Letter Twenty-Three #4
Across from the Garden, we waited at the crosswalk.
A car nearby honked. Another one honked back, the driver laying on his horn.
The pixelated man appeared on the black screen, and we made our way across Beacon Street, your hand at the small of my back.
I cursed my dad for causing a scene and making me forget to bring pumpkin seeds for the squirrels.
Midway through the park, you bumped my arm. “Are you okay? Your dad earlier—that was pretty intense.”
Okay? Twenty minutes later, I still wanted to cry. Or scream until my throat burned. It was Halloween, after all. Maybe no one would notice.
“You shouldn’t let him order you around like that,” I said.
“How can I not? He pays my bills. He’s keeping my secret. I owe him.”
“I get that, but it’d be nice if you were on my side for once.”
“I am on your side. What makes you think I’m not?”
“When you do what he says, it makes you complicit.”
“Complicit,” you said with a bitter laugh. “I’m giving up my entire night so you can be with your stupid boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Close enough. And I may respect your dad, but if you think I’d stand by and let him drag you upstairs and lock you in your room, you’re sorely mistaken.”
I cast a sideways glance at you. Hands jammed in the pockets of your slacks.
Jaw like rippled stone. Hair slightly tousled, as always.
For one prickling second, I wished our lives were a lot less complicated—that I could pull you underneath one of weeping willows by the pond and kiss you.
But I only said, “My dad could probably take you.”
You shrugged. “Except he wouldn’t.”
“You sound pretty confident about that.”
“Because he respects me, too. He might’ve lost his shit over what I did to those pricks last year, but he also knows I’ll do anything to protect you. Even if it’s from him.”
My stomach fluttered. “Except you weren’t actually protecting me last year. You retaliated.”
You snorted. “Please. Don’t argue semantics with me after you nearly blinded Sienna in one eye.”
“Hey, that was a warning. Mess with him again and see what happens to you then, bitch.”
“Jesus,” you muttered, holding back a laugh. “We will never see eye-to-eye on this.”
I smiled. “Ha! Eye-to-eye. I see what you did there.”
You bumped my arm. “Seriously, though, it’s not funny. You could’ve blinded her.”
“I know,” I said with a groan. “I know.”
Outside Willoughby’s, you stopped me at the stair rail to his stoop. “Listen,” you said, gently clasping my wrist, “why don’t we skip the party? We could get hot chocolate. Walk around. Watch the trick-or-treaters. See all the dogs in their costumes. You don’t have to be here.”
I glanced down the street as a family of four approached on the sidewalk. A little girl dressed as a green fairy. Her superhero brother. They skipped ahead of their parents, orange gingham buckets dangling from their hands.
You were right. We could stroll through the best neighborhoods and take it all in—the decorations, the costumes, the squeals of delight—and it would probably feel nostalgic and magical, like the Halloweens of my childhood, even if I were only an observer.
Why hadn’t we done that the previous Halloween?
Why hadn’t I suggested it? Why had I been so determined to go to that party? To rebel against my dad?
And what made me so determined to do it again?
Through my coat pocket, I pressed my fingers to the hip bruise, needing the sting. That little bite of pain. “I’ll be fine, Casey.”
But I wasn’t fine.
Even confined to Willoughby’s bedroom, the festivities—indistinguishable from the year before—set my teeth on edge.
The bass thumping behind the walls. The glimpses of costumes when Willoughby stepped out of the room, garish masks peeking in.
I sat huddled against his headboard, knees drawn up to my chest, trying in vain not to remember.
Greer’s hand on my throat. The fear of dying.
Everyone I loved, flashing before my eyes.
The powerlessness. The humiliation.
“Here,” Willoughby said, back with a black plastic cup filled with whiskey instead of punch.
He climbed in behind me and drew me against his chest. With his body encircling mine, I felt safer, less brittle.
But I chugged the whiskey, craving numbness instead.
“Hey, take it easy,” Willoughby said, taking the cup from my hand.
“I’m supposed to give you this.” He handed me a protein bar.
“Casey doesn’t want you to drink on an empty stomach.
Oh, and he gulped down half of your drink before I could get away with it. ”
“My God.” I tossed the unopened bar across the bed. “It’s like having my dad here. What’s he doing down there, anyway?”
“Talking to Tinsley.”
“About what?”
“Books. Before he went through my pantry, I overheard her listing how many subgenres of romance there are, including something called romantasy.”
