Letter Twenty-Three #6
“Yeah,” he said, “but it didn’t feel like a family.
I wanted one like the kind you see on sitcoms and holiday commercials.
Or the ones I saw in the park every Saturday, sitting on a blanket in the grass.
A mom and a dad. A couple of kids.” He smiled, like he could see those families right then, still fresh in his memory.
“At some point—and it always happened, always—one of the kids would say something to make the parents laugh, and they’d look at each other—the mom and the dad—like ‘How’d we get so lucky?
’ And I always envied that about other families, because the only picnics I ever had in the park were with a nanny.
My dad spent his Saturdays at the firm while my mom met with the decorator again, or helped throw another gala, or met a friend for lunch. ”
It pinched my heart to think of my dad as a kid, sitting in the park with some strange woman, aching for something he didn’t have. A boy who could have literally anything he wanted—and he only wanted his parents.
“I grew up pretty lonely,” he said, “so I made a lot of plans. I begged my dad to buy this house so I could fill it with kids and make it the type of home I never had. I vowed to spend my Saturdays at home, where I belonged. I’d take my kids to the park.
I’d take them for ice cream and breakfast. I’d take them ice-skating at Christmas and trick-or-treating at Halloween.
I wouldn’t leave that stuff for the nanny, because it wasn’t her job.
It was mine. Because time is precious, and you can’t ever get that time with your kids back.
I’d take off work every summer. I’d make it home well before their bedtime.
We’d sit down to dinner every night—at the table, together, as a family.
I wanted to be a good dad. Who showed up to everything.
Who did the little things, too, not just the big things.
Like your hair—no reason I couldn’t do that myself.
No reason I couldn’t learn to do it and do it well.
Braiding your hair became one of the best parts of my day.
When you learned to do it yourself and stopped needing me to do it for you, it broke my heart. ”
Now that he mentioned it, I remembered thinking he’d be proud the first time I’d come downstairs, ready for school, excited to show him I’d braided my hair on my own.
But he’d only blinked at me, as if stunned, then finished packing my lunch in silence.
His reaction—or lack thereof—had hurt my feelings.
It wasn’t until he’d taken me for almond croissants and praised me for doing a good job on the braid that I’d forgiven him.
“You were right,” Nic said. “I wanted what the Harrises have. I wanted a wife who wanted the same things I did, and I tried so hard to keep your mom, despite what it would cost me if she stayed. But life doesn’t always go according to plan.
Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made in order to keep what you do have.
There’s what you wanted, and then there’s what you can’t live without—what you’ll do anything to protect.
And it makes you a little crazy.” This part he whispered shakily, his eyes shining in the moonlight as he stared up at the house.
“It makes you do things you never dreamed you’d do. ”
I laughed bitterly. “So that’s your excuse?
You wanted kids—plural—but I’m all you got, and it made you crazy?
When you dreamed of having kids, did you ever think that maybe you shouldn’t lie to them?
Or hide from them? Or make it impossible for them to ever leave this big, beautiful house you wanted?
Like, yeah, you were always there for me, and I thought you were the best dad ever—despite the time you locked me in your office—but you suck at being open.
Of all the conversations we’ve had about your childhood, this is the first time you’ve ever told me how lonely you were as a kid. You hide who you really are from me.”
“Who I really am?” Shock rippled across his features before hurt set in, burning behind his gaze. “You know me. You know exactly who I am.”
“No, Nic. I don’t. Until you start answering my questions, I can’t know who you really are. Right now, you’re just some guy who raised me.”
“Some guy?” he repeated, gaze dropping to his hands. “That’s—”
But the sound of the gate latching cut him off. It was you, finally home, digging the house key out of your pocket. You stopped when you spotted us. “Listen, Nic,” you said, both hands held up, “I should’ve kept a better eye on her.”
My dad rose from the bench. “It’s okay, Casey. Elliot told me what happened. It’s not your fault.” He squeezed your shoulder, said goodnight, then headed for the back door.
I watched him disappear inside the house with tears of regret stinging my eyes. Why did I always have to be such a bitch?
But also: why couldn’t he just be honest with me?
