Letter Twenty-Two
Today, you wore a charcoal suit with a light blue shirt and a dotted brown tie. The way you pull off a three-piece, Casey, should be criminal.
“You know what I miss?” I asked, hands fidgeting atop the cold steel table.
“What?”
“Tea. Those little chocolate cookies—”
“Biscuits,” you corrected me.
“—biscuits I love.” I rolled my eyes. “Coffee. The walk to get the coffee. The park. The squirrels. Wait, have you been feeding them?”
“You’ve asked me this a hundred times.”
“Have you?”
“Yes,” you said with a sigh. “Despite the dirty looks I get, yes.”
“I miss the horrible traffic. And Hal. And your cardigans, especially the one that’s mine.”
“The one you stole.”
“But then you gave it to me, so now it’s mine.”
“Yes,” you said softly, but with a frown. Pretty sure I know why the thought of your—my—cardigan upsets you now, but I didn’t want to think about that, so I pushed the images away.
Me. You. Your tattooed hand, trembling.
The blood.
“I miss sitting by the fire while we read. You do this thing while you’re reading where you stroke your bottom lip, and it’s kind of hypnotizing. I miss your glasses. I miss seeing you wear them. I miss it so fucking much. I miss—”
“Oh my God,” you said, craning to see over my shoulder. “What’s happening over there?”
I turned to look, expecting to see an inmate causing a scene or maybe a spectacle taking place beyond the line of windows at the back. But…nothing. Just two women visiting at one of the other steel tables.
Turning back around, I said, “I don’t see any—”
I gasped on sight, hands flying to my mouth, nearly bursting into tears. Ugly tears.
You were wearing the black glasses.
For eighteen months, I’ve longed to see you in those glasses again. I’ve had to rely on my memory, and today proved it: my memory never does you justice.
“There you are,” I whispered.
You chuckled, gaze tenderly sweeping over the tears, some of which had escaped after all and streamed down my face. “I can’t help you with any of those other things, but I can give you these. Why haven’t you ever asked to see them?”
I swiped at my cheeks. “How was I supposed to know you carried them with you?”
“Well, how else am I meant to read on Tuesdays? The traffic’s horrible, like you said, especially at this time of day. It takes us ages to make it over here.”
I started to ask, Who’s us? But you’d be talking about Hal, of course. It cheered me to know he’s there, too. Every Tuesday. Even if I can’t see him.
I grinned.
“Ah,” you said. “There’s what I’ve missed.”
“What?”
“Your smile. You rarely smile anymore, and I’ve really missed it.
Also? The sound of your laugh. The ability to talk to you whenever I want.
Just walking into a room and seeing you there,” you said, voice dropping to a near whisper.
“And about a hundred other things I can’t list right now, because our time’s nearly up. ”
“I still don’t get it,” I said, choking up again. “Why are you still here? After the way I hurt you? Why go to all the trouble of visiting, week after week, after everything I’ve done?”
You looked away, giving me a nice glimpse of your profile in the glasses. Something else I’ve missed. I watched your throat work while you considered my question.
Taking a deep breath, you pulled the lapels of your jacket taut, then shakily said, “Because I made you cry, and you ran off, and it brought you here, and I promised your dad a long time ago that I’d never leave you alone.
” You held up a finger when I started to speak.
“And before you remind me that I actually broke my promise to Nic on my birthday that time—unintentionally, maybe, but broke it nonetheless—I should point out that I promised you, later the same day, I’d never do it again.
So here I am, keeping my promise.” You hesitated a moment before adding, “But my main reason for sitting through traffic and going through security and being pat down by a rather terrifying large man every Tuesday is actually a selfish one.” You paused to swallow, eyes shimmering. “I just really want to see you.”
Blinking back tears of my own, I ached to reach out and grab your hand. But I couldn’t, and every time I remember that, it breaks my heart.
You never realize what a privilege it is to touch another human being until that privilege is gone.
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?” I asked.
Your gaze dropped to the table. “I don’t know.” You removed the glasses, then gingerly tucked them away inside your breast pocket. “I want to, Elliot, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive everything.”
That fall was entirely devoted to Libby’s mayoral campaign.
Debates. Rallies. Speaking engagements at Harvard—plus the many other college campuses across the city.
Every endorsement was a big deal, and when she advanced from the primary election to the general election, heralded a “front-runner” by the Globe, everyone in the family was ecstatic.
