Letter Twenty-Three #3
“No. I wanted to see what the three of them were up to.” I pulled a face. “They’re definitely sleeping together.”
You stopped on the sidewalk. “Who is?”
“All three of them! Our dads and Libby.”
You pulled a face, too. “I beg your pardon?”
“Wasn’t it obvious?”
“Based upon what?”
“John and Libby were getting dressed. My dad’s jacket and tie were missing.”
“John and Libby are meant to be at an event soon, and surely by now you’ve noticed that the moment your dad gets home from work, he removes his jacket and tie.”
You had a point there, so I mentioned Nic zipping up Libby’s dress.
“It’s no different than me doing that for my sister,” you said, “which I have, loads of times.”
“Oh, yeah? What about this?” I told you what Bree saw, what John said in response, and what Michael himself thought. The horrifying midday sex story—I filled you in on that, too.
Suddenly, you were out of rationalizations. You lowered yourself onto the front stoop outside my house and stared straight ahead, pinching your lips.
“Well? What do you have to say to that?”
You leaned back, head shaking. “I have to agree with Michael. If they have an arrangement, that’s between the three of them. It’s certainly none of my business.”
“So you don’t care if our dads are—if they—if they’re part of some throuple?”
You grimaced. “No. No. Fuck no.” A pause. “I mean, I always sort of suspected—it’s just that they’ve always seemed very—but no. Absolutely not. No. None of my business.” You shivered. “I wish I knew nothing about it.”
“Well, I’m sorry I told you.” Annoyed, I stood to go inside the house, but you grabbed my hand.
“Is this what’s been bothering you lately?” you asked, tugging me back down. “Why you said all those hurtful things to your dad?”
I nodded. “He keeps everything from me, Casey. This thing with the Harrises. Details about my mother. The truth about you—which he never would’ve told me if you hadn’t told me yourself. How can I trust that he’s ever told me the truth about anything?”
Look at me, the big hypocrite talking. Pointing out my dad’s truth-telling problem while ignoring the major truth-telling problem I had. Especially when it came to you.
You considered my question. “I don’t know. But what you can be sure of is that he loves you. He cares deeply about your happiness. It devastated him when you said that stuff about hating your life the other day.”
I bristled at this. “So because he loves me, I should overlook the fact he’s been lying to me my whole life?”
“No,” you rushed to say. “You don’t have to overlook it. You don’t even have to forgive him right away. But people can love you and still get it wrong sometimes, you know? No one ever gets it exactly perfect.”
I stood with a huff, eager to retreat in the house. “You clearly don’t understand.”
The following Saturday morning, Willoughby knocked on my bedroom door. I’d just stepped out of the bathroom in my robe, hair still wet from my shower, and told him to come in.
“I almost didn’t make it through the front door,” he said. “Did you tell Casey what happened between us?”
“Of course not,” I said, toweling off my hair.
“Casey pushed me down there.”
I fought back a laugh. “Pushed you?”
“Yeah. I kept trying to walk up the stairs—to get in the house—and he kept pushing me back. He almost knocked me on my ass.” Willoughby stroked the center of his chest. Was that where you’d pushed him?
“He kept taunting me and shit, too, like it was fun for him. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen that side of him, Elliot, but he can be scary as fuck. ”
I pressed my lips together, suppressing a smile. “Sorry. He saw me upset the other day, that’s all.”
“I saw you walking down the Mall with him yesterday. I see you walking with him all the time.”
“So?”
Willoughby lowered his voice. “Does he hurt you? The way you like?”
By the way, he’d always just assumed that you and I were hooking up, too, because I’d never given him a reason to think otherwise.
“No one hurts me, Willoughby—except you. The way you react when I ask you for things? You make me feel like something’s wrong with me, and it hurts my feelings.”
Willoughby stepped closer. “Look, I didn’t mean—Elliot, I wasn’t trying to make you feel like that. I’m an asshole, okay? I just”—his fingers fluttered over the hip with the bruise—“don’t understand why you’d want to be hurt.”
“I don’t always want to,” I told him. “But sometimes I need it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why. Just go ahead and end this already. Go be with one of the girls you’ve already hooked up with—one who’s happy to put out and doesn’t freak you out. You can fuck her at your Halloween party.”
Willoughby grabbed my hand. “I don’t want to be with anyone else.
I don’t even want to throw this stupid party—unless you come, too.
What if we stay in my room the whole time?
