Letter Twenty-Three
I had the shock of my life this morning.
Half-asleep, I’d been brushing my teeth at the squatty little sink in my cell when one of the female guards shoved a newspaper through the bars, cackling as it hit the concrete floor. “Looks like your daddy went and got himself engaged, Bancroft.”
I stood there, stiff and mute, toothpaste dripping down the front of my orange scrubs. Engaged?
My cellmate swiped the newspaper off the floor and skimmed the article. When she flipped the page, I snapped out of it long enough to whisper a delayed, “What?”
“Damn,” Rochelle said. “This is some savage shit, rich girl. He leaves you in here for over a year without a single visit, remodels your house, and now he’s engaged to the bitch who remodeled your house? And he’s letting you learn about it from a newspaper?” She clucked her tongue. “Savage.”
I snatched the newspaper from her, hands shaking as I read the headline: Real estate magnate Nic Bancroft to marry local interior designer.
You know that little analogy I made about our family in the very beginning? The one where I compared us to an apple?
The Harrises were that glossy red coating on the outside, my dad the core that held us all together, and me: the bad seed who threatened to spoil the whole fruit. And you—I compared you to the proverbial worm who slithers up out of nowhere to nibble his way into the apple.
You should know: I regret that part.
For more than eighteen months, I’ve managed to keep myself in the dark about what’s happening outside these walls, but that single headline revealed a lot.
If my dad’s engaged, then it all fell apart.
Remove the core, and the apple rots.
It’s strange, you know—the unexpected grief I feel at learning my dad and the Harrises are no longer together. The grief, but also: the rage.
Black, fiery, tar-like rage.
When we sat across from each other at the steel table today, I glimpsed so many emotions cross your face. Regret. Concern. Fear.
You held a shaky hand out to placate me. “Listen, I didn’t know. I’m just as shocked as you are.”
I glared at you.
“I didn’t know. I swear it. I had no idea he was doing that—or I would’ve warned you. All of us were blindsided this morning. All of us.”
My whole body trembled with anger.
“Elliot,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way. You’ve no idea how bad I feel.”
Your gaze held mine, desperate and pleading, but I remained silent.
“I’ll have you know that I stormed over there this morning, and I let him have it. I told him how disappointed I was. I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself. I told him—shit. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
My face had collapsed at your words, the tears of betrayal finally springing loose. I could barely get the sentence out as I whispered, “How could he get engaged without telling me to my face?”
“I’ve no idea,” you said, head shaking. “He said you weren’t meant to find out this way—that he’d done everything to keep the news from being leaked. He’d planned on telling you after your release. But there’s no excuse—I’m so mad at him.”
“How long has he been dating this woman?” I asked, swatting at my face.
“I’m not sure. I thought there might’ve been something between them, but I didn’t think it was all that serious. I didn’t want to tell you if it wasn’t serious.”
“You’re telling me she never spent the night?”
You blinked at me. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”
I leaned forward. “Wait a minute. You said you stormed over there. Stormed over where, Casey? To her place?”
You hesitated. “No. To the house.”
“Why’d you have to storm over there?” I asked, a dull pressure building in my chest, my heart sinking. “Where were you?”
You winced—and a cold, sick feeling unfurled behind my ribs. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell you this, and now I deeply regret not telling you sooner…”
I held my breath, steeling myself for the inevitable collapse of my world—my heart, my very will to survive this place—the second you confessed. You were in a relationship with someone else now. You’d been sleeping over at their place. With them.
“I moved out,” you said regretfully. “I don’t live there anymore. I have a small flat all to myself now.”
It wasn’t the explanation I feared, but it crushed me all the same.
My dad’s news created the crack, splintering out from the center of my already damaged heart, but your news was the hammer, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
“That’s great,” I said, my voice coming out strange and monotone. “Your whole reason for living there was to look after me, and now I’m gone, so that makes sense.”
Nothing about my life will look the same when I get out of here. Not my family. Not my house. Not my future.
I like pain, but this kind of pain is too much. It cuts too deep.
“Elliot,” you said. “I am so sorry.”
“Sorry,” I repeated.
I blame myself for being kept in the dark about the deterioration of his relationship with the Harrises—about the new woman in his life—because I asked you not to tell me about them. And I haven’t read a single one of his letters.