You put on a happy face like everyone else, and of course you congratulated her, but Libby becoming the mayor of a major city like Boston made you anxious.
I could tell by the way your whole body stiffened when my dad watched coverage of the campaign on the local news.
How you rubbed at your forehead when reading an article about Libby in the Globe, letting your tea grew cold.
How your shoulders tensed whenever we passed one of her campaign signs on our walks.
Late one night, while I lingered over my late-night snack at the island, you stumbled in the back door and grabbed a water from the fridge. When you dropped yourself into the stool beside mine, I caught a whiff of cologne (which you never wore) and beer.
“Fun night?” Brows lifted, I submerged my spoon into a half-melted scoop of chocolate ice cream, secretly spiraling over the cologne—and what it implied.
You twisted the cap off your water bottle. “I’ve just come from a party.”
My stomach tightened. “Yeah? Hook up with anyone there? A cute guy, maybe? Because you certainly reek of one.”
You watched me lift the spoon to my lips. Take a generous bite. Lick the spoon clean. “Okay, that’s enough ice cream for you,” you said hoarsely, taking the spoon from my hand. You dropped the spoon in the bowl, then leaned over the island to deposit both into the sink.
“Hey, I wasn’t finished with that.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I was not. What the fuck? Also, answer my question. Did you hook up with anyone?”
You pushed a hand through your hair. “Maybe I’ve got a hookup buddy, too.”
I needed a name. STAT. “Who is it?”
“Oh, you don’t know him,” you said, casually leaning over the counter, like we were talking about our morning plans. Not something as potentially heartbreaking as this. “Big muscles. Tattoos. Little piercing in a certain…erotic place. Red hair. Eyes the color of warm honey.”
For several heartbeats, we stared at each other. “Thanks for the visual,” I forced past the tightness in my throat. “I really appreciate that.”
“Yeah? How do you think I feel when you take a hot boy up to your room multiple times per week? While I’m sat downstairs blasting music into my ears so I don’t have to hear you with him? Figured you’d be done torturing me by now, but apparently not.”
“You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re being tortured. If you don’t want to see me with someone else, then man up and do something about it.”
“Nah,” you said, jaw flexing, a forced casualness to your voice. “Sounds like you only want someone to fool around with, and I’m not too keen on that sort of arrangement.”
“Please. You’re not keen on any sort of arrangement—except for the one where I’m trapped in this house with you, and you get to call all the shots.”
“Is that how you really feel? Trapped with me?” Your gaze dug into mine. “It’s not enough to be near me—talk with me, have tea with me, spend time with me—unless I’m also taking you to bed?”
Later, I’d understand why you held back. Why you couldn’t ask me to stop seeing Willoughby. Why you thought being near me had to be enough. But right then, all that restraint—your damn principles—pissed me off.
“It’s enough to be near you, Casey. My issue is that you hold all the power in this relationship. Why do you get to decide what we are? Why do you get to have me all to yourself, while also keeping me at a distance? What about what I want?”
“You think I don’t care what you want?” Your voice had cracked at the end. Just a hitch, but I heard it.
“I don’t know,” I said with an exaggerated shrug. “Did you care whether I wanted that ice cream or not? Or did you take it away because of what it made you want?”
A muscle ticked in your jaw. “Forgive me for not being the sort of prick who walks into a room and just takes what he wants.”
“What? Like you’ve never done it before?”
That hit you, too, your throat working hard. Then you ripped your gaze from mine, like it physically hurt you to look at me. “You’re different.”
“Whatever.” I pushed up from my stool, ready to storm upstairs. “Have fun with your hookup buddy.”
“Don’t go,” you said, hand shooting out for my arm. Your face nearly undid me, Casey—the wild flicker in your blue eyes, the crack in your composure, the desperation.
I tried going, anyway, but you caught my arm and jerked me forward—so suddenly and quickly it stole my breath away—then scooped me onto your lap.
I tried pressing my hands to your chest, tried freeing myself, but your grip around my waist only tightened.
“You’re right,” you whispered against my pulse, burying your face in my neck.
Your breath shuddered across the sensitive skin there, sending shock waves through my body.
“You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. I’m just—I’m frustrated and mad and…
” You drifted off, pressing your nose to my throat, like you were breathing me in.
“And the answer to your question is no. I didn’t hook up with anyone tonight. ”
I stopped resisting. “Then why do you smell like Acqua di Giò?”
And why had your hookup buddy sounded so real?