Letter Twenty-Five #4
Michael ducked to meet my gaze. “Asked him what?”
Again, I hesitated. “To put his hand around my throat.”
Michael drew back, eyes narrowed. “During sex?”
“No. Never.” That would require us to actually have sex. “It wasn’t sexual at all. I just wanted…to feel differently about what happened with Greer.”
“By being choked again?”
“Of course not. I don’t ever want to experience that again.
It’s just—no matter how many times I talk to my therapist about the assault, and she tells me I’m not to blame, I still feel like I caused it.
Like I went too far. Like I finally pushed someone too hard.
I made him hate me enough to end me. For the first time in my life, it was too late for an apology—too late to go back and ask for forgiveness.
I still get this panicky feeling, like, if he had killed me—if Rory hadn’t stopped him—I would’ve gotten exactly what I deserved. ”
And maybe he should have.
Maybe that would’ve been better.
This is what I’ve never had the courage to say out loud. Not even to my therapist. Not until right now, Casey. In this letter. To you.
“But you didn’t deserve it,” Michael said, squeezing my hand tight.
“You didn’t deserve to be held down and almost raped for refusing to apologize.
You didn’t deserve to be strangled to death for telling a guy no.
Maybe that’s why Willoughby freaked out—because it’s hard to imagine someone hurting you like that, let alone acting out the role of your aggressor. At least, it would be for me.”
“So if I’d asked you to do it, you would’ve freaked out, too.” A statement, not a question.
Michael squeezed my hand again. “Of course not. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting my hand to your throat, either. What if reenacting the assault took you back to a dark place?”
Took me back? Couldn’t he see I was still there? Had always been there?
Lived in a dark place?
Being attacked by Greer had just reinforced what I already believed about myself—what my dad had recently confirmed: I belonged here.
Silenced and hidden.
Forever trapped in the dark.
“Right.” I slipped my hand from his and turned back to the show. It was the scene where Monica’s dancing with the giant turkey on her head, and Chandler says I love you, only to freak out and try to take it back. “You’re totally right. It’s probably best not to go there.”
“Hey, I’m not saying you were wrong to ask for that.”
“No, I know,” I said, waving away his comment. “I thought you’d understand it a bit more. But you can’t, and that’s okay.”
“I do understand. I know why you ask for this stuff. I know it makes you feel better. If you asked me for anything else, I’d give it to you in a second—like I did every time we were together.
I’m not like Willoughby. You can ask me for anything, and I won’t shame you for it.
I feel like I’ve made that pretty clear. ”
“You have,” I said. But it wasn’t enough.
I didn’t know why it wasn’t, just that his inability to understand left me wishing I’d never told him about the throat thing in the first place.
And then I felt bad for wanting to keep something from him—like you had, Casey—because he and I weren’t supposed to keep secrets from each other.
Hoping to reassure him, I pressed my thumb to his scar for the second time that night.
“And I appreciate that about you. I really do. It’s—”
“What’s going on?” you asked from the doorway, back early from your little outing. Your hookup.
As I snatched my hand from Michael’s face, I caught the stony look on yours. You were pissed, Casey—and not in the way that meant you were drunk.
“Nothing,” I said evenly, despite the wild flutter of my pulse, pounding in my throat.
Wisely, Michael stood. “I should get going,” he said, holding your gaze as he exited the room.
When I tried slipping past you myself, you backed up, blocking my path.
“What was that?” you asked roughly, your eyes turning a dark and turbulent blue as they bore into mine.
“What was what?”
“You and Michael.”
“We were talking.”
“Do you normally stroke Michael’s face whilst having an intimate conversation with him in the dark?” you asked, tilting your head to one side.
“Stop saying whilst,” I said, knocking into your arm as I passed, “and what I do with Michael is none of your business.”
“You can’t be serious,” you scoffed.
“Dead serious,” I said, shooting you a glare. “Also: fuck you.”
Your head snapped back. “What did I do?”
“You’re smart, right? Why don’t you mull it over whilst locking up down here? I’m going to bed.”
Late the following morning, I came downstairs for breakfast to find you standing over a steaming cup of coffee.
“Hey,” you said as I walked out of the pantry with a box of cereal. “Can we talk?”
“I’d rather not.”
“I don’t like the way we left things last night.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not concerned about what you like right now,” I said, grabbing a bowl from the cabinet.
