Letter Twenty-Two #5
Shoving past Nic, I climbed across the tan leather back seat and pressed myself against the opposite side of the car. I waited until he’d pulled the door closed to say, “Pretty sure there’s a law saying you can’t abduct people off the street.”
“You’re my daughter. That law doesn’t apply here.”
“I’m an adult, and you just coerced me into this car.
You threatened me. Legally, you can’t order me around anymore, and I’m under no obligation to do what you say.
If I want to go to my hookup buddy’s house, I can.
If I want to screw ten different guys in the same week and have the word slut proudly tattooed across my side, I can.
If I want to move out tomorrow and never come back, I fucking can. ”
Nic’s expression remained calm during my little tirade, only slightly faltering at ten different guys and slut. “With what resources?” he asked. “You don’t have a job. Or money of your own. Or anywhere to go.”
“Willoughby has a generous trust fund and plenty of room in his house.”
“Willoughby’s fucking terrified of crossing me,” Nic said with a cocksure grin. “Ask me how I know. I dare you.”
“I could stay at Michael’s.”
“Michael’s at the mercy of his parents—and me. I own the building he lives in. One misstep, and his apartment’s gone. Try again.”
“Tinsley,” I said, but her name left my mouth shaky and unsure. “Her mom would put me up for a while if I asked her to.”
While Nic considered me, he toyed with one of his cuff links, a pair of silver knots John had gifted him a few Christmases before you’d arrived.
Come to think of it, a knot symbolized commitment, an unbreakable bond, or even love.
And my dad wore those knots with every suit.
When he wasn’t wearing them, they sat in a gold-embossed dish on his nightstand.
Those damn cuff links should’ve been another clue.
“Tabitha can’t actually afford a condo in Back Bay,” he said, now toying with the opposite cuff link, “especially not one that’s worth almost two million dollars.
Who do you think owns the building Tinsley and her mom live in?
” He waited for me to guess, not that it took very long, before saying, “I own Tabitha’s condo, which I lease to her for so cheap that she was able to put Tinsley through ten years of private school without once having to rely on Tinsley’s shitty, irresponsible dad to help her make the payments.
So if I tell Tabitha to send you home, she will. ”
See there, Casey? My dad had a hand in everything. Once he’d captured you in his sticky web of control, you were trapped there. Forever. With no way out.
My body slumped against the seat, tears clawing up my throat. “Making it impossible for me to leave is abuse,” I whispered. “I can report you to the authorities.”
Nic abandoned the cuff links to smooth down his tie. “Good luck with that. I have a friend on the force, remember?”
I laughed to keep from crying—or hurling myself from the car. I probably wouldn’t survive the fall, but the upside was: he couldn’t control a corpse. “Yeah? How do you pay this friend to look the other way while you walk around doing illegal shit? In cash? Or something else?”
“I don’t pay him, Elliot. We’ve known each other a long time.”
“How? He an ex-boyfriend of yours?”
“What?” His brows lowered in confusion. I’d caught him off guard. “No, we go way back. That’s it.”
This would’ve been an ideal time for me to throw my knowledge of the Harrises in his face, except I liked knowing something about my dad he didn’t know I knew. I liked the idea of him trying to work out how I could confidently assume he swam in both gender pools.
“What you said to me this morning was very hurtful. You’re done with me? Why are you done with me, Elliot? What have I done to deserve that?”
His voice sounded just wounded enough that, despite feeling powerless, remorse pricked at my conscience. It had to be Stockholm syndrome—these mixed emotions I experienced around my dad. It shouldn’t have hurt me to hurt him. I shouldn’t have cared about his feelings at all. But I did.
As Hal crept through traffic, I watched a middle-aged couple walk their golden retriever up the pumpkin-littered stoop of a stately brownstone with a slate roof. Big tree out front. Golden yellow and green leaves, vibrant in the late afternoon sun.
“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” he added softly, which obliterated what little remorse I felt and enraged me more.
Here he was, acting like the wronged party.
Acting like I needed to stop being difficult and open up to him.
Acting like the type of man who was capable of being honest when presented with a personal question, despite how glaringly clear it had become to me that he’d never been honest at all.
I aimed a glare at him. “I wish my dad wasn’t such a fucking liar or a controlling psychopath, but we can’t always get what we wish for, can we?”
