he looked to see you, despite the recent admission that he’d wanted you to be his.
In some strange, permanent way…it felt like you were his.
You were mine, too. You would always belong to both of us. You were ours.
I remember John wandering into the kitchen and lighting up—as always—at the sight of you.
How he quickly pulled you into an embrace, then drew back to look at you, keeping his hands on your arms as he said, “It’s so good to have you back.
” How Nic and I exchanged a smile behind John’s back, a secret between father and daughter.
How Michael stumbled in, half asleep, but paused when he spotted me standing next to my dad.
I remember rushing into his arms and burying my face in his neck, comforted by his familiar Michael smell.
How he twisted us in a circle and clutched me close, his hand in my hair, both of us laughing as he lowered me to the floor.
How I dragged my thumb down his scar and sighed with relief. You’re still here.
I remember your gaze meeting mine over Michael’s shoulder before you went back to whisking the eggs. I remember the look our dads exchanged, and how I didn’t care about that, either.
“No hit?” Michael asked, ducking to meet my gaze. “You’re not going to hit me? You’re not mad?”
“Oh, no,” I said, my smile fading. “I’m still pissed. I’ll get you back when you least expect it.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, expression going soft. He tugged on the end of my braid. “God, I missed you. Happy Birthday.”
Hugs all around, for Michael as well, my dad greeting him the same way he’d greeted you, the Harrises hugging and kissing Michael so much he begged them to stop. They’d never been separated from him that long, either.
As Bree hugged you, Michael ruffled her hair. She playfully swatted him away before letting you go to hug him, too. You went back to making our breakfast while John and my dad prepped the espresso machine for coffee.
We were a family.
One big, unusual family.
And that definitely included you.
Later, as we dug into our breakfasts, I stopped eating to clasp my dad’s wrist.
“What is it?” he asked.
He’d just given me the wonderful gift of you and Michael. I wanted to give him something, too.
“I guess it might be okay if—I mean, I don’t need anything. But if it’s important to you…”
“You’ll let us get you a cake?” Nic asked, his voice so soft and hopeful that it pricked my heart.
I shrugged. “Yeah. If you want to.”
“Of course I want to,” he whispered.
“Can we sing ‘Happy Birthday’?” Michael asked from across the table.
“No,” I said quickly. “No singing.”
“What about candles?” Libby asked.
“Candles are fine…I guess.”
“And gifts?” John asked.
“No more gifts,” I said. “Not today. Michael and Casey being here? That’s all I really wanted, anyway.”
John looked at Nic. “Is it too late to send her other gift back?”
“Yep,” Nic said, going back to his eggs.
John sighed. “Well, Elliot. Looks like you’ll have to put up with at least one more gift today.”
Beside me, you said, “She’s going to love it.” You bumped my elbow with yours and winked.
After breakfast, I helped you clean the kitchen before we headed out back to swim.
Another birthday treat—and undeniably my favorite one—was that I got to see you in those little black swim trunks again. It did something to me, Casey, seeing you in those shorts, your skin glistening as you climbed out of the pool.
Whole body tingling.
Stomach fluttering.
Heart thrashing.
I thought of our kiss, the feel of your tongue in my mouth, your finger hooked inside my camisole…
“You horny bitch. You’re not even trying to hide it this time.”
Tinsley. Standing over my chaise lounge. Bubblegum pink swimsuit. Big sunglasses. Wild corkscrew curls framing her face. We squealed with delight as I jumped up and hugged her.
You and Michael watched us with big grins on your faces—you, toweling off; him, hanging onto the edge of the pool.
While Tinsley launched into a play-by-play of her summer in Greece, gushing over some cute guy she’d met there, a sopping-wet Michael pulled her into a hug.
She scolded him for getting her hair wet.
That night, we dined al fresco under a star-studded sky.
Flowers and tea lights dotted the back patio table.
The smell of jasmine, climbing a trellis nearby, clung to the air.
A light breeze came off the ocean, ruffling the white tablecloth and my hair.
We lingered long after we’d cleaned our plates. We laughed. We teased.
But when Libby brought that big chocolate cake outside and placed it on the table in front of me, my stomach clenched, instantly reminding me why I normally said no to this.
The cake made me think of my eighth birthday.
Eight tall candles lit, right before a single raging moment forever altered my life—Michael’s, too.
I wanted to walk away, deny myself the happiness of that moment, which felt so undeserved, still.
But you grabbed my hand underneath the table and squeezed it tight.
The soft look on your face said, It’s okay.
I glanced over at my dad, who looked so cautiously hopeful that I knew he half-expected me to ruin it, to walk away after all, and the sight pricked my heart.
All he ever wanted on my birthday was to celebrate me—with a cake, at the very least—and I refused to give him that.
Every single year. So I forced myself to be okay with it. To stay for his sake.
You all stared at me as the flames danced and licked at the dark, the cake bathed in light, an amber glow. Complete silence, other than the waves crashing along the shore. No singing.
Tinsley quietly said, “Make a wish?”
Beside her, Michael gave me a small, encouraging smile, his blue eyes shining in the candlelight.
I gave Michael the tiniest nod, clutched your hand, and blew out the candles.
Everyone grinned as the smoke swirled around us.
Libby and Tinsley wiped at their eyes—John and Nic did, too.
Then my dad leaned in close, took my face between his hands, and whispered, “This. This makes me so happy. Thank you.”
But here’s a truth for you, Casey: I didn’t make a birthday wish. Wishing felt futile. And, anyway, I wished for too much.
To be a normal nineteen-year-old. To have a mom who cared about my birthday. To have never hurt Michael. To take back all the lies I’d told since the day we met. To be good like you.
How on earth could I possibly choose?