Letter Twenty-Three #2
A muscle ticked in your jaw as you placed your hand at the small of my back, keeping it there as we made our way through the first crosswalk, then the second one, then finally onto Comm Ave.
You always kept a hand on my back when we crossed the street, making my heart soar especially high that day.
It felt like a protective gesture. Like you cared.
And I really wanted you to care, despite how bitchy and reclusive I’d been lately.
The sky was that deep autumn blue, the day crisp and bright.
A light breeze lifted the loose strands of my hair, catching the leaves mid-fall, several of them zigzagging down on us as we walked.
Trees flanked the walking path on both sides, forming a tunnel of green and yellow and burnt orange that always lifted my spirits that time of year.
A perfect fall day.
God, I miss that place—the Mall. It’s my favorite spot to take an afternoon stroll. Especially with you.
“How are you doing with the Halloween stuff?” you asked.
I brushed a tendril of hair from my face. “Fine.”
You bumped my arm with yours. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Not well, actually,” I confessed.
What I didn’t tell you was: while Willoughby and I were hanging out in my room earlier that week, he’d put on one of his playlists. And that horrible rap song had played. The same one that had throbbed against my back at his Halloween party while Greer attacked me.
My body recognized the beat seconds before my ears did, causing panic to clamp down hard on my chest.
Later, while we made out, I asked him to put his hand around my throat.
I didn’t want him to hurt me like Greer had.
I only wanted the pressure. Wanted to feel someone else’s hand there, a hand I could trust. Wanted to see if it made me feel differently about what Greer had done to me—or exactly the same.
But Willoughby recoiled at the mere mention of it, his body going rigid on top of mine.
We stopped and scrolled on our phones for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring the big fat elephant in the room—my needs, too much for him to handle.
He tried kissing me before he left, but I pulled away, angry and embarrassed.
Ten minutes after he left, I repeatedly rammed my hip into the corner of my desk. I’d been pressing my fingers to the bruise ever since, a rush each time. Little hits of pain.
On the walking path that day, you slipped your fingers through mine. To passersby, we probably looked like a couple. “I’m so sorry you went through that,” you said.
“I thought I’d be over the assault by now, but I’m not.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” you said, giving my hand a squeeze.
“Willoughby’s throwing another Halloween party this year, and I planned to go—mainly to spite my dad. But I don’t know if I can.”
“That’s understandable, too.”
“He’ll probably end it soon.” The trees in front of us blurred, too bright and disorienting against the blue sky. “At the Halloween party, he’ll probably sleep with some girl from UMass or one of the other colleges around here.”
“Hey.” You stopped and pulled me over to a nearby bench. “Why would you say that? What happened?”
“Me. I happened.”
“What does that mean?”
My voice caught when I said, “He just—he doesn’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
I watched fallen leaves swirl through the air, a squirrel scurry up the side of a nearby tree, a little boy—sullen and pouting—plop down to the leaf-covered ground mid-stroll, still hanging onto his mom’s hand.
“Me. He’s not the problem. I am. It’s not that he’s not doing it for me. It’s the other way around.”
“He’s not…asking you to do things you’re not comfortable doing, is he?” you asked. “Because I’ll fucking end him.”
“No,” I rushed to say. “It’s nothing like that. He wants me to be real, but when I show him—when I’m real—he doesn’t like it.”
Carefully, you asked, “Doesn’t like…what? What do you show him?”
“That I’m not like the other girls.” Not normal. I swatted at a tear. “I tried to be what he wants. But then I—I slipped. I got too real. And now he’s barely talking to me. He hasn’t texted me in days.”
Beside me, you were quiet, your thumb brushing over my knuckles. You probably didn’t know what to say. How could you?
So I changed the subject. “I miss my dad. I hate when he’s distant.”
“Then why don’t you apologize?”
“I want to, but then I’ll have to tell him why I said those things. And I don’t know how to say it—how to ask. If I ask for the truth, and he’s not honest, I’ll get angry again.”
What I didn’t tell you was: I might be tempted to hurt myself in front of Nic, giving him the perfect reason to send me to Arizona. Giving Libby exactly what she wanted: me out of her way, just in time for the election.
“Honest about what?” you asked. “The woman? Is that what it is?”
“No—I mean, I still don’t think he’s being honest about her. But this is something else.” I had an idea: I’d catch Nic in the act. There’d be no room for denial then. I stood, tugging on your hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“To the Harrises’.” Tuesdays meant fencing practice for Bree, so if Nic and the Harrises were hanging out, like Bree said they did, they’d be alone.
