Letter Twenty-One #2
“This isn’t something I ever chose,” you said, voice shaking with emotion.
“I didn’t choose for my biological dad to be some local politician with a thriving career.
Or for his wife to put her bid in for mayor within months of my arrival.
Or for my brother—God, that’s just—well, quite the shit-show there.
I didn’t plan for it to be this difficult to tell them who I am, or for your dad to be stuck in the middle—stuck helping me lie to everyone.
And I certainly never chose to have feelings for you.
It just happened. And the thing about me is, I’ve never been in a proper relationship.
I don’t normally do relationships. So you might understand why I’d want my life to be a little less complicated before I decide to enter one. ”
“Got it,” I said, arms crossed over my chest. “As long as you understand that if my dad’s giving me an opportunity to have a boy in my bed, I’m taking it, whether that boy is you or not. I’ll be damned if I let another man keep me from having something I want.”
“Right,” you said, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I didn’t mean to imply you shouldn’t have normal things. You deserve to have everything you want. I just regret that I’m not in a better place right now, but I’m being a prick about it, and that’s not fair to you. So I’m sorry.”
You swiped a jar of cumin off the counter while I stood there, still hearing the way your voice had cracked on Willoughby’s name.
How would I feel if you had a girl hanging around the house? If I had to sit downstairs while you took her up to your room?
Devastated, that’s how. Wild and out of control. Too loose. The same way I felt every time I remembered you’d been with Sienna.
So I slipped my arms around you from behind, tucking my forehead between your shoulder blades. I just needed you to know you still mattered to me. That I cared how you felt. That, despite having another boy in my room, I hadn’t given up on us.
You covered my hand with yours, holding it against your heart.
Here’s another truth: I felt more sparks in that single hug than I’d ever felt between me and Willoughby. Or me and Michael, for that matter.
That’s why I marched upstairs and told Willoughby my dad was on his way home—even though he wasn’t—so you and I could hang out alone the rest of the night.
That September, we had an unexpected visitor.
It all began one day after therapy.
You, me, Michael, and Willoughby were hanging out in the kitchen together—Willoughby’s homework spread out on the counter, your kettle coming to a boil, Michael doomscrolling—when, out of nowhere, Willoughby said, “What’s with the woman?”
“What woman?” I asked, lowering a book to my lap.
“The one who watches the house,” Willoughby said, drumming his pencil against an open calculus notebook.
Michael glanced up from his phone.
“A woman who watches the house,” you repeated, turning away from the stove. “What the fuck are you on about, Willoughby?”
“I see her when I’m sitting on the front steps,” he said, “waiting for you guys to get home. She’s always hanging around, looking over here.”
“What does she look like?” I asked.
“Hard to say. She wears big sunglasses, even when it’s cloudy out, and a baseball cap with her hair pulled back. She never comes near the house, just stands across the square or on that opposite corner by the tree, playing on her phone and smoking.”
“It’s probably someone just trying to catch my mom over here with Nic,” said Michael.
“With Nic?” you asked. “Why?”
“My mom’s campaign manager says her opponents are trying to dig up some dirt on her. They’re looking hard at her relationship with Nic, even though he’s funding only a small portion of her campaign.”
“But Nic and Libby are just friends,” you said.
“A lot of people aren’t convinced that’s all they are,” said Michael. “They’re also looking into my parents’ marriage—looking for skeletons in both of their closets.”
You and I exchanged a look over the island.
But Michael just shrugged. “This happens every time one of my parents runs for something. It’s not a big deal.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?” I asked.
“Earlier today,” Willoughby said. “She’s standing by the tree that leans over the street again.”
“How come you’ve never mentioned this woman before now?” you asked him.
“I kept thinking maybe she lived in the area, you know? That maybe she’d come outside for a smoke before heading back to her house.
But I’ve never seen her enter or leave any of the houses around here.
And lately? While I’m waiting for you guys to get home?
She waves at me. And when I leave? She’s still out there.
Yesterday, she waved goodbye as I left.”
“Oh, yeah?” I pushed my stool back, wanting to see this nosy bitch for myself. I marched to the front of the house, yanked open the front door, and peered across the street.