“You’re angry because we were meant to be together, but then I…sort of turned my back on you over the Libby thing.”
“Ding ding ding,” I said. “Unfortunately, that’s only one of the reasons you’re an asshole.”
“Right—and I owe you an apology for how I handled that.”
“Don’t bother.”
You snatched the cereal box from my hand. “Don’t fucking brush me off. I’m trying here.”
“Give it back,” I said, twisting to reach for it.
“No,” you replied, totally unaffected. “Not until you hear me out.”
“Fine.” I crossed my arms. “But chances are, I’ll still believe you’re an asshole.”
Your jaw ticked. “Look, when I found you in my room the night of the election, I was mad at you. I’d just watched Libby win—with her whole family standing up there onstage—and it made me feel hopeless.
I’m not saying it excuses my behavior—at all—but I wanted you that night.
I needed you. I knew I wouldn’t handle it well if she won, and I didn’t handle it well.
” You paused to swallow. “And you weren’t there. ”
“I was there, Casey. I waited up for you, and you didn’t want to tell me how the election made you feel.
You didn’t want me to be there for you at all.
You wanted to punish me for slipping off that pedestal you’d put me on two nights before.
What I did to Libby was wrong, I get that, but it had nothing to do with us. ”
“You’re right. I just—I do this. I get close to people, and it doesn’t take very much for me to push them away. It’s something I’m working on with my therapist, actually, because I don’t want to do it anymore. Especially with you.”
Remorse flickered in your eyes, and I believed you. But I couldn’t forget about the person you’d left to meet or the shocking little truths I’d learned from Michael. Jake.
So I grabbed the cereal box from your hand and went back to fixing my breakfast, painfully aware of your lingering gaze. Watching. Reaching out to me. Trying to tug me back.
“I should’ve stayed and talked to you that night,” you whispered, much closer now, your breath tickling my ear. “I should’ve stayed, no matter what. I’m sorry.”
Why—whenever you apologized—did those two little words crash through me, knocking down all my defenses?
Slowly, I lowered the cereal box. “Funny how you only want me when you think I’m about to make a move on someone else.”
You held my gaze, yours extra blue and intense. Tortured. “I’ve wanted you so long I can’t remember a time I didn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
“I screwed up, okay? I handled it all wrong. But I still want to be with you. Give me another chance.”
“Are you kidding? Right after you jumped into bed with someone else?”
You leaned forward, like maybe you hadn’t heard me correctly. “When did I jump into bed with someone else?”
“Last night, Casey. Someone texted you, and you left to meet them. Right?”
Your eyes drifted closed. “I did meet someone—yes. This guy from school asked if I wanted to meet for a drink. He’s from London, and we have loads in common. We chatted for a while, but then we parted ways. I swear. I haven’t properly been with anyone in ages.”
I crossed my arms. “Oh, yeah? What about Jake?”
Your head snapped back. For a second or two, you stared at me, stunned speechless. “How do you know about Jake?”
“Maybe the better question is: why don’t I know about Jake?”
Your jaw twitched. “So you and Michael did more than have a cuddle last night, didn’t you?”
“Don’t put this on Michael. It’s not his fault you neglected to tell me about this guy. Oh, wait,” I said with a sharp laugh. “That’s right. You did tell me about him once. Your hookup buddy? With the red hair? And the tattoos? And the eyes like warm honey?”
You winced. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about him, but I worried you wouldn’t understand.”
I wanted to be more mad about this, but how could I? When I’d never told you about Michael for the same reason? “It sounds like you never planned on telling me about him.”
“I did. It ranked quite high on my list of things to discuss with you, I promise. This past summer was the first time I’ve seen Jake since before you and I met.
He’s usually off traveling the world. I only saw him in England over the summer because he’d been injured backpacking up a mountain somewhere, and he’d been ordered to keep off his leg as much as possible.
I haven’t spoken to him in months. He means nothing to me. ”
“Someone you’ve regularly hooked up with—for years—means nothing to you?”
“No. I don’t—I obviously don’t mean nothing.
I care about him—of course I do, he’s my friend—but I have no romantic feelings for Jake.
Hooking up means something different when it’s between two guys.
There doesn’t need to be any sort of emotional connection involved. In fact, most of the time there isn’t.”