Just hang out?” He swiped his thumb over my cheek, brown eyes sincere as they held mine.
“We don’t have to do anything. I just want to be with you. ”
Willoughby had apologized. He was being really sweet. So, despite my reservations about the party, I agreed.
Now, I know you remember that Halloween, too, Casey. It was also memorable. Just for different reasons.
After brunch had ended that day and the Harrises left, I grabbed my black trench coat from the hallway closet and carried it to the kitchen, draped over my arm. You were at the stove, as usual, standing over your teakettle.
“Whoa,” Nic said, popping out of the Garland Room, a copy of The Wall Street Journal dangling from his hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Halloween party,” I informed him. “At Willoughby’s.”
“Without asking for my permission?”
“I don’t need your permission anymore.”
“Bullshit,” he said, fisting the newspaper, his expression so dark and intense that a shiver ran down my spine.
“I’m going to Willoughby’s,” I repeated, faking more bravado than I felt.
Nic studied me, clearly working out how to play this. “Only if Casey goes with you.”
Our gazes met over the island. “Um,” you said, gaze sliding over to my dad, “do I get a say here? Because I’d rather hand out candy to the kids.”
“I’m not taking him with me,” I told Nic.
“Then you’re not going,” Nic said.
I laughed, still clutching my coat, backing closer to the door. “Watch me.”
“Casey.” Nic snapped his fingers at you. “Grab a jacket and go.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “You can’t keep doing this, Nic. It’s psycho.”
“Casey goes with you,” Nic said, slapping down the newspaper on the kitchen counter, “or I forcibly keep you here. Don’t think I’m above dragging you upstairs and barricading your door. You’ll never get past me. My will is a lot fucking stronger than yours.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” You flipped off the eye of the stove. “I’ll go. It’s not a big deal.”
I stared at my dad. “Fine,” I said calmly. “Let me change first.”
I rushed upstairs, trying not to scream. With trembling fingers, I yanked one of those boxes out from under my bed.
Tonight would be the night.
I’d replace those traumatic memories from last Halloween with new memories. Something momentous.
An occasion I’d remember forever.
Out of that box, I located a black lace underwear set and its matching garter belt, along with a pair of black thigh-high tights.
I slipped it all on and admired my body in the mirror, impressed by how hot I looked.
Over the lingerie and tights, I threw on a flared black miniskirt with a black cropped sweater, leaving a good chunk of my waist on display.
I considered swapping my tiny black cat studs for something sexier, but decided against it.
They were fucking cute. Perfect for Halloween.
Your brows rose as I reentered the kitchen. My dad, leaning back against the counter, closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath.
“All ready?” you asked, holding a dark green cashmere bomber jacket.
I nodded, donning the black trench coat.
To you, Nic said, “Know where she is at all times, and I want her home by midnight. I’ll be waiting up.”
Out back, while you slipped into your jacket, I slammed the gate closed behind us. “Look,” I said, “as soon as we get to Willoughby’s, you can go your own way.”
“I thought you couldn’t bring yourself to go to this party?” you asked, zipping yourself up.
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my trench. “I changed my mind.”
“Well,” you said, falling into step beside me, “I’m worried you might get upset or something, so I’ll stay.”
“I’ll be in Willoughby’s room with him the whole night. You won’t even see me. I’ll be fine.”
“Wonderful,” you muttered. “But I’m still staying.” You gave a polite nod to a neighbor retrieving a package from his stoop.
A slight chill clung to the air, but the sky remained a vibrant blue.
Lots of people were out, many of them still adding Halloween decorations in preparation for the trick-or-treating that would take place within the next couple of hours.
Pumpkins and chrysanthemums adorned many of the stoops we passed.
Faux cobwebs tucked inside window boxes.
A gangly spider here and there. An entire brownstone, covered in skeletons, several mock-climbing its brick facade, all the way up to the roof.
Libby’s campaign signs held court among them. Rich blue posters. Bright white lettering. People had stuck them to brick enclosures in the alleys nearby. They were even hung on flagpoles and residential signs.
ELIZABETH HARRIS for MAYOR
ELIZABETH for BOSTON
We spotted so many signs along our walk, in fact, that I couldn’t imagine a future where Libby didn’t win the election.
Like Michael, though, I clung fiercely to the hope she’d end up losing. If not for the two-faced bitch she was, for the added anxiety it would cause you when you decided to tell the Harrises your secret.