You peered at me in the dark. “You didn’t make up with him, did you?”
I pushed up from the bench. “Nope.”
“By the way,” you said, hot on my heels, “thanks for ditching me back there.”
“You were preoccupied.”
“That girl approached me.”
I turned, walking up the stairs backward, gripping the rail. “What’d you think of her? Hot, right?” I said it to bait you. And if you’d said yes, I’d have probably cried again.
You followed me closely. “Actually, the primary word that kept leaping to mind was vapid.”
“You’re only saying that so I won’t get jealous.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true. Besides, I wasn’t the one locked away with a boy all night. If anyone should be jealous, it’s me.”
I grinned. “Aww, I didn’t realize you wanted to get Willoughby alone that badly.”
“You’re hilarious,” you said, reaching past me for the doorknob. “But Willoughby couldn’t handle me.”
My mouth went dry, heat pooling low in my stomach. I wanted to challenge this assertion. See if I could handle you.
Your face came thrillingly close to mine as you pushed the door open, and my heart throbbed.
My stupid, aching heart. Which somehow, despite all the shit it’d been through that night, still functioned.
Lightly, you nudged me back, fingers pressed to my bare waist, saying, “You’re glassy-eyed. Get inside. Let’s get you some water.”
Was I glassy-eyed? Or just really turned on?
We entered the house, the kitchen dark, save for the soft glow of the light Nic had left on over the stove. You set the alarm while I went straight to that cabinet where he kept the Johnnie Walker.
You came up behind me, snatching the bottle from my hand. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not doing that again.”
I twisted around, reaching for it. “I want to drink it, not pour it out.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Well, you’re not doing that, either.”
“You can’t stop me.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “I absolutely can.”
“Stop being a dick, Casey, and give me the bottle. I’ve had a really shitty night, okay?”
“You need a cuddle,” you said, gaze softening, “not another drink.”
“A cuddle? Like I’m five? That won’t help.” Secretly, though, the idea of your body wrapped around mine thrilled me.
You brushed your thumb across my chin. “Sure it will,” you said softly.
“No,” I said, voice catching on the word. “Willoughby and I are done.”
“That idiot ended things with you tonight?” you demanded.
“It was my decision,” I said with a shrug. “He can’t handle the real me.” I’m too much.
I pulled off my coat, draped it over the back of a stool, then hopped on the island, legs dangling as I watched you put the scotch back.
“Are you okay?” you asked, leaning back against the counter with your arms crossed.
“I will be,” I answered honestly. “It’s not like I loved him or anything. I just loved having one normal thing.” How, when I was with him, I could almost delude myself into believing I was normal.
You stared at me a beat too long before turning to the fridge.
“He told me how scary you were when you broke Greer’s hands last year. He said you went to a dark place.”
You froze, knuckles turning white around the fridge door handle. When you eventually turned around, holding my water bottle, you slowly lifted your gaze to mine.
“Do you regret it?” I asked.
“No,” you said quietly, setting the water beside my leg. “He almost took you away from me. If he had, I would definitely have killed him. They couldn’t have stopped me.”
My heart fluttered at the implication behind your words. He almost took you away from me. Like I belonged to you. “You would throw away your entire life—throw away any chance of having a future with your biological family—over that asshole?”
Your brows knit together, like the answer was obvious. “What good is my future if you’re not in it?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Hope exploded in my chest—the kind that’s tender and raw and painful to the touch. Like a fresh bruise. It’s the kind I always felt when I allowed myself to dream of a future with you.
And because my dad had recently become a stranger to me, it made me all the more desperate to dig—deep, deep down—into the darkest recesses of you. “In this future you speak of,” I said, “do I finally get to see the real Casey?”
“This,” you said with a perplexed little smile, “is the real me.”
“I don’t know. You’re still a mystery.”
“How so?” you asked, leaning back, fingertips resting on the edge of the counter, so very close to my barely-covered thighs.
And because I’d recently been rejected, this is the topic I chose.
“Well, for instance, even though I’ve spent the last couple of years counting your condoms—”
“So you are still counting them,” you said, gaze flashing bright.
“—you’re very careful to hide that part of yourself from me.”
“Which part?”