The location perplexed you, but you followed, anyway, silent on the walk to their house.
“Why are we here?” you asked on their stoop, tossing me a look. “You don’t plan on snooping again, do you? Because that ended horribly last time.”
“I need to check something,” I said, pulling the Harrises’ key out of my crossbody bag.
I started to push it in the lock, then stopped.
I couldn’t think of anything more traumatizing than hearing—or, God forbid, seeing—my dad going at it with one person, let alone two at the same time.
Michael’s little story, for instance, had been traumatizing enough.
I returned the key to its designated pocket and rang the doorbell.
A minute later, John answered the door, immediately offering a smile, aimed mainly at you. “Casey? Elliot?” He fastened a button on the cuff of his white dress shirt, his collar hanging open. “What are you two doing here?”
I bit the sides of my mouth. “Is Nic here?”
John’s head snapped back. “Nic?”
“My dad, John.”
“He is,” John said tightly. “Why?”
“What do you mean why? Do I need a fucking reason? He’s my dad.”
John gave me a stern look. “Excuse me?”
I should’ve waited for John to invite me in the house, but I shoved past him, eyes darting beyond the entry, searching for clues. Surely the rules of etiquette didn’t apply if he and his wife were boinking my dad.
You, of course, stammered an apology, asking John to please forgive the intrusion, as he ushered you inside.
Libby padded downstairs, barefoot, slipping a gold earring into her lobe. “Elliot? What are you doing here?”
My dad walked in from the direction of the living room, hands in his pockets, suit jacket discarded—tie, too. “Elliot? Casey? What’s going on?”
Libby turned to the side. “Nic, can you…?”
Nic dragged the zipper up the back of Libby’s navy sheath dress. A small section of blonde hair got stuck behind the collar, and he gently pulled it out. I gaped at them, getting more freaked out by the second.
Then they all turned to me, expecting an explanation. “What’s going on with you, Dad?” I asked, scrambling to think of a way to ask Are you their boyfriend? without outright saying it. “Why aren’t you at the firm? How often do you skip work to come over here in the middle of the day?”
I inwardly cringed at my own pun: come over here.
“I left work early. Libby has another rally in a little while. Why? What do you need?” Nic sounded irritated—and that hurt.
In fact, all three of them looked irritated. Which stung even worse.
“What do I need?” I laughed bitterly. “I need a dad who doesn’t dodge my questions and hide everything from me, that’s what I need.”
Nic sighed. “Elliot, I don’t want to do this today.”
“Don’t want to do what? Deal with me? You could be at home right now—since you took off work early—but instead you’re here.”
Nic shrugged. “You said I smother you, so I’m giving you space. Isn’t that what you want from me?”
“What I want is a dad who tells me the truth when I ask for it.”
Libby gripped my shoulder. “Now, hold on. Are you here to attack your dad? Because I won’t tolerate this behavior, Elliot—not in my house. Unless you’re willing to change your tone right this second, I want you to leave.”
“Lib,” Nic said, stepping forward. “I’ve got this.”
“No.” Libby pierced me with a look of cool disapproval. “You have no right to act like your dad doesn’t care. He does more for you than you’ll ever know. You owe him an apology—for those nasty, malicious things you said. Especially that shit you said about your mother.”
“He told you what I said?”
“Elliot,” she replied, exasperation flitting across her face, “we’ve been over this. Your dad tells us everything.”
I laughed darkly. “Does he now? Are you sure? Are you absolutely positive?”
“Of course I am,” she said.
“Aww, Libby. I can tell you believe that about him, and it’s sweet. Really, it is. But here’s the truth—you have no idea what my dad’s capable of hiding.”
Nic flashed you a look of warning over my shoulder. And John, standing right beside him, clocked it.
But we’ll get to that in a different letter.
As for Politician Barbie, she had so much faith in my dad she didn’t even flinch, never doubting him for a second.
Smiling sweetly, she picked up my braid and said, “Honey, you’re so much like your mom, it’s eerie—the face, the voice, that look in your eye, everything.
It’s like the last twenty years never passed, and Vicky’s telling me she knows things about Nic I never will.
But no one knows your father like John and I do. ”
I laughed again. “Oh my God. You are seriously delu—”
“Alright,” you said, tugging me away from her. “Time for us to go now.”
Quickly, you hauled me out the door. “Jesus,” you said on the sidewalk. “Did you go there to attack your dad?”