And there she was—a slender woman, propped against the tree on the corner, playing on her phone—exactly where Willoughby said she’d be. A big pair of sunglasses and a Red Sox baseball cap, tan with a white B, obscured her face.
Within a matter of seconds, she cocked her head upright, as if she’d noticed me standing outside on the stoop—the sunglasses made it difficult to tell. But when she pushed off the tree and slowly stepped forward, I knew for sure she’d caught me looking at her.
We were looking at each other.
As I stared at the woman, and the woman stared back at me, a strange prickling sensation traveled up the back of my neck.
That’s when she lifted her phone to snap a picture—of me, standing outside on the stoop—which I found extremely odd, if her purpose for being there was to watch for Libby.
As the woman lowered her phone, her lips curled into something between a smile and a smirk, and that pissed me off—the nerve of this woman, spying on my house. I started to charge down the steps, but someone caught my arm.
“Don’t,” Michael said. I tried walking forward, anyway, but he pulled me back. “You can’t talk to her. It’s a bad idea.”
“She took a picture of me,” I said, gaze still aimed at the woman as she backed up on the sidewalk. “I want to tell her to mind her own business.”
“Elliot,” you said from behind us. “He’s right. Come back inside.”
I turned to look at you—leaning inside the doorway, both hands jammed in your pockets, peering across the street—and it cost me.
Because when I turned back around, the woman had already begun to walk away, her dark ponytail bouncing as she hiked up the road, slipped past a hoard of tourists, and disappeared from my view.
The woman’s presence left an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach, but not nearly as odd as my dad’s behavior when he strode into the Garland Room an hour later, home early from work. You and Michael trailed close behind him.
“Elliot,” said Nic, all business. “Don’t ever approach that woman you saw on the street today.” He pointed at me. “Don’t ever talk to her. Do you understand me?”
“How do you know about the woman?”
“Casey told me.” Nic took a seat on the coffee table—across from me and Willoughby—and held my gaze. “Listen, I need you to understand how important this is. You can’t ever talk to her.”
“But she’s spying on us,” I said. “I’m pretty sure she took a picture of me.”
Nic loosened the knot in his tie, scraped both hands down his thighs, and rubbed at his forehead—all of this in rapid succession.
“I don’t care what she does or where she’s been.
You can’t talk to her.” His gaze frantically dashed around the room.
“None of you can.” He looked at Willoughby.
“That goes for you, too, Willoughby. If she ever approaches you, turn around and walk in the opposite direction. Do not engage with her. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Willoughby.
“Michael?”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Michael said, holding both hands up. “I already know.”
“Casey,” said Nic. “Don’t ever allow Elliot near that woman. Do you hear me?”
“Of course,” you said, the groove between your eyebrows deepening. My dad’s reaction to this woman concerned you.
Me, though? I was livid. Nic’s order—coupled with your willingness to obey his every command—made me want to kick something.
“Don’t allow me near her?” I asked. “Why? You think I’ll say something to hurt Libby’s image?”
“No,” said Nic. “That’s not—that isn’t what I’m suggesting at all, Elliot.”
“Yes, it is. You think I’ll mess with that woman.
You think—” That’s when the actual reason dawned: I knew your secret, and he probably figured I’d slip again.
“Oh, I get it. You really don’t trust me, do you, Dad?
You always expect the worst of me.” I flicked my eyes in your direction, so he understood my meaning.
“Elliot, stop. Okay? I need everyone to stay away from her.”
“Especially me, though, right? That’s why you just ordered Casey to keep me away from her—me specifically.”
“Elliot,” Nic said. “I need you to listen to what I’m saying. Stay away from all strangers. Don’t talk to anyone.”
It sounded like something you’d say to a kid. Stranger danger.
“But I would never say anything to hurt the Harrises, Dad. You’re seriously overreacting right now.”
“I’m not overreacting!” Nic yelled.
Willoughby twitched beside me. You and Michael reared back, surprised by Nic’s outburst.
Nic, squeezing his eyes shut, attempted to regain his composure.
He pressed his hands together in a praying gesture and put them to his face.
Then, reaching out to take my hand, he tilted his head to the side.
“This is really important. Okay, honey?” he said softly.
“Just promise me you won’t go near her.”