But he’s my dad. He had no right making such a gigantic life decision without telling me to my face first. I deserved to hear it from him.
I clamped my teeth together.
“Elliot,” you said, leaning forward, cautious, your hands gripping the steel table. You must’ve seen it: the terrifying transformation taking place inside me.
The light, switching off.
The darkness, creeping in.
“Don’t do anything rash, okay? I’m still here.
I’m not going anywhere. A change of address won’t change that.
Your dad—he just—he didn’t take it so well when you left, and his behavior has been erratic ever since.
I moved out because—as difficult as it was living there without you—it wasn’t half as awful as walking in there when the renovations were finished.
” You swallowed hard. “That dark dungeon of a house became home to me, too. I loved the dark walls. They held so many of my favorite memories of you—of us—and he let someone paint over them. It felt cruel. So I got angry. I refused to stay, even though he asked me to. But, listen, if it’s any consolation at all, he didn’t—”
“Consolation? There’s no consoling me now.”
“Elliot,” you said quietly—warily. “Step away from the dark side.” You gestured at me with your hand, the way one might when they’re trying to talk someone off a ledge. “Come back to the light, okay?”
“No.” I pushed away from the table.
As I walked over to Vera with my wrists held out, I heard your sharp emphasis on my name. The dread mixed with fear in your voice.
The only way through this, I’ve decided, is to focus on the rage.
In the weeks following my outburst, my dad remained distant, spending extra time in his office or hanging out with the Harrises. Long dinners at their house. Late evenings at ours, two extra fingers of scotch poured over more talk of the election—the past, too.
They reminisced about their boarding school days—Libby going up against John on the debate team and winning, Nic and John taking their lacrosse team to the championship game but losing—while they sat close, my dad wedged between them, their heads lolled back against the sofa.
Things murmured near my dad’s ear. Things whispered back.
The teasing. The flirting. The touching.
How had I missed it? How could I have been so blind to what had been taking place, right under my nose, for so long?
Had the backdrop become so familiar that I stopped paying attention to it? Too caught up with my own problems? With reading? With school?
Or had I grown up too sheltered? Too ignorant to realize what normal adult friendships were supposed to look like?
One fall morning, the threat of starvation finally forced me downstairs. I found you standing over your teakettle, scrolling on your phone.
“You’re checking out some hot guy in vintage Ralph Lauren, aren’t you?”
You glanced up. “Vintage Dior, actually.”
I put the full force of my wrath behind a glare.
You chuckled. “I’m joking. Would you like to go for a coffee with me?”
“Aren’t you already making coffee?” I asked, gesturing to your teakettle.
“Yes, but now that you’ve finally emerged from your lair in something other than a robe,” you said, gaze warm and twinkling, “I’d rather do something with you.”
I crossed my arms over the sweater dress I’d put on, fighting back a smile over the lair comment. “Okay.”
“Then let’s go,” you said, switching off the stove. You rounded the island, grabbing your leather messenger bag off a stool. “Grab your book from the Garland Room. We’ll make a morning of it.”
So that’s what we did, taking the scenic route to a coffee house on Newbury that we loved, lucky to find a free table outside in the shade. We lingered over breakfast long enough that you finished your homework for the day, and I managed to finish half of my book.
As we emerged from the sunken patio onto the sidewalk later, I received a picture from Tinsley. A shirtless guy sleeping in her bed, taken early that morning. Hot night, the text underneath it read. I give his performance a 7 out of 10 for the abs alone. I lifted my phone for you to see.
Your eyebrows rose. “Very nice,” you said, smiling, and I shot you a look. “You don’t think so?”
Feeling petty, I said, “Sure. I guess if I had unlimited freedom like she does, I’d document my hookups, too.”
Your smile fell. “Would you, now?” You leaned in, lips close to my ear. “Be honest. Willoughby’s not really doing it for you, is he?”
You’d hit a nerve, and you didn’t even know it.
“Here’s an idea,” I said. “Cut your music off next time he’s over and find out.”
The cocky look melted off your face.
“That was a bitchy thing to say,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” you said tightly. “Here, let’s cut through to the Mall.”