And my dad, Casey, he didn’t dispute my claim or scold me for calling him a psychopath or defend himself or anything. He simply stared back at me before turning his face to the opposite window.
His lack of response spoke volumes.
It made me think he must’ve been lying about a lot. Lying about so much more than his relationship with the Harrises.
A couple days later, while you attended your therapy session, I sat in the car with Hal, refusing to attend mine.
“I can’t believe you backed my dad up the other day when he forced me into the car,” I said, scowling at Hal’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
“He’s my boss, Ell. I have to do what he says.”
I nodded slowly, then titled my head. “I wonder what he’d say if he knew you took me to that party at Willoughby’s last year.”
Hal’s gaze slid away from mine.
“What do you know about my dad’s love life?” I asked.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
“What do you know about the woman who’s been watching my house?”
“Not at liberty to discuss her, either.” He turned in the driver’s seat. “But we can talk about anything else that might be bothering you,” he said gently. “Like why you’re refusing to go to therapy.”
I turned to the window. “No, thank you.”
“Come on, Ell. I’m still on your side. You know that, right?”
I laughed through the hard lump that had risen in my throat. “No one’s on my side.”
An hour later, you and I found Nic waiting for us in the entry hall. He snatched the phone from my hand—the purse hanging from my shoulder, too—and said, “You won’t tell me what’s wrong? I’m going through everything you own. I’m tired of this bullshit.”
I only let him take my stuff without a fight because I knew he wouldn’t find the answer he wanted.
It would be a giant waste of his time, and that amused me.
While he disappeared to his office, I went to the cabinet beside the fridge where he kept that single bottle of Johnnie Walker.
Since I’d started giving him the silent treatment, his single glass of scotch per night had turned into two.
He’d need a double that night for sure after he went through my email and saw the sex toys—the plethora of sexy, lacy underwear—I’d ordered on his credit card.
All of it very expensive. Three-hundred-dollar bras.
Two-hundred-dollar vibrators. Hundred-dollar glass dildos.
If I couldn’t leave prison, I could at least improve my stay there, making him very uncomfortable in the process.
Lucky for me, the bottle of Johnnie Walker happened to be three-fourths of the way full. I poured every last drop of amber liquid down the drain, then put the empty bottle back.
You stood against the wall, watching me, arms crossed over your sweater. “What’s your dad done to deserve you acting like this?”
“My dad’s a liar, and I’m sick of his shit.”
“What’s he lying about?”
Still wary of telling you the truth, I asked, “Did you tell him I went to Willoughby’s the other day? Did you notify him when I left?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. I made myself another tea and went back to my homework. I remember being quite confused when you came back home with him just a few hours later.”
Cautiously, you approached me. “But I couldn’t ask you about it,” you said, jamming both hands in your pockets, “because you’ve been avoiding me for days. Will you please tell me what’s going on?”
I shot you a death glare, and you sighed.
“Are you mad about what happened at the weekend?”
“At the weekend?” I repeated. Then it rushed back: our kiss. I’d totally forgotten about it after the shock of Bree’s news. “Oh, right. That.”
“Well,” you said with a snort. “Nice to know you’ve already forgotten.”
“Figured I was supposed to, anyway. Figured kissing me back was probably just a lapse in judgement on your part.”
You chuckled harshly. “Can we share just one meaningful moment without you rushing to label it a mistake?”
“How else should I label it, Casey? You woke up the next day and pretended it never happened. So it couldn’t have been that meaningful, right? Definitely not meaningful enough that you’d ever ask me to stop seeing Willoughby.”
Your expression softened, your tortured gaze holding mine as you stepped closer, stopping right in front of me. My heart leapt and squeezed and spiraled all at once as you took a loose strand of my hair between your fingers and hoarsely said, “Listen—”
But the back door opened, cutting you off.
Michael. He stopped short when he saw us, and you dropped your hand from my face.
“Oh, good,” I said, backing up. “Just the person I’ve been wanting to talk to.” I grabbed Michael’s hand and pulled him behind me.
Once we were outside, striding across the back terrace, he jerked his hand out of mine. “What the hell, Elliot? What was that?”
“Nothing.” I strolled ahead, exited through the back gate, and rounded the block.
He followed me. “Why was he touching you like that?”
“Just—we were talking.”
“About what?”
“Jesus, Michael. That’s not important right now.” I stopped in front of his parents’ house. “Are your parents home?”
He paused to think. “I don’t think so.”