I laughed, despite myself. “Sounds about right.”
Cradling Willoughby’s phone, I scrolled through recent posts about the election while he followed along over my shoulder. Every now and then, he pressed his lips to the curve of my neck.
“My parents say she’s a shoo-in,” he said against my shoulder.
I rolled my eyes. “Only because her opponent’s a guy. If her opponent were another woman, I doubt she’d stand a chance. She only got as far as she did because she’s a Harris.”
“Do you not want her to win or something?” Willoughby asked. “I thought she was your godmother?”
“She is. I just think it’s lame that the first woman to be mayor of Boston might be one with a silver spoon up her ass.”
I found a picture of her sandwiched between John and my dad, the three of them standing close at some charity event.
If people only knew the truth behind that photo—what Politician Barbie and Politician Ken were really doing behind closed doors with my dad—they’d be scandalized.
Under my breath, I muttered, “Fake ass bitch.”
“What did you say?” Willoughby asked.
“Nothing.”
My phone pinged. A text from Michael: Hey. I’m thinking about you. If you need to talk, I’m here.
“I bet he is,” Willoughby muttered behind my shoulder.
“Hey,” I said, remembering Michael’s words from the year before: It’s best if you don’t know all the details. “Last year, when you helped Michael and Casey take care of those assholes for hurting me, what happened exactly?”
Willoughby cleared his throat. “I…invited Greer and Rory over, and we drank some beers. When Casey and Michael showed up, Rory just took it, like he’d been waiting, but Greer put up a fight.
I helped Michael restrain him so Casey could—he broke Greer’s hands with his own bare hands and—” Willoughby stopped, his whole body shivering against mine.
“I still can’t get that awful sound out of my head. ”
“What sound?”
“The sound of Greer’s bones breaking.”
I flinched at hearing this. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture you doing something so violent, Casey.
“Greer was crying,” Willoughby went on, “and begging him to stop, and Casey asked if you had done that, too. Greer said, ‘No, man. She never begged. She liked it when I hit her. Liked it so much she started moaning and shit.’ And that angered Casey even more, so he grabbed something, I don’t remember what, and tried going at him again.
But Michael and I pulled him away at the last second.
Casey went to some dark place, Elliot. It was scary as shit.
Once we got him to stop and sit down, it took Michael a while to pull him out of it—for Casey to stop shaking and look normal again. ”
I thought of how I’d found you on your bed the year before. The way you’d grabbed my arm, scary intense. Not remorseful at all.
“How did they get to the hospital?” I asked.
“Michael helped me put them in the car. I drove them to Rory’s house, and I guess his parents took them. I couldn’t believe it, but neither one of them ever said anything about my involvement to the police.”
I leaned my head back against Willoughby’s shoulder for a while, lost in thought.
“That night,” Willoughby said. “Why’d you call Michael to help instead of me?”
“I needed his help getting Tinsley downstairs and back to my house.”
“I would’ve helped you do that.”
“You would’ve left your own party?”
“Of course,” Willoughby said.
“I was in shock. I wasn’t thinking clearly,” I said, twisting to face Willoughby.
I kissed his neck. “I don’t want to talk about that night anymore.
” I snatched the drink off his nightstand and gulped down the rest of it, then crawled off the bed and started removing my clothes.
Willoughby’s gaze traveled over my body—the see-through bra, the little lace underwear, the lace garter belt attached to the tights.
I sometimes wonder what freaked him out more: the chain-link design embroidered in the lace or that bruise, still prominent on my hip.
Or maybe it was a combination of both, because he squirmed back on the bed as I crawled back in and sat up on my knees.
I told myself the shock on his face meant the lingerie had turned him on, but I should’ve known better.
I pulled him up, drew his arms around my body, and kissed his neck again.
“Hey,” he said, nudging me back by the waist. “Let’s just hang out tonight. You’re not yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I said, going for his jaw. “That drink really took the edge off.” I tugged at the buttons on his shirt. “Let’s go all the way tonight. I’m ready.”
“Elliot,” he said, removing my hand from his shirt. “Let’s wait until you get past all this stuff and start to feel better, okay?”
Willoughby climbed off the bed, picked up my clothes, then held them out to me.
“You’re afraid I’ll ask you to hurt me again.” To put your hand around my throat.
“Here,” he said, dropping my clothes on the bed. “Get dressed so we can chill.”
I’m not sure what hurt more: his rejection of me or the fear he clearly felt at the